Scott jumped away, clapping his hands, as if he’d just stumbled upon a brilliant idea. “You should bid on Mom with me. There’s no rule that we can’t split the date, is there?”
“Probably?” I said. “I’ve never read the bylaws for this thing.” I stared off in the distance. It was a Saturday night, Halloween weekend. People both in costume and not crowded the sidewalks, headed to restaurants, bars, or the train into the city. They all had the right idea. None of them had gotten dressed to the nines for the express purpose of not bidding on someone at a bachelorette auction.
“What else is going on?” Scott asked. “There’s more to this story. It’s not just Maria Minnesota.” As always, he announced her name like a game-show host.
“You know who I just ran into?” I nodded back toward the hotel.
Scott shook his head.
“Natalie Carter.”
Scott’s hand went to his mouth. “Fuck. That’s a blast from the past.”
My mind kept replaying the look on her face when she caught me talking to Erin Sharpe. “She told me to go to hell.”
“Well.” Scott shrugged. “That sounds about right.”
“She treated me like a wad of old gum she’d scraped off her shoe.” Natalie had looked at me like Tommy’d been looking at me lately, ever since his kid had made her debut. He’d morphed into one of those “wives and daughters” guys, who’d been fine with my single life before he became a dad but had suddenly developed empathy for women because that could be his little girl someday. Utter bullshit. Besides, I did think about the women’s feelings. That was why I always told them upfront: No strings. No second dates. No, I will not be bidding on you in the goddamn bachelorette auction.
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Scott said, stopping my speech with a hand before it began.
“I mean, we don’t lead anyone on, you and I. We come right out with it: we like being single. We plan on staying that way.” Though I’d never been in a real relationship, Scott had—for four years, bridging his twenties and thirties. When Joe left because of Scott’s grueling travel schedule, it wrecked him. He came to the same conclusion I had years before: work trumped romance. “We’re busy men who own our own company and travel a lot.”
I rubbed my hands together. The temperature had dropped since the sun went down, and my righteous indignation no longer kept me warm. “We have full lives. We take care of our friends and family.”
“We donate a shit-ton of money to our alma mater, as well as other charities,” Scott agreed.
“We’re the good guys.” The pressure eased off my chest. The version of me Nat remembered had been kind of a jerk. He’d been a work in progress. Now I was Ian Fucking Donovan 2.0. I’d clearly laid out the parameters for Maria, and she’d tried to escalate things. “I don’t owe Natalie anything. Or Maria. I have nothing to prove to anyone inside that hotel.”
“Which is why you’re going to be an adult, come back inside with me, and face your fears.” Scott grabbed my tuxedo jacket as I tried to escape to the curb.
When Scott and I returned to the ballroom, we found the auction in full swing. “I hope Mom hasn’t gone yet!” Scott grabbed a program and discovered that, nope, we hadn’t missed bidding on his mother.
Heads bowed in conversation, Nat sat with Erin Sharpe at one of the front tables, right near the edge of the stage. A pit formed in my gut. Who knew what bullshit Nat had told her. Not that I cared what Erin thought about me, but I was a businessman. I liked to be liked. My livelihood depended on it. Plus, she was principal of the school where I directed many of my charitable efforts. We were bound to run into each other again, and Erin’s two ties to me were the guy I’d picked on in high school and the woman who’d had to deal with the aftermath of my one-night stands for three years.
Fuck. Maybe I was an utter tool.
Erin was one of the last to be auctioned. The way she approached the spotlight reminded me of one of those old gladiator movies. I half expected her to take the mic and announce, “We who are about to die salute you.” She’d hardened her face, ready for battle, totally contradicting the Cinderella vibe of the rest of her look, what with the flouncy blue dress and the sparkly headband in her short, punky platinum hair. She personified a chip on one’s shoulder, and I liked that about her. She hadn’t gone all shy and meek after realizing she’d accidentally shown me her ass tonight.
“Next up,” said Jennifer, head of the fund-raising committee, who had agreed to serve as auctioneer tonight, “we have Miss Erin Sharpe.”
“Doctor Erin Sharpe,” she hissed into the microphone.
