Page 15 of The Celebrity Bidder

Bella climbs out and stretches, her smile bright and unguarded. I follow her down the path toward her car.

The sun is warm on my back, the scent of pine and fall leaves thick in the air. It should be the perfect ending to a perfect night.

Instead, I feel my chest tightening.

I stop just short of her car. “Bella.”

She turns, brows raised, jacket still wrapped tight around her. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Her smile falters slightly, like she already knows where this is going.

“I know this has all moved fast,” I begin. “But I’ve never felt this way. Not even close. I don’t want this to be just one night.”

Her eyes widen. I press on.

“I want to see where this goes. I want to be with you. Exclusively.”

Silence.Then she looks away, biting her lip.

“Wylie…”

My stomach drops.Please don’t say no…

“I can’t.”

The two words hit harder than I expect. “I just thought… after last night…”

She won’t meet my eyes. “It’s not you. I mean—obviously, it’syou, but not in the way you think. You’re amazing. This night was… God, it was perfect.”

“Then why—?”

“Because that’s exactly the problem.” Her voice cracks. “You’reyou. This—” she gestures toward the house, the helicopter, the world I live in “—it’s all a fairytale. And I’m not a fairytale girl. I can’t be. Not again.”

Her ex. The ring. The betrayal. I can see it all flashing behind her eyes.

“But—” My voice is strangled, desperate.What can I say to make her stay?

“I just… I’m not interested in a relationship right now,” she finishes quietly. “But thank you for everything.”

Then she opens her car door, climbs in, and drives away.

I stand there long after the dust settles, the wind rustling through the trees, the scent of her still clinging to my jacket.

Chapter 11

Bella

Threemonthslater

I’m standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, my cart half-full with canned dog food, apples, and a box of brownie mix I definitely don’t need, when I see it:People Magazine.Inside Wylie Cole’s Private World: The Man Behind the Spotlight.

I normally glance past stuff like this. I don’t care what celebrities are eating for breakfast or who wore what at some gala I’ll never be invited to.

But Wylie’s face is staring back at me, that signature smirk just a little softer than usual, like he’s been through something and come out the other side quieter, more real.

I grab the magazine and toss it onto the conveyor belt with a pound of cheddar and try to pretend my pulse hasn’t just spiked.

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