Page 8 of Crazy About Love (All About Love)

“Okay, girls. You’ll have your bachelor until your midnight kiss, unless he’s willing to give you more time—or extra activities—for free.” More cheers erupt. “All sales are final. Let’s get this started!”

The beat of some song I’ve never heard of starts thrumming through the room, vibrating the floor under my feet. The other men chuckle, and some adjust their easy-to-strip attire and fix their hair. Bachelor number one is waved through the curtain, and I can’t see anything, but I can sure hear what’s happening.

“Bachelor number one is a computer analyst and has a beautiful penthouse on the Upper West Side, where he hosts a number of charity events. He’s currently working on his Ph.D., and would love someone to quiz him on anatomy. Bidding is open now….Oh, we already have five hundred. Do I hear a thousand?”

The sound of tearing fabric followed by high-pitched squeals reaches where I’m standing, and I choke on my tongue. The biddingstartsat five hundred? I was just hoping to earn this place a couple of bucks, best-case scenario. I guess I should’ve known from Theresa’s knockout dress that it was going to be higher than that.

She did look like a knockout. I may have mastered the art of looking platonic, but feeling platonic is a vastly different story.

All right, then, I’m going to have to do some internal convincing. Theresa didn’t lookthatgreat. I mean, her hair was falling out of its updo, and she was a little sweat-glossed from running around. Her neck was very flushed and splotchy, and she kept giving me that look that I don’t recognize. She had some makeup residue under her eyes. But that really doesn’t bother me. Makes me want to reach up and help her out with it, a very lame excuse for touching her. She’d tell me to be careful not to smudge anything else, but even if I did, she doesn’t exactly need makeup. There’s a natural red to her cheeks and lips, and when she wakes up in the morning, her sleepy eyes are wide and open, like she wants to take in the entire world from dawn till dusk.

Damn it. I’d make a terrible lawyer.

A tap on my shoulder makes me turn around, and bachelor number twenty nods to the line in front of me, which is moving up. I close the large gap I’ve let happen during my unsuccessful attempt at making the most gorgeous woman in the world sound unappealing.

The other intros are fairly similar to the first—this bachelor with an insane amount of money is brilliant in bed—followed by the same screaming and whooping, and the bid goes up and up. I’m slowly starting to panic over what Theresa put on that index card for me. I should focus more on the stripping, since I’ve done that before, and not to brag (I’m about to brag), but I’m a kickass dancer. There’s a reason I was the lead inFootloosein the theater above the pizza place.

The highest bid so far has been three grand. At an auction in abar. Who are these women? I know it’s all for charity, but if I get a bid that high, I’d love to roll around in it with the winner before we turn it in.

I step forward again, now up at the curtain, and I watch bachelor number eighteen go out on the stage.

“Bachelor number eighteen!” the girl in the green tank top says from a mike by the DJ. “He just sold his boating company and is now sitting on a heap of cash with no one to spoil….”

Bachelor eighteen does this playboy pout that I can’t help but laugh at while the girls eat it up. Then he turns around and rips off a pair ofArabian Knightspants that are way similar to the ones I rejected earlier.

The girls scream, and I hastily drop the curtain because I’m pretty sure I caught sight of a furry undercarriage.

“Six hundred!” says a voice in the crowd. The music thumps and the guy behind me starts working on some moves. Oh dear God, he’s biting his lip.

“Fifteen hundred!”

Something tears open, and a button rolls under the curtain and hits my foot.

“Seventeen hundred!”

“Damn,” the bachelor behind me says, “we’re lucky we’re last.”

I look up. “Why’s that?”

“The bids get higher because no one wants to leave empty-handed.” He winks, then starts twerking. I laugh, and bachelor number eighteen sells for $2,200.

“Okay, ladies,” the girl in the green says, “loosen those purse strings, because we’ve only got two left!”

Right on cue, the song changes, and thank God it’s one I know. I crack my neck to the side, take a deep breath, and pull the curtain open wide.

The spotlight hits me right in the face, blinding me, and there are purple and blue and green lights hitting me from the side. The only thing I hear is the music and the auctioneer.

“Bachelor number nineteen…”

Ah, here we go. He’s the hard worker with a good heart stuck in the friend zone for five years.

Time to bring on the stripping skills, so I get right into it before the auctioneer finishes whatever bio Theresa cooked up for me. ForFootloosethey taught us street dancing, and though I’m not proud of it, I watchedStep Upa time or two to study. I hop down onto the runway, getting close to the ladies in the front and slowly slide my jacket off my