Auctioning Affection: A #GeekLove Contemporary Romance (Your Ad Here Book 3)

by Allyson Lindt

  She settled into the recliner at home with a fresh bag of chips and a jar of dip, and turned on the TV. Some sort of police procedural played in the background, as she typed out a text. Auction’s over. A few pleasant surprises. Most of it as expected. Check’s in the mail.

  His reply buzzed in within moments. If you were anyone else, I’d take that as seriously as ‘trust me.’

  Or ‘only driven once,’ she sent back.

  Or ‘of course he’s your son and not the mailman’s.’

  She laughed. You left this movie behind without instructions. What do you want me to do with it? Broaching the topic was risky. It meant talking about Nana’s life, rather than glossing over her death.

  There was a several -minute pause. Was he distracted, or did she ruin the conversation? His message finally came through. Bury it in a crate in the back yard.

  How am I supposed to respond to that?

  I’m not being bitter. Can you think of a more appropriate fate for it?

  She didn’t agree with his assessment. So the next person who finds it can sell it, instead of you?

  Another pause. This one longer. You knew about that.

  I guessed. She had hoped he wouldn’t confirm it. At least he hadn’t gone through with it though. I heard pieces of the conversation. You stood on the front porch while you talked to the guy.

  Maybe the next person sells it. Maybe they burn it. Maybe they keep it and enjoy it for the classic art it is. Regardless, Nana touches at least one more life even after she’s gone. Makes someone else feel. And hell, it’ll drive historians nuts. Did Hemingway have another child? Didn’t he?

  Are you going to pursue the truth yourself? If he’s really your grandfather…

  No. If Nana moved on to keep her memories alive through us, I prefer them the way she shared them.

  A sob welled in Bailey’s chest. It wasn’t all grief; some of it was knowing Jonathan finally got what Nana’s passing was about. Not that Bailey expected the mourning process to be over. This was a good start, though.

  * * * *

  It had been almost a month since Jonathan returned home from Florida. He settled back into his routine without hesitation, but it didn’t feel the same as before. Today was a good-news day, though. The kind of news that was worth champagne and a little bit of hurt. It was seven at night here, so it was ten for Bailey, but she’d still be up. He ignored how empty his condo felt. It was the same amount of populated as it had been since he moved in years ago. Furnished, top of the line electronics, stainless steel kitchen, and a single occupant.

  He grabbed a glass of whiskey on the rocks and settled onto the couch. He sent Bailey a text. That real-estate agent you recommended is a genius. Closing on the house next week. Something about the sentence sat heavy in his gut.

  Are you all right?

  She was supposed to say it was awesome news, or congratulate him. What kind of question was that? Why wouldn’t I be?

  It’s her house, and it’s gone now.

  He tried to brush off her meaning, but it stuck to his heart. The house is still there. I just don’t own it now.

  You know what I mean.

  He coped in his own way. I’m dealing all right. Have a drink with me, to celebrate?

  Of course. Her reply was followed by a photo of a glass that looked almost identical to his.

  That was better. Cheers.

  * * * *

  Six weeks since Jonathan went home. Bailey told herself she wasn’t counting the days because he was gone, but because the time coincided with her getting her cast off. She still had to remind herself it was okay now to scratch when the skin itched. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her Atlanta hotel room, admiring the way her new black dress hugged her curves and ended just above the knees. Her arm looked a little odd, being paler than the rest of her, but it would be dark in the bar. No one would notice.

  She grabbed her phone, snapped a picture, and sent it to Jonathan. She followed it up with, Hitting the clubs tonight. The texting was a nightly ritual. He offered to call, but she told him this was more fun. She held back the part about not wanting to hear his voice. She needed a little more time before they could talk without it making her homesick from her own living quarters.

  Every eye in the room will be on you. His reply flushed her cheeks. Do you have some lucky bastard in mind, or is this a play-it-by-ear thing, to see who catches your attention?

  She was trying to get back to life as it was, but had yet to find the desire for an anonymous fling. No guys tonight. Or girls. I’m going to dance and lose myself in the music.

  Have fun.

  The brief response made her frown, but not every conversation could be a lengthy discourse on the topic of the day. She typed, Wish you were here, then deleted it and sent him back a simple Thanks.

  * * * *

  Thank you for the earbuds. Bailey’s message brought a smile to Jonathan’s face. He dropped his phone on the bed and switched it over to voice text. Almost two months, and she refused to talk via phone. He didn’t get it, but as long as the messages kept coming, he wouldn’t push the issue.

  In case you want to lose yourself in the music, without going all the way to Atlanta, he said. Not that it should stop you. It was his problem that envy snaked through him every time he thought about her grinding against other men. It would pass with time.

  I don’t do a lot of that now. It’s not the same as it used to be.

  That made his smile grow, but he’d keep his response neutral. Maybe it’s time for a new hobby. By the way, thank you for forwarding the china. The wooden crate arrived this morning, packed up tight for its journey. The dishes Nana intended him to have when he married. He was grateful Bailey didn’t sell them after all.

  I had a feeling you’d want it. Wait. Why are you talking to me?

  He checked his reflection and straightened his bow tie. Are you complaining?

