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

  Bailey barely gave him a glance before heading toward the stairs. “If you’re staying here, you’ll want to clean out the fridge. Probably call Greg’s Market and have them drop off some milk, unless you drink your coffee black.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” If she wanted him in the kitchen where she wouldn’t be, that meant no small talk. Given the ice still rolling from her, that was fine, and cleaning out the fridge should be disgusting enough to keep his mind occupied.

  The cat looked at him from her perch on the dining room table, yawned, and then settled back down to sleep. Spoiled ball of fluff. He was amused at the disdain, rather than irritated. He picked her up, and she whined in protest. “Sorry, princess. Not on the table.”

  He set her on the ground, and she looked up at him for a moment before hopping back up.

  “No.” He forced himself to sound sterner. He moved her again, and she returned to her resting spot as quickly.

  “She’s more welcome up there than you are,” Bailey called.

  “I’m not trying to sit on the table.”

  “You know what I mean.” She poked her head around the corner, her scowl telling him she didn’t find the comment as funny as he did.

  “Come on.” He gave her the smile that smoothed over most sticky situations. “I’m back, aren’t I?”

  “About that— Let’s not gloss over the fact that you don’t want to be here. The barricade that closes off the bridge back to the mainland is twenty minutes away. Half an hour, in the worst weather. Why did it take you almost an hour and a half to return?”

  Because he spent forty-five minutes trying to convince himself they might open things up if he waited. “I had to make a couple of calls.”

  “Of course. Don’t let me keep you from the important work.” Sarcasm coated her words. “You know where everything is. Nothing’s moved in at least twenty years. I’ll be upstairs.”

  “You don’t have to do this now. Take the night off. Come back when I’m not here.” So maybe he couldn’t do playful and kind. Regardless of his approach, he seemed to rub her the wrong way.

  She made a noise that was half-sigh, half-growl, and planted herself in front of him, lips pursed. “Have you ever managed an estate sale?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll fill in some of the blanks for you. I have a limited number of days to go through everything in this house, cellar to roof, and figure out what can be sold—along with their opening bids—and what needs to be donated, or set aside for you to not deal with. I don’t get to take time off, because regardless of what you think, the work is going to take more than a couple of hours and making a list of stuff.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. I want to get this out of the way as quickly and smoothly as I’m sure you do. So, what’s your problem with me?”

  She gave a bitter laugh, choked it off, and then laughed again. “Wow. Where to start? Okay. Let’s assume you want the quick and compact answer. You’re not even freaking mourning. That woman loved you more than anything. You can’t fathom how often she talked about you—how well you were doing; how proud she was of you. Then you don’t have the balls to come to her wake. You drive up two days later, as if being here is an inconvenience for you, toss me a phone number, and head back to work.”

  “First of all, I was at her wake. I couldn’t stay. I wanted to.” He refused to stall on the words, despite the acid surging up his throat. “I was at her service, and I was at the beach when her ashes were scattered, and—God help me—I’m grateful she asked for someone else to do that.” He wouldn’t sink into the grief tightening around his heart and lungs, making it hard to breathe. At both affairs, he’d left before many people saw him. The few handshakes and obligatory condolences were enough to drill into his core.

  At least his father wasn’t there. Not that Jonathan was surprised. The only time his old man had spoken to him in the last five years, was a bitter email a week ago that said, Congratulations on your inheritance. Nana left Dad out of the will. Jonathan had fought off the sadness off this long. Giving in now didn’t help anyone. “You have less than zero idea how much this hurts.”

  “Is that so? You’ve got an exclusive on grief now? Is it something you picked up as part of a discount investment portfolio? She might have been your grandmother, but she was here for me when no one else was.” She worked her jaw up and down, as if she wanted to say more, but then clamped her mouth shut.

  Like I should have been. The unwelcome thought taunted him. What was he supposed to do for Bailey? She turned him down last time he offered his help. Made it clear that was the last thing she wanted. “Then you must have some idea how much it hurts that I didn’t get to say goodbye to her.”

  “That was your choice. If you hadn’t cut us all out of your life—”

  “What?” Something inside snapped, and he let anger replace guilt. “All the letters exchanged. Photos, post cards, email she and I sent back and forth—don’t accuse me of cutting and running because I wasn’t talking to you. She never gave me any hint something was wrong. I couldn’t have known.”

  “That’s a nice excuse. Nothing stopped you from coming back, before then.”

  “Everything stopped me from coming back.” Fuck. He didn’t mean to say that. Didn’t want her to know it took years, to get over the last fight he and Bailey had. Longer to convince himself what happened to her after wasn’t his fault. At least he never questioned that getting over her was the right decision. Leaving this place behind was one of his best calls, and as soon as this estate deal was over, he’d do it again.

  *

  Bailey knew she was being cruel. Sometime in the last few minutes, this argument stopped being about Nana and started being about her, and that was selfish. Red rimmed Jonathan’s eyes, and his voice cracked each time it rose to a shout. He kept in touch with Nana, and Bailey had no idea? Still, she couldn’t back off. She didn’t know where her misery ended and her spite began. “Fine. You had your reasons. Sorry for questioning you.” She couldn’t even force that to sound genuine. “I need to get back to work.”