I held up my drink in salute, laughing. The balls on Dr. Sharpe. Now this was definitely the same woman who’d stolen all the white wine from a bunch of fifty-three-year-old men. “Good for her. Can you believe Jennifer called her ‘Miss’?” I said.
“Classic Jennifer.” Scott wasn’t paying actual attention. Fielding texts from Travis the waiter had occupied his mind space.
“Sorry,” Jennifer said with a sniff. “Doctor Erin Sharpe. Dr. Sharpe is the new principal at Glenfield Academy. She likes long walks on the beach—”
Erin glared down at Natalie, who had definitely roped Erin into this nonsense. Natalie taught at the school, but, as an alumna, she still ran with this crowd. She might have dressed like a superhero spy tonight, but her North Shore princess roots ran deep.
“Dr. Sharpe loves reading poetry to her lovers in the moonlight.”
“Oh my God. No, I do not.” Erin lunged for Jennifer. “Are you reading someone else’s card?”
Jennifer jumped back as Erin scanned the index card. She tossed it to the ground. “Well, none of that is right.” She wrapped a slender hand around the microphone. “I’m Erin Sharpe. I have a PhD in education. I’m forty, recently dumped by my boyfriend of ten years, and I like crappy television.” She raised her arms in surrender. “Have at me, boys.”
How had Dirt managed to woo this fireball? What a fucking waste. Well, maybe she’d find someone good tonight, to make up for the lost Dirt years. I glanced around the room, as paddle after paddle flew up. There had to be someone here worthy of Erin Sharpe, someone smart enough, cool enough, kind enough. The kind of guy who’d help her steal wine from another party, not berate her for it. The Anti-Dirt.
Mark Marrs was bidding on her. He was… Well, he had money. But so did everyone in this room. He had the reputation at my country club for being the go-to guy for really rough vintage porn. Out. Sorry, Mark Marrs.
Tim Cleary was okay, but kind of anti-intellectual, to put it mildly. He’d inherited a bunch of money from his mom’s family when he turned twenty-one and had basically done nothing since graduating from Harvard, except ride on yachts, complain about the waitstaff at various restaurants, and tell people he’d gone to Harvard. Big old nope.
Bill Lowery could work…maybe… He was nice, at least, but according to Scott, he might not be all that into the ladies. And Scott knew everything when it came to matters of the glass closet.
Then there was Paul Pfister, heir to the Pfister fortune, related, somehow, to the British royal family, or so he liked to say. Greasy-haired, skinny, annoying like a freaking gnat. He was pretentious with a capital P. He’d probably be no different than Dirt, really, all told. He was Dirt with money.
And he was about to win Erin.
Ready to collect his prize, Paul basically vibrated in his seat, beaming at his grandmother, his plus-one for the night, while waving his paddle in the air.
“Going once…twice…”
“Fucking Paul Pfister.” I reached across the table and plucked my paddle from underneath Scott’s napkin. Hell, it was just one dinner, and I’d planned to donate the money anyway. I lofted my bidding paddle high in the air. “I’m in. Forty grand.”
Jennifer banged the gavel. “Erin Sharpe to Ian Donovan for forty thousand dollars. The Glenfield Academy basketball teams thank you for your generosity. We’ll be able to afford that new floor!”
My eyes swung right to Erin, who stood on stage, her mouth agape. All the color had drained from her face.
I waved my paddle at her sheepishly. So much for never bidding on anyone.
…
Erin
I had to be physically escorted backstage by some teenage son of a school advisory board member who’d been roped into corralling the bachelorettes for the evening. I couldn’t move on my own. I’d spent the night preparing myself for a date with someone completely objectionable, some dude who lived in his parents’ basement and hadn’t seen daylight in three years. But instead I had been bought by Ian Donovan.
He’d said he wouldn’t bid on anyone.
But then he bid on me.
For forty thousand dollars.
Forty. Grand.
The…fuck?
Natalie grabbed me as soon as I entered the green room, where the rest of the bachelorettes were waiting to meet up with their dates. “Ian Donovan bought you?” she said. “Ian Donovan? Why?” Her long, gold metallic nails dug into my triceps.
