Page 9 of The Celebrity Bidder

Flying to Nashville for the night? That’s not part of the donation, and I don’t think he can claim it as a tax write-off.

It feels like something else.

And I can’t help it—hope bubbles up in my chest, warm and a little dizzying.

I mean, I’m not delusional. I’m just a small-town woman with dog hair permanently embedded in all my clothing. And he’s a movie star.But still… he placed the bid.Or, at least, his assistant did.He planned a date.Or did his assistant plan that too?

Either way, he’s the one going on the date with me. So, he must want to see me again.

Thathasto mean something.Right?

Bluebell trots into the closet, probably looking for treats or someone to fawn over him. He stops when he sees me sitting on the floor, head tilted like he can sense my emotional chaos.

I hold up the phone. “Think Wylie Cole is trying to sweep me off my feet?”

Bluebell barks.

“Yeah,” I say, sighing. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Chapter 7

Bella

Thegateopensslowly,almost theatrically, and I half-expect a butler in a tuxedo to appear and offer me champagne.

But it’s just me in my beat-up SUV, driving cautiously up a winding gravel drive surrounded by trees that look like they were plucked from a postcard. Late-autumn golds and fiery reds blaze against the gray sky, and the whole place feels more like a secluded retreat than someone’s actual home.

I tug down the visor mirror and swipe one last glance at myself. Mascara, check. Lip gloss, check. Dark jeans and my favorite deep green sweater that hugs just enough curve to look intentional—check.

This is as fancy as I get.

I’d agonized for way too long about whether I was underdressed before reminding myself that I run a rescue shelter. My wardrobe consists of jeans, hoodies, and T-shirts with various dog silhouettes on them. This is me. Take it or leave it.

A staff member is covering the evening shift with the dogs. I’ve already texted twice to check in and didn’t get a reply, which hopefully means things are under control and not that the puppies have staged a coup.

The driveway curves one last time, and then I see it—Wylie’s house.

Or compound. Or fortress of solitude. Whatever you want to call it, it’s stunning. A mix of modern lines and rustic charm, with stone and timber beams and wraparound porches that practically beg for cozy mugs and a mountain view.

I park in front of the house, heart fluttering in my chest like it’s trying to escape.

The front door opens before I can even step out.

And there he is.

Wylie Cole.

Movie star. Dog adopter. Charity auction mystery bidder.

He’s wearing dark slacks and a charcoal blazer, no tie, shirt open at the collar. Effortless, like a GQ cover come to life. His hair is a little messy in the best way, and when he smiles—

Well, now I understand how he got so many roles playing heartbreakers.

“Bella,” he says, his voice warm and low. “You made it.”

“Barely,” I say, trying to play it cool. “I almost turned around twice.”

He chuckles. “Why? Because of me?”

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