Page 3 of The Politician Bidder

The other women are glowing. Glittering. Glossed and curled and cinched in tasteful cocktail dresses that probably didn’t come from the clearance rack at Target. I see heels. Statement earrings. Perfect makeup.

I am…not that.

I shuffle into the lineup, doing my best to shrink into the background, but the room is buzzing. Low murmurs ripple through the crowd like a wave, and at first, I think they’re just reacting to the next auction item. But then I see heads turning. People craning their necks. Whispers rising like smoke.

And then I see him.

Governor Adam Boston.

Tall, polished, and entirely out of place in our tiny town hall. He cuts through the crowd with easy confidence, wearing a navy suit that probably cost more than my car and carrying the kind of quiet charisma that makes rooms rearrange themselves around him.

He’s heading toward the front. Towardus.

And he’s looking straight atme.

My heart skips. No—stumbles. Trips over itself and lands face-first in my stomach.

He’s older than the last time I saw him, sure. A little more silver at the temples. A little more weight to his gaze. But it’s him.

My former best friend. My study partner. The man I used to sit next to in lecture halls and secretly wonder what it would feel like to reach across the armrest and hold his hand.

I haven’t seen him in years. But here he is, walking toward me like a man with a mission.

And suddenly, I’m very aware that I’m wearing a wrinkled blazer and a pencil in my hair.

Please, universe, don’t let me be the punchline of tonight’s political gossip.

Because unless I’m hallucinating from exhaustion and too much courtroom coffee, the Governor of Tennessee is about to bid on me. And I have absolutely no idea why.

Chapter 3

Adam

Poppy’sstandingneartheend of the lineup like she’s hoping no one will notice her. As if that’s even remotely possible.

The other women look like they walked off a runway—sleek dresses, glossy lipstick, designer heels that click elegantly across the hardwood floor. But Poppy?

She’s a vision in a wrinkled gray pantsuit, loafers planted solidly on the ground, and her hair twisted up in a messy bun with a damn pencil shoved through it.

And somehow, she’s the most beautiful woman in the room.

There’s a smudge of ink on her hand and something tired—but fierce—in her eyes. That fire I remember. That brain that could run legal circles around anyone in our class. That heart that cared too much. Still does, if this charity auction is anything to go by.

She doesn’t see me yet. Her gaze is scanning the crowd, probably calculating how quickly she can escape when this is over. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else—like she just came from court and didn’t even stop to change, which, knowing her, is exactly what happened.

The emcee—a guy in a sequined bowtie and an unfortunate mic headset—clears his throat. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for theHawks Roost Bachelor and Bachelorette Charity Auction!Let’s raise money for great causes and send these wonderful participants on the dates of their dreams!”

Applause ripples through the room as the first woman steps forward. The bidding starts fast—$200, $300, $500. The room’s full of energy and playful elbow nudges. I clap along, waiting for my moment.

It comes faster than I expect.

“And next up, we have Poppy Prine,” the emcee says. “She’s a passionate advocate for youth justice, and proceeds from her auction will benefit Youth Focused Tennessee. Let’s show her some love!”

Poppy steps forward, clearly trying to shrink as she does. Her cheeks are pink, but her chin’s lifted. She meets the crowd with quiet defiance.

I raise my hand. “One thousand dollars.”

The room goes still.

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