I shrugged, and my shoulders froze right next to my ears. Why, indeed. A really hot guy, who’d told me point-blank that he never bid on anyone at this thing, had paid forty thousand dollars to have dinner with me. With me, the principal in the petticoat.
This was… I didn’t know what this was. Mildly upsetting? Kind of exciting? An accident? Maybe that was it. A bug or something had landed on his paddle and he’d waved it at just the wrong moment to shoo it away or whatever. That scenario made the most sense. Serendipity by spider.
Natalie pushed my shoulders down to their normal height and kneaded them gently, bringing me back to reality. “You were talking to him earlier. Do you know him?” Nat asked.
I shook my head. “We met in the hallway tonight, I don’t know.”
Natalie frowned, glancing at the door. Guys had started to pour in, hunting for their dates, some of whom they’d paid top dollar for—for “just” dinner. Was that even true, though? Did Ian expect more? Did I? God, what a terrifying question.
“He’s no good,” Natalie said.
“So I’ve heard.” She didn’t need to work so hard to sell me on something I already knew.
“When I dated his friend Tommy—well, let’s just say, Ian is very charming, and he knows it. He makes a great first impression. But, dude, I can’t even tell you how many times I had to clean up his mess the next morning.” Natalie’s long earrings bumped against her neck as she shook her head. “These, like, twenty-one-year-old girls would wander out alone from his bedroom, crying, and I’d have to break it to them that Ian was a fuckstick who never dated any girl more than once. Tommy and I fought about it constantly throughout our relationship. I’d be all, ‘Your friend’s an asshole.’ And then he’d come in and defend Ian, saying, ‘He’s always straight with the girls. It’s their fault if they don’t get the message.’”
“Cool,” I said. “Well, I’ve heard the message, loud and clear.”
“Have you, though?” Nat raised an eyebrow at me. “You’re not exactly someone who’s known for having one-night stands. Ian is all fling, no ring.”
“Nat,” I said. “We’re having dinner so the school can afford to refinish the gym floor. That’s literally it.” Nat had me pegged. I didn’t date casually. I jumped from long relationship to long relationship. Nat and I both did, in fact. But I wasn’t a total fool. I understood that Ian was not the one.
She looked me up and down. “Mmm-hmm.”
“I swear.” I widened my eyes to make her believe me. “Just dinner.” Because that had to be what Ian had been thinking. He was the one who’d told me this night ended after dessert for, basically, everyone.
“He’s coming in.” Natalie stared me straight in the eye. “Be careful tonight.”
“Careful’s my middle name. You know that.”
Nat spun me around, face-to-face with Ian Donovan. His soft, milk-chocolate eyes smiled at me from behind his thick, dark frames. He didn’t look so dangerous, but then neither did a Lily of the Valley. It was probably how Ian’d managed to lure in so many unsuspecting victims. They all thought they were going to be The One. The One to tame the wild, rich, beautiful bachelor. Well, not me. I had all the information.
Ian flashed me a toothy grin. “When I saw Paul Pfister basically floating to the ceiling on the high that he was about to win a date with you, I had to shut him down.”
I blinked as I waited to hear the rest of his explanation.
“It was a friendly gesture, nothing more.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “We don’t have to actually go on the date tonight, if you don’t want to. I didn’t bid on you expecting anything. No pressure.”
Now my stomach took the elevator down to my feet.
It appeared Nat had nothing to worry about.
We don’t have to actually go on the date, was what he’d said. What I’d heard was that I was such a loser Ian didn’t even want to break bread with me, that he had forked over forty thousand bucks just to be nice.
Was I that big a charity case?
Apparently.
Ian simply pitied the poor, sad woman who’d gotten dumped by Dirt. He didn’t find me attractive. He didn’t want to spend time with me. He wanted to get out of this obligation, probably so he could screw some pretty young thing instead, just like Nat had predicted.
“Fine,” I said. “Great. No big deal.” To hide my disappointed eyes, I spun toward the back exit, through which the rest of the group headed, about to board the party bus and go to the restaurant. They walked two-by-two with their dates. I stood alone. Flying solo. “I’ll hang out with my friend and the guy who bought her, and you can write off the donation or whatever.”
