Kitty Valentine Dates a Fireman

by Dodd, Jillian

  “Yes, I will.” I turn to my grandmother. “Wow, I’ve gotten so good at throwing my voice without even trying to.”

  “Careful, or you won’t be bidding on anyone. Remember, you’re here, thanks to my generosity.”

  “Of course. You’re right.” And I have to write a book, which means I need a firefighter. I only wish I could’ve picked my own, is all. But beggars can’t be choosers.

  Especially when the opening bid on the first bachelor—a tall, hunky ginger who likes skiing and rock climbing—is a thousand dollars.

  I mean, he’s a complete meal. Not a snack. A meal.

  He strides down the catwalk, and I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe.

  But a thousand dollars? To start? I’m way out of my league here.

  “What a hunk!” Whitney fans herself as he walks past. “To be young again.”

  Funny, that’s the second time I’ve heard that today.

  “I would never expect you to let a little thing like age get in the way,” I tease.

  “Well, no. But still.” She’s having too much fun, openly ogling the eye candy onstage.

  Meanwhile, the bidding has reached four thousand dollars and is still climbing.

  “Come on, ladies. It’s for a great cause, you know.” The emcee is loving this, her voice heavy with deeper meaning. “And you get a night with a hot firefighter out of it too. Also a great cause.”

  Finally, he goes for just over four thousand, to much applause. The next bachelor takes his turn, and the next.

  “Holy smokes—no pun intended,” I whisper to Grandmother. “I had no idea there were so many gorgeous firefighters in this city.”

  I can understand them being fit, naturally. Their job is physically demanding.

  But they’re so handsome too. Square jaws abound, as do pouty lips and deep-set eyes and just the right amount of scruff on their cheeks.

  “We took the liberty of hiring a stylist for tonight,” Grandmother admits with a tiny wince. “Just to be sure the men looked their best.”

  “Well, you did a darn good job. I wish I could bid on all of them.”

  “If you do, it’ll be with your own money, my dear.”

  She’s waiting on number thirteen. So am I, especially considering how eligible and panty-melting the men I’ve seen so far happen to be.

  “You’re sure you picked the best bachelor? Because I could go for number ten up there.” I can’t take my eyes off this one.

  He’s a Nordic god come to life—tall, blond, his eyes so piercingly blue that they practically stop my heart when they lock with mine before he continues down the catwalk.

  “Fifteen hundred!” Whitney calls out, waving her little paddle thingy in the air to signal a bid.

  “Whitney!” Grandmother laughs while I gape at her in awe.

  “What? He’s gorgeous! And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a lovely meal at a fine restaurant.” Whitney shrugs at us. “It’s for charity. I do what I can.”

  “Yes, you’re a regular saint.” At least Grandmother manages to keep from rolling her eyes until Whitney’s already turned away because another bidder offered seventeen hundred, right away followed by another offer of eighteen hundred.

  I wonder what it’s like for the men, standing up there, waiting to be won. They’re used to working hard, saving lives and doing what many people don’t have the strength to do or dare to even attempt.

  And here they are in tuxedos, at an event that cost hundreds of dollars to attend.

  The Nordic god goes for twenty-five hundred. Not bad. Easily one of the top earners of the night so far. Number eleven goes for twenty-two hundred. Twelve goes for twenty-eight hundred after a pair of eager bidders went toe-to-toe from across the room, shouting new bids rapid-fire.

  I could write an entire book about this. It’s supposed to be in fun, yet there’s a definite competitive streak in these women. Maybe they’re used to getting what they want. Maybe some of these bidding wars have to do with personal issues between them. It’s a big city, New York, but the upper crust is a smaller world of its own.

  Grandmother clicks her tongue in disdain when the winning bidder raises her hands in victory. I know that sound well. “Veronica Jordan. Classless, just like her mother.”

  Good thing I just swallowed a mouthful of water or else I might’ve spit it out all over the table.