  She really needed to get to the bathroom, lock the door, and let the tears stream down her face until she was spent. Then, after she washed that away, she could return to her sorting.

  “Bailey.” He grabbed her arm.

  She couldn’t find the energy to wrench away. “Let go.”

  He moved to stand in front of her, then dropped his grip, setting his palm on her face and forcing her gaze to his. “I’m sorry.” The anguish in his words was reflected in the brown depths of his eyes. “I’m sorry she’s gone. I’m sorry it hurts. I wish more than anything that she were still here.”

  Something in his tone snapped the dam inside her, and she sobbed so hard it rocked through her frame and ached in her joints.

  “Damn it,” he said, as he gathered her in his arms.

  She didn’t have the will to struggle. Instead, she buried her face against his chest, and gripped his shirt as if it could keep her from shattering into a million pieces. A tiny voice in her head nagged that she needed to pull herself together. There was no way she could listen. The crying wouldn’t stop. Even when he rested his forehead against the top of her skull and muttered random things like I get it and me too.

  She cried until his shirt was wetter than her cheeks. Until the sobs became whimpers and then faded to sniffles. She must be a freaking mess right now. Did she care?

  “I’m making you take the night off.” His chin moved against her head when he spoke, his words vibrating through her.

  “You’re not the boss of me.” The childish retort scraped through her raw throat.

  He gave a weak laugh. “Technically, I am. Executor of the estate, right? I say you’re done for today.”

  “Yes, sir.” She didn’t want to pull away. The comfort was nice. Besides, she cared at least a little about how red and puffy her face was.

  He squeezed her tight, and then relaxed his arms. />
  She backed away, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll be back,” she said and headed for the bathroom upstairs.

  She locked the door behind her and let the cold water run over her hands and wrists until her skin was numb. After she splashed her face, she didn’t dare look in the mirror for several minutes. Agony stared back from her reflection, but her face was mostly clear. Her insides felt like sandpaper, but the empty pit in her gut didn’t gape as wide as it had over the last week. Her mind tried to analyze what just happened, and revolted when it hit a blank wall that refused to budge. That was okay with her. She’d process later, when she was home alone with the cold beer waiting in her fridge.

  She refastened her hair in a ponytail, dried her skin, and made her way downstairs. Jonathan sat at the kitchen table, as far from Luci as possible, two glasses in front of him. He’d given up trying to move the cat. Bailey did a double take when she saw he wore a white T-shirt, and slacks. His button-down was draped over the back of another chair. She wasn’t going to stare at the way the cotton stretched over his chest, highlighting the definition every time he shifted.

  To distract herself, she picked up the discarded shirt. She winced when she saw the dust and moisture streaking the front. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “It’ll wash out. If not, it’s replaceable. I called Greg’s. They’re delivering milk and deli sandwiches.”

  “I really can’t stay.” Or didn’t think it was a good idea. Or both.

  He nodded at the amber liquid over ice. “You were going to be here for a few more hours anyway. At least have a drink with me.” He nudged a glass in her direction.

  Luci moved to sniff the contents, then hopped from the table and strolled into the other room.

  “That’s either a good sign or a really bad one.” Bailey’s desire to argue had evaporated. She took a sip and let the sweet, smooth flavor burn down her throat. The familiar taste of ginger ale and whiskey tugged at her grief again, but she was too spent to fall into it. “Ale and Jack.”

  He shrugged, then took a swig of his own drink. “It was what I could find the mixings for.”

  When he ran away from home and came here, she’d been thrilled. It meant unexpected extra time with her best friend. They raided her parents’ pantry when Mom and Dad were out one evening, and stuffed themselves on cheese puffs and booze. It only took a can of soda and a couple shots of Jack Daniels, before they were giggling and falling over each other. Rather than ground her, her parents decided to go the humiliation route and told the entire town what a lightweight she was. Everyone called them Ale and Jack for the rest of their teenage years.

  “It’s perfect.” She finished her drink.

  “You’re staying at least until after dinner.”

  The bitterness and her desire to fight back were gone. She found the cold cans of soda on the counter next to the fridge, along with the liquor. Grabbing both, she crossed the room back to the table, and dropped into a chair next to Jonathan. She poured them each another drink, before replying, “Only if we get the wake you chickened out on.”

  “I didn’t chicken out.”

  “Whatever.” She stared back, hoping her skepticism showed on her face.

  He clinked his glass to hers. “To Nana.”

  “To Nana.” She downed half her drink in a single swallow. A pleasant haze filled her head, fuzzing some of the rough edges. Maybe for tonight, she could block out the loss.

  Chapter Three

  Jonathan didn’t slam the second drink as quickly as the first, and by number three, he was willing to nurse it. The liquor seeped into the cracks of sympathy that formed when Bailey broke down, and helped him find his balance again.

  The wind howled through the trees. Small branches banged into the building, but no rain fell. As long as the gusts died by morning, he’d be back to his hotel, catching up on work, and riding out this auction thing from a location where the roads didn’t randomly close and he didn’t have to worry about being caught in a hurricane.

