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RORY

No one wants a battered and worn-out old man like me. It’s what I tell myself every time Quinn brings up this damn auction. I know she has the best of intentions and wants me to be happy. But that’s not always how life works.Not my life, anyway.

Standing in Quinn and Declan’s living room, I stare mindlessly out the floor-to-ceiling windows, over the near-uninterrupted view of the beach behind their house. The late afternoon sun shines on the waves, tinting them orange as they crash against the shoreline.

I take a seat on the large, dark leather couch, and it creaks a little as I settle into it—every inch of my body sinking deep into the soft cushions. My hands dangle between my knees, and I rest my elbows on them. I hunch over and stare at the floor while I wait for her to return with the glass of Jameson she insists I need.

“You’re not old,” she retorts with determination, returning from the kitchen. “You’re a few measly months older than Declan. And I don’t know if you’ve picked up on it, but I kind of can’t get enough of him. Besides, I know for a fact that there are plenty of men who would pay big money for a silvering fox like you.” She winks and gestures to my hair—the gray starting to creep in at my temples.

I run a hand over my jaw, feeling the tiny strands of silver that have slowly taken over the once burnt-orange of my beard. Glancing up, I find my reflection in windows—and it’s nearly unrecognizable. The face before me belongs to an old man—too many years, too many stories… too many scars.I’m not the same man I was when I started working for this family. Quinn frowns like she can read my thoughts, her face softening as she looks at my face—over the subtle lines around my eyes and the scars I’ve earned.

“You’re still quite attractive, Rory,” she whispers compassionately. “I’ve seen the way men—and women—look at you.”

I run my hand across my chest, feeling the old bullet scars hidden beneath my shirt. “That’s because they don’t actually see me,” I confide. The two healed wounds beneath my fingers are ones I think about most—because they barely missed my heart—but I have five more scattered across my body to match.

Her lips purse, and her eyes—tinged with guilt—well with tears. “You know…” Her voice cracks, and she takes a second to find her composure. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you did that day.” Her eyes drift around the room to Fiona reading to her little sister, Kira, and then to Declan roughhousing on the floor with Little Rory.Naming her son after me was already far too much of a thank you for doing my job.“All of this… It’s because of you.”

Quinn’s words hit harder than I expect. I swallow hard, trying to push away the lump in my throat as she wraps her arms around me. She squeezes me tightly when I return her embrace. “Hey! Hands off my wife,” Declan teasingly gruffs. I’m probably the only person who can put his hands on Quinn without getting the piss beat out of me.At least, I think…

Meeting Declan’s gaze, I insist, “Trust me. I am the last man in her life you ever need to worry about.”

Chuckling softly, Quinn pulls back with her fingers lingering over the scars covering my heart.

“I know you really want me to do this,” I acknowledge, placing my hand on hers. “But I’m not ready for that.”

I’m not ready for anyone to see me like this.

Living in this brutal world, I’ve always kept my relationships relatively casual and my partners in the dark about what I do forwork. It was safer for them.And for me.

After being left for dead, my level of casualness increased drastically—nothing but fleeting one-night stands with men who are significantly more interested in me removing my pants than my shirt. Men who don’t stick around long enough—or care—to see the years of abuse my body has endured or the dark void that lies beneath these scars.

“Okay.” Quinn lightly taps my chest and pulls back with a gentle nod. She gets it.Because she gets me. With all the time we’ve spent together and all that we’ve gone through, she’s like a sister to me. Hell, the Evans brothers and their wives are the only semblance of family I’ve ever had. Why they took in a stray like me, I’ll never understand.

I return her nod, silently giving my appreciation for not forcing this on me.

“I won’t push it anymore. Just know… it’s only because I want you to be happy. You deserve it. You have such a good heart, Rory. Someone out there deserves to see it other than me and my kids.”

The words hit like a bullet, too quick to dodge. And they stick with me, like the scars I’m trying so desperately to hide. Knowing all the horrible things that her husband, his brothers, and I do, I can’t understand how she can say that with a straight face.

She might be right.

She probably is.

TheseEvans women always are.

CHAPTERTHREE

RORY

The club is crowded—interest from the members in this auction has been so much more than any of us expected. The chatter of the crowd and clinking of glasses is loud, but it’s overshadowed by Tristan’s exuberant voice billowing through the speakers as he auctions off man after man, raising ungodly amounts of money for Our Lady of Grace.

I’m here tonight because Quinn begged me to come for support, but I’d rather be anywhere else right now.Preferably at home, on my couch, watching ESPN and drinking a beer.Instead, I’m stuck in a tuxedo that feels more like a costume than apparel and sitting at the bar beside Declan while I nurse a glass of whiskey.

I take another sip from my glass and glance around the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Conor leaning against the back wall, an annoyed scowl painted on his face. His expression screams, ‘How did I get roped into this shit?’It’s because he’s a sucker for Layla.I can’t blame him for hating every second of it. Happy doesn’t begin to describe how I feel about Quinn not guilting me into being one of tonight’s bachelors.I’d rather get fucking shot again.

My eyes wander the room again and I see him…Jorge. He’s on the other side of the lounge, not far from Conor, where Layla is staging the bachelors.Fuck, he looks good. His tuxedo fits him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders. But it’s the way it’s molded to his frame—hugging him in all the right places—outlining the muscles he’s hiding that causes my breath to catch.

“I didn’t realize Jorge was actually doing the auction,” I mutter, more to myself than to Declan, but he hears me anyway. I don’t know why I’m commenting or why I care. It’s not like Jorge is mine.Or would want to be.He’s well out of my league—young, confident, charming, and able to get any guy he wants.What would he want with an old guy like me? Yet, I’ve spent years watching him from afar—keeping my distance and pining in silence for someone who’swaytoo good for me.

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