  Someday, I need to get Grandmother tipsy and pick her brain. Maybe I should be tipsy at the time, come to think of it, since I’m sure some of what would come out of her mouth would scandalize me.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we move on to bachelor thirteen.”

  I sit up straighter and remind myself to breathe. This is it. This is my bachelor. “I’m trusting you,” I whisper to Grandmother before the emcee announces my fella’s name.

  “Bachelor thirteen is Bryce Nichols, and he hails from Brooklyn.”

  Okay, good start. We have something in common.

  Wait.

  Bryce Nichols.

  I know that name.

  And I know the face as Bryce steps out onstage. Yes, time has passed. Yes, his boyish good looks have sharpened into something downright devastating. There’s no more baby fat in those flat cheeks, no crookedness in his teeth.

  I wonder if he grew out of the habit of being a heartless bully in the last fifteen years.

  “No.” I lean over and nudge Grandmother. Hard. “No, not him. Son of a—”

  “What is wrong with you?” She sighs, clearly exasperated, while my middle-school bully strides down the catwalk.

  “He made my life hell in middle school; that’s what’s wrong with me. No way. I’m not dating him.”

  “Come on now.” She turns to me with another sigh. “You’re both adults. I chose him because he hails from Brooklyn, as do you. He’s well-educated and a decorated Navy veteran, and he was awarded for saving two children from their home during a fire this past summer. He’s the perfect catch for you.”

  All that, and he’s only two years older than me.

  I have a hard time believing the man striding down the catwalk is the man Grandmother is describing. All I see is the absolute nightmare who made fun of everything about me in middle school. Thankfully, it was only one year since he’s older than me.

  But the fact that I remember that year so clearly should say something. Because it was torment. And I wasn’t the only person he bullied either. He had a bad reputation around school for pantsing boys in the locker room and shoving kids into closets and blocking the door so they couldn’t get out. He was once suspended for tripping a kid and sending him falling down a short flight of stairs.

  That was near the end of the school year, and I think he might’ve learned his lesson after that because it’s the last thing I remember hearing about.

  But I can’t believe he’s changed that much. Bullies don’t magically stop being bullies. They can do good things at work and still push smaller, weaker people around on their downtime.

  “We’ll start the bidding at one thousand dollars,” the emcee announces while Bryce stands next to her with a relaxed, easy sort of posture and a wry grin.

  Yeah, I just bet he thinks this is amusing.

  He runs a hand over his black hair, sort of playing at primping himself, and the women seated around the catwalk laugh.

  I don’t laugh. I’m pretty sure what comes out is more like a snarl.

  “One thousand!”

  “Eleven hundred!”

  “Twelve fifty!”

  “Kathryn, bid on him.” Grandmother shoots me a dirty look. “Now.”

  “I won’t.” I sit back, arms folded, glaring at the man onstage. No freaking way am I sharing air with him for longer than I absolutely have to.

  “Kathryn.”

  “Nope. He used to spit on me. He gave me a complex. It took me ages to get over it.” Clearly, I never quite finished getting over it because the sight of him makes me sick.

  Meanwhile, the bidding’s up to two thousan
d dollars, and it doesn’t seem like there’s any slowing down. Grandmother isn’t the only one who thinks Bryce is the total package.

  “Bid on him, Kathryn,” she hisses.

  “I can’t. Anybody else. Not him. Please.” I even fold my hands, begging. “I used to have stomachaches, just thinking about seeing him in school. I used to get demerits for being late to class, all because I was hiding from him in the hallway beforehand. He made me feel ugly and small.”

  She’s got to understand that, right? The woman is my grandmother, for Pete’s sake, and she at least puts on a good act of loving me.

  “Twenty-five hundred!” She turns to the emcee, pointing to me. “For my granddaughter.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I whisper, humiliated. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

  Matt would wet his pants with laughter if he knew what was happening out here, but he’s backstage, waiting his turn. One small point of light in this otherwise dismal situation.

  “Twenty-five hundred,” the emcee echoes with a grin.