Goodbye, Ian Donovan. Fuck you very much.
As I stepped toward the door and out of Ian’s personal space, someone slid next to me, taking his place. Paul Pfister, one of the other guys who’d almost bought me.
“No Ian?” Paul wore a Dracula costume. I gave him props for that. Good for him, dressing up, being a team player. He hadn’t come here tonight to make fun of the auction. He’d come to participate.
“I think Ian has other things to do.” This guy was more my speed, anyway. I could hold my own with a Paul Pfister. I had the upper hand with a guy like him. I’d probably break out in cold sweats all evening if I had to talk to Ian Donovan for an extended period of time.
“Good,” Paul said. “Then maybe we can talk.”
“Absolutely.”
Natalie stood way up in front of us, almost on the bus. She’d linked arms with her date—some balding corporate lawyer dressed as Harry Potter. Apparently they were both happy with the sale. She appeared adrift in a love haze. Good for her. Good for us.
I turned toward Paul and grinned at him. We were the same height. We’d both come in costume. We nerdy people of a similar ilk had to stick together. “What about the woman you bid on?” I asked.
“She went home sick.”
I grinned at him. “Too bad for her.”
Panting, Ian sidled up next to me. “Sorry, Erin, I got stuck back there.” He glared at Paul, who had started to back away now that the alpha dog had shown up.
I grabbed Paul’s arm and pulled him next to me. “Ian, we’re fine. You said you didn’t want to go on the date, and that’s cool. I’m cool. We’re cool.”
“Erin—” Ian held out a hand to me, but I waved him off, linking arms with Paul and stepping onto the bus with him. Ian apparently felt like he had to be my protector tonight, my knight in shining armor. I didn’t need protection or a pity date. I deserved a prince.
And Paul could literally be a prince. “Have I told you I’m related to the Queen of England?” he said as he slid onto a bench near the front of the bus.
Grinning, I glided in next to him. “That’s amazing.”
“My second cousin’s second cousin is her third cousin once removed, and the last time I visited Great Britain, I had an audience with the queen.”
“So cool.” I let Paul keep talking, waiting for him to take the opportunity to ask me something. It was the getting-to-know-you dance. I counted to thirty. He kept talking about the queen. And he was still droning on about her after another thirty seconds had passed.
“Are you an alum?” I asked. “I’m really enjoying Glenfield Academy. I’ve never taught at a private school before.” There. I’d given him an opening to ask me about my job.
“I graduated from there in 1992, New Trier in 1996. After that I traveled through Europe for a year, before heading to Yale. I received my law degree from Harvard, passed the bar in both Illinois and Massachusetts. Now I run my grandmother’s foundation.” He kept going and going and going, reciting his entire résumé. He punctuated it with, “My motto is, ‘To thine own self be true.’”
Carl. My high school boyfriend, Carl, had had a Shakespeare quote for every occasion, no matter what. When my grandma’d had him over for her famous Swiss steak dinner, he’d said, “Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon.” It had been the first quote of many that evening. After we’d dropped him off at home, my parents lectured me from the front seat that I could do better.
“What do you like to do for fun?” I slid away from him on the bench. “I’m a big fan of cooking shows—Cook’s Country, America’s Test Kitchen—”
“I don’t watch TV.”
That was so Dirk, who used to call my viewing habits “pedestrian” and “low-brow.” He’d lie on the couch across the room while I salivated over images of chorizo tacos and butter cake. When we first started dating, this had been one of my favorite parts of “us.” He was the cranky academic and I was the principal who needed to unwind at the end of the day. But one day my sister had come over and asked if Dirk and I ever liked to do anything together. I’d told her, “Of course we do.” But then I couldn’t think of anything.
“But I do love food,” Paul said, “I’ve been a vegetarian for years, but I might start eating meat again.”
“Oh,” I said, perking up. “Why?” I could actually sink my teeth into this interesting tidbit about Paul.
He shook his head. “I just think vegetarianism is over.”
Knocked-Up Cinderella Page 2