  Never. Don’t you have that charity thing tonight?

  She remembered. He liked that.

  Investor dinner. It’s not for an hour, and I wanted to say hi before I left.

  Are you dressed to the nines and looking all spiffy? she asked.

  It’s my tux. Same one I wear to every dinner. I suppose since they keep inviting me back, it hasn’t offended anyone yet.

  I want to see.

  He stared at the phone, frowning, as if the expression might carry to her. Of me in my tux?

  Yes. I’ve never seen you in a tux.

  I don’t do selfies. He was already picking up the phone. She’d talk him into it sooner or later.

  Make an exception for me?

  He snapped the photo and hit Send. Better?

  A sight I wouldn’t mind seeing more often, suit or not. Though you do make it look good.

  Of course I do.

  As he finished getting ready for dinner, he couldn’t ignore the gnawing in his chest that wished she was going with him tonight, instead of thousands of miles away.

  *

  Bailey lay on her back in bed, staring at the photo on her phone. How was it she only had the one picture of Jonathan as an adult? Okay, so maybe she was acting like a giddy teenager, crushing over the hot guy in a suit, but that didn’t stop her from looking at the image every few minutes.

  She missed him as much now as when he left. It might be she wasn’t giving herself a chance to move on, but it wasn’t as though she wanted this empty pit in her gut. It was almost two in the morning, and she couldn’t sleep. Would he still be rubbing shoulders there? Did investor dinners go past eleven? Probably.

  Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her, and she almost dropped the device. That it was a new note from Jonathan chased away her exhaustion. I miss her. His words filled Bailey with sadness.

  She was tempted to make light of the subject, simply to avoid the hurt the note summoned. She couldn’t bring herself to type, Are you drunk? Instead she said, Me too.

  Some days I think it’s starting to hurt
less, and then I remember a random thing that happened. A story she told me or a birthday gift, and the grief comes back.

  It’ll take time. And even then, I don’t think the pain ever goes away completely. Not exactly comforting words, but it was the truth.

  I know.

  I’m always here, though. It was the same reassurance she always offered. This time it felt like there was more to her words than she intended.

  His reply read, <3. Good night, Ale.

  What the freak was that supposed to mean? She stared at the conversation, scrolling up to the picture of him and reading though it again and again, until the words didn’t make sense anymore. She itched to call him. Suddenly her reasons for not wanting to hear his voice felt silly. He was probably sleeping instead of obsessively looking for meaning that wasn’t there in a muddle of digital words.

  She dropped the phone on the mattress with a sigh. What was she doing?

  Chapter Twenty

  Bailey was grateful digital pictures didn’t wear and tear around the edges, the way physical photographs did. She’d stopped short of making the image of Jonathan her phone wallpaper, but only barely.

  A week after he sent it, she admitted it wasn’t enough. Send me another picture. She settled onto the couch for their nightly conversation.

  You know what I look like. His reply came seconds later.

  But I like the reminder. What are you wearing?

  Nothing.

  She didn’t know if it was meant to be an off-the-cuff version of nothing special. The image his response summoned was anything but benign. Memory blended with fantasy, teasing her with thoughts of him naked and in her bathroom, pinning her to the wall. Kissing every inch of her. That’s tempting. Send me a picture.

  You wicked girl. Are you asking me for a dick pic?

  So he wasn’t tossing out casual answers. If she took this further, it would hurt when it was over. She missed his touch. Whether they were screwing or just wrapped up together on the couch, she longed for it. I might be.

  Her phone chimed with a new picture. When she pulled up the shot of his nipple, she laughed out loud. The note that followed said, You don’t get the good stuff right off.

  Still sexy, she replied.

  I want one in return.

  Desire raced through her, drawing her senses to life. I didn’t agree to that.

  I showed you mine…

  Arousal tingled in her nipples, traveled to her belly, and focused in her core. She grasped her courage, stripped off her shirt, and snapped a picture of her bare breasts.

  Wow. I got the better end of the deal.

  Like what you see? Sending the teasing message was easier than giving attention to the need throbbing between her thighs.

  I’ll put it like this. It’s a good thing I’m not wearing anything, because I’m rock hard, and slowly stroking my dick.

  At the blunt confession, her skin heated to scorching. Over a picture of me?

  Over every single picture you send me with you in it. And remembering what it feels like when you ride me.

  What was she supposed to say to that?

  What are you wearing? he asked.

  Clothes. Wrong answer. She was so flustered, seduction eluded her.

  Take them off.

  She did as ordered. Though she was in her own living room, she felt exposed. Humidity kissed her skin, and dampness grew between her legs. Now what?

  Play with your nipples.

  This was a dangerous path to go down. Filled with longing that could never completely be sated. She’d care about that later. All right, she said.

  Good. Are you moaning?

  She ignored the part of her insisting it was silly to make noises with no one to hear. She wanted to enjoy this, damn it. Yes.

  I wish I could hear you. I’m stroking my cock, thinking about you. About laying you on the bed. Kissing down your chest. Dragging my tongue up your slit, and sucking your clit until you scream.