  “Twenty-six!”

  “Twenty-seven fifty!”

  “Think of it this way.” Grandmother turns to me, and I brace myself for a tongue-lashing. “How much would you pay to tell him what you think of him? How much would it be worth to you? To finally set things straight? To tell him everything he did and how it made you feel? To take notes on his work life for your book because, damn it, he owes you that much after tormenting you for an entire year? What would that be worth?” That was not what I was expecting her to say.

  Oh.

  Oh, that’s different.

  “Three thousand!” I shout.

  Yes, he’s going to tell me what I want to know—after I give him a hearty piece of my mind.

  Grandmother sits back with a satisfied smile. “That’s my girl.”

  “Thirty-two!”

  “Thirty-three!”

  “Thirty-five hundred!” I look at my grandmother to make sure I’m not going too far.

  She only nods and raises her champagne glass.

  Yes, I’m gonna get my man.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Five thousand three hundred dollars.

  Evidently, that’s what it costs for the opportunity to give somebody an earful. To set the record straight. To get a little bit of my own back. Over five thousand dollars.

  By the time the bidding’s over and I’ve won my bully, who happens to be a firefighter—I need to keep that in mind since it’s sort of the entire reason we’re doing this—there’s nothing to do but sit back and catch my breath.

  Whitney shoots me an appraising look from across the table. “Well, you were determined.”

  “I was.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t stand on the chair.”

  “Whitney,” Grandmother warns with narrowed eyes. “When my granddaughter knows what she wants, she goes after it. Much like her grandmother.”

  “Point taken.” She’s still a little too smirky when she turns away though.

  Now, all that’s left to do is wait for the rest of the bachelors to be auctioned off. The one bright spot in this is when it comes time for Matt to be auctioned.

  “Ladies, ladies, don’t fret if you haven’t yet landed the man of your dreams.”

  I sit up at attention and try like heck to fight back a smile. If I’m going to suffer for this—and I know I will—I might as well enjoy Matt’s discomfort.

  “We have a surprise for you. No, he isn’t a firefighter,” the emcee announces, “but he is an investment manager from right here in Manhattan, who enjoys going for runs in the park with his shelter dog, Phoebe. When he isn’t managing high-value portfolios for his clients from the comfort of his Upper West Side apartment, he enjoys reading, going to concerts, and getting to know the delivery drivers from his favorite takeout restaurants.”

  That last quip earns a laugh from the women around me. Even I have to chuckle, though to be fair, he should’ve added the part where he used to piggyback off my orders and save himself the delivery fee. The cheap jerk.

  When he saunters onto the stage, I’m pretty sure I could hear a pin drop, if any happened to get dropped. The room might as well be empty; it goes so quiet for a split second.

  But only for that split second. Matt hardly needs to step out onto the catwalk before the bidding begins.

  Now, I could tell myself this is nothing more than an act of last-minute desperation on the part of the women who have been bidding their hearts out and ending up with nothing to show for it.

  I could more truthfully tell myself there are women out here who love the idea of dating a guy who works with money and numbers. The firefighters are gorgeous and hot and everything, but they’re only supposed to be going on one date with the women who won them—which is probably just fine from the perspective of the winners since I can’t imagine these snobs settling into a relationship with a man who swallows smoke for a living.

  But Matt? He’s a different story. He lives on the Upper West Side and works with money. And he happens to be drop-dead gorgeous. He’s a catch.

  “Two thousand!”

  “Twenty-five hundred!”

  “Three thousand!”

  “Holy crap.” I have to shake my head in wonder as the bids overlap, to the point where one voice is practically indistinguishable from another. “He knew this was going to happen, the creep.”

  “He’s gorgeous.” Grandmother turns to me, arching one eyebrow. “And he’s your neighbor, you say?”

  “He lives across the hall.”

  “Oh goodness. How do you manage to get any writing done with that across the hall?”

  “I do what I can,” I growl as the bids go up and up.