  He watched Bailey watch her cup. What was he supposed to say?

  “She was really proud of you.” Bailey broke the silence first. “Bragged to everyone who would listen about how brilliant and successful her grandson was.”

  He took another swallow of his drink and let it warm his face and throat.

  She clinked the ice inside her glass. “She only had one fear for you—she was terrified you’d turn out like your dad.”

  “A humorless fuck, who let his ego drive him into failure and shut down because he made a mistake?”

  “At least the two of you are as close as ever.” Bailey’s laugh was sarcastic. “But no. She was worried you spent too much time working. That you’d lose track of life and the things you enjoyed.”

  “What I enjoy is the job I built for myself. I’m fucking incredible at it, and I’ve always known it takes long hours. I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Which is why your phone is on the table next to you. I was gone for… ten minutes? Fifteen? Did it give you time to check in? Sorry. I didn’t mean to be snippy.”

  This wasn’t pleasant reminiscing about the good things, and he wanted to enhance the buzz of liquor, not destroy it. “What about you?” He kept his tone curious and kind. “Appraisal and auction is specialized work. Not quite Indiana Jones, but I see the parallels.” When she was younger, she wanted to be a world-renowned archaeological adventurer.

  He missed the fun they had when they were teenagers. The thought hit him hard. Not just the wild, unattainable dreams, but the friendship. Would they ever be able to find that again? The question came from left field, but he liked the sound of it. This felt like a good start, but it was rocky. Every other sentence, he misstepped.

  “No, it’s not the same. But I see more variety in the antiques than your standard archaeologist, and there’s a lot less risk of me breaking something before it’s completely unearthed.”

  “I bet you’re amazing at what you do.” This was better. He liked the way a smile lingered on her face.

  She tugged on her ponytail, a sparkle dancing in her eyes. “I like to think I’m good at spotting both the valuable antiques and the things that have sentimental value—the art that fills people’s hearts with passion. I…” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Yeah.”

  Curious. “What aren’t you saying?”

  “So much more than we have time for tonight.” She knocked back the rest of her drink. “That’s a big question.”

  “I’ll be more specific. What aren’t you saying about the art?”

  “It’s silly.”

  There was a crash outside, and they both jumped. Gusts whistled against the wood siding. She laughed and shook her head. “You’d think I’d be used to the thunder and other sounds by now. Gets me every time. Probably for the rest of my life.”

  “I promise not to laugh.” He didn’t want to lose this thread of conversation. “You’ve always wanted to discover the rare and the beautiful and share them with the world. Is that what your job is about?”

  “It’s exactly that, and not at all in the way you’d think.” She fiddled with the whiskey bottle but didn’t pour another shot.

  Silence stretched between them, spanning seconds and then minutes. He didn’t want to jar her from wherever she had drifted to.

  She shook her head and looked at him. “I want to uncover new talent, not antiques. There’s a gallery on Main Street. I help move some of their pieces when I can. The owner is sweet—I adore her—but she’s selling the place, to move to North Carolina and take care of her father, rather than put him in a nursing home. I know it’s whimsical, but I wish I could buy it. Fill it with talent from everywhere.”

  “It’s a lovely dream. You know places like that rarely make much money.”

  She scowled at him. “Not everything is about the cash flow.”

  “An investment like buying an art gallery is.” He didn’t want to offend her, but the thought of her wasting her time on a venture
that would leave her broke… How could he explain his concern?

  The doorbell rang, saving him from having to push the harsh truth. He stood faster than he intended, and his chair screeched across the Spanish tile. He cringed. “That’s probably Greg’s. Be right back.”

  Bailey’s frustrated and wounded expression drilled into his mind, as he made his way into the living room and answered the door. The kid outside winced against the wind and thrust a paper bag at Jonathan as soon as the opening was wide enough. “Eight sixty-two,” the teenager said.

  Jonathan glanced at the delivery and set it aside. “For milk and two sandwiches?”

  “Yes. Eight sixty-two.”

  Cheap food. One thing to love about the small-town feel. Jonathan pulled a twenty from his wallet and handed it over. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks, man.” The boy’s smile made it look as if the tip was worth braving the storm for. He bolted back to the rusted hatchback parked next to Jonathan’s rental.

  Jonathan was about to turn back inside, when a ball of white fluff darted between his legs, shot across the porch, and disappeared around the side of the house. “Lucifer.” The wind swallowed his shout. Though it was barely seven in the evening, the clouds swallowed the sun, making it look like the sun had set.

  “What happened?” Bailey asked.

  He whirled to face her. “Cat ran outside.” He hissed as he looked at the raging weather. “I’m going to go find her.”

  “Wait.” Bailey vanished into the kitchen. Things rattled. Drawers and cabinet doors opened and closed. A moment later, she returned with a flashlight in one hand and a bag of—Jonathan squinted—cat treats in the other. She handed him the flashlight. “Let’s go.”

  He secured the front door behind her, then shone the light on the ground, following the path he saw the animal take. “Don’t suppose you know if she has a favorite hiding place?”

  “Under the rose bushes around back. C’mon, pretty Luci.” She rattled the treat bag and called out every few seconds, as she walked next to Jonathan.