  She followed the path of his description with her fingers. It wasn’t easy to text with one hand, but it was better than hearing text-to-speech repeat his messages in a monotone. I’m playing with myself. Imagining you here, doing it for me.

  God, I love the sound of that. Finger yourself faster. I want you to come while you’re thinking about me.

  She could do that. She let the phone fall away, while she lost herself in the sensations. Her mind superimposed his touch over hers, drawing her into the fantasy of him buried between her legs. Licking her as she squirmed. Jerking his own shaft while he brought her to orgasm.

  She whimpered and arched her back as she peaked, fingering her clit until she couldn’t take the touch anymore.

  You still there? he asked when she checked the screen again.

  It was a good thing she didn’t have to talk. She struggled to catch her breath. Yes. I don’t know if getting myself off has ever been that intense before.

  I know the feeling. God, Ale. Even imagining fucking you makes me come hard.

  I miss you. The moment she hit Send she questioned the message. She’d taken things from teasing-sexy-playful to… she didn’t know what.

  I’m right here.

  She smiled at the simple pretense. On the other side of the country. I can’t even hear you groan when you jerk off.

  Her phone rang, startling her, and she hit Answer without stopping to think.

  “Better?” Jonathan’s voice filled her head and washed over her.

  She’d been wrong not to let him call before now. She needed this. “Much better.”

  *

  For half an irrational second, Jonathan worried Bailey wouldn’t pick up. He craved the sound of her voice. “It’s still not the same.” He wanted the in in-person contact more, but hearing her was eons beyond reading words on a screen.

  “No.” Her light chuckle soothed him. “But it’s a reasonable substitute.”

  “You could have come back with me.” He knew better than to say that, but it had nagged him since he left Florida, and he was tired of holding back.

  “You know I couldn’t have.”

  “I do.” He had a life here; she had one there. “I respect that. There are so many nights I wish I was there with you, watching movies again.”

  “You mean falling apart, while we dealt with what happened with Nana?”

  He hadn’t stopped dealing. Even the name dug a hole inside. “Maybe not that part.”

  “I miss it too, but there’s nothing to do for it.”

  He didn’t mean to take the conversation down such a somber path. “Next time, you show me yours first, then you get a dick pic.”

  “Jonathan.” Her voice held a tone he didn’t recognize.

  Best to tread carefully. “Hmm?”

  “If we make this a habit—the sexting I mean—I can’t keep pretending we’re just friends.”

  The phrase echoed in his head with insincerity. Not because of the way she said it, but he didn’t buy it. “Is that what we’re doing? I’m pretty sure neither of us believes that.” He did, at first. When he got back to L.A., he told himself friendship with Bailey was enough. He still got to enjoy her company, and they weren’t pulling any punches when they talked.

  They were, though. He couldn’t pinpoint when it happened, but somewhere over the last two months, he figured out he wanted more. More of her. Of them.

  “What do you call it, then?” Bailey asked.

  Jonathan sighed. “I didn’t think I’d get a second chance at this, and I’m not going to let it get away this time. I want us to be a couple, and I’m hoping you feel the same.”

  “As in, boyfriend and girlfriend? Long distance lovers? Exclusive?” A happy note slid into her words.

  “As in.”

  “So I have to stop kissing other guys when I go to the clubs?”

  He knew she was joking, but he couldn’t ignore the jealousy that rose inside. “I’d prefer it.”

  “There haven’t been any other guys since before you we
re here.”

  “I know. But I still like the assurance.”

  She laughed. God, he’d missed that sound. “I’d love to be able to call us an us,” she said. “Not just for the dick pics, either.”

  “I adore you.” He grinned like an idiot in his empty condo. It felt amazing. “Does this mean you’ll lift the restriction on us calling each other?”

  “I don’t know… I don’t want you to get too spoiled.”

  “I already am when I talk to you.” Not quite poetic, but he was more of a numbers guy.

  “That’s cheesy. But sweet. Call me tomorrow night?”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” More than he had been with anything since he got home. “Night, Ale.”

  * * * *

  “Tell me more about the property,” Jonathan said. They were in his office, talking through a proposal he’d looked over.

  Aaron was one of their investment partners. Jonathan liked the guy. It was one of the nice things about building the firm the way they did—everyone got along and tended to have similar values and goals. It wouldn’t work otherwise. Aaron had a quirk Jonathan couldn’t seem to correct, though. The guy had a terrible eye for investments. Or rather, he wanted to help everyone, and while he picked projects that looked good on paper, he didn’t have an instinct for those that would run into endless trouble.

  One of Aaron’s latest left him with a piece of property in downtown L.A. that he’d rather offload now, to recoup his losses, than have to manage. He was trying to convince Jonathan to take it off his hands. “Huge open floor downstairs. Seventy percent of upstairs is rented. Long-term business tenants. You shouldn’t have any trouble filling the rest.”

  “What’s been downstairs?”

  Aaron cringed. “It was a gym for one of the companies that’s gone now. Lots of open space.”

  “Coffee shop? Café?”

  “Not without a lot of cost. There’s plumbing in back for showers, but it all runs along the back of the building.”

  Jonathan wasn’t in the market to rent a build-to-suit property. “You’ll make more keeping it.”