  “I would ask him for a cup of sugar anytime,” Whitney purrs, watching him walk up and down while the dollar amount gets higher. “How do you not get pregnant just by looking at him?”

  Oh my God, can this be over?

  By the time the bidders hit five thousand dollars, Matt finds me. And darned if he doesn’t look like the cat that ate the cream when our eyes meet and his smile widens. The snide, arrogant—

  “Sold for seventy-five hundred dollars!” Even the emcee has to applaud at the final total, which is way more than anybody else has earned.

  In fact, Bryce is the second-highest-earning bachelor tonight, and there’s more than a two-thousand-dollar gap in between.

  Maybe I’ll get lucky, and this is the only revenge Matt planned when he agreed to do this.

  Maybe I’ll step outside to find pigs flying down Fifty-Fifth Street.

  Grandmother turns to me with a triumphant smile. “What a success! Just think of all those animals that will have better living conditions as they wait to be adopted.”

  Yes, that’s definitely what I’m thinking about. Not about how Matt’s going to remind me at least twice a day that he earned seventy-five hundred bucks tonight. And most certainly not about how Bryce Nichols once waited for me outside the girls’ restroom door and then tripped me on my way out, which made my skirt fly up, revealing my underwear to everybody in the hallway.

  Nope. Not thinking about that at all.

  “Ladies, be sure to flag down your lucky bachelor, so the two of you can get to know each other!”

  Oh, I’ll be doing that. No worries there.

  “Now, now,” Grandmother warns when I stand. “Try not to flay him in public. At least, not while you’re around people I know.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Where is he? I scan the room, looking for his stupid, punchable face. Oh, the nights I spent fantasizing about how wonderful it would be to punch him. Hard. Until he bled. Sometimes, I did it when it was just the two of us, alone. Sometimes, it was in front of a packed auditorium.

  No matter the circumstances, it always gave me a tiny bit of satisfaction to imagine doing it.

  Now, when his face is much better than it used to be? Oh, the joy of ruining it.

  “Excuse me? Aren’t yo
u the woman who placed the winning bid for me?”

  I turn around fast enough to knock myself off-balance, and a pair of strong hands holds me up.

  “Easy there. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Looking up, I find a pair of warm brown eyes. I wonder how they’d look if they were swollen. Because of my fists.

  “A little too much champagne, I guess.” I shake his hands off with a laugh. “It’s funny actually, that you should help me stay on my feet.”

  He doesn’t recognize me. It’s clear from the confusion washing across his annoyingly perfect, symmetric features. “Pardon?”

  “I mean, you spent an entire year tripping me and shoving me around, so …” I shrug, laughing again. Enjoying the way he squirms.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember you—though I was a real idiot when I was a kid, so I don’t doubt that I made your life difficult at one time or another.” He offers a wince and a shrug. Like that makes up for anything.

  “I’m Kitty Valentine. You know, the only kitty you wouldn’t touch on a dare? I didn’t understand what that meant when I was eleven years old, but now, I get it.”

  His eyes widen. His jaw drops. “Kitty! Oh my God. Oh, Kitty, I am so sorry. Jesus, I was cruel to you.”

  “No kidding. At least you can be honest about it. Most bullies pretend what they did was no big deal.”

  “I’m not pretending.” He puts a hand to his chest, which I must admit looks impressively broad. “I mean it. I used to think about you sometimes and wonder what happened to you, honest to God. I was beyond cruel. I was a real prick.”

  Is he for real? I don’t know how to act. I was sure he’d laugh this off or act like it was nothing but kid stuff. “You were.”

  “Now, I feel terrible. I should have been the one bidding on taking you out for the night. I owe you a lot more than that in fact.” He shakes his head, rubbing one hand over the back of his neck. “I can’t apologize enough. But I can try to make it up to you. What do you say?”

  What do I say? I say, I wish he would act like a bully, so I can feel justified in treating him like one. Now, I sort of feel like a jerk myself, my chest puffed out and my arms folded when he’s being nothing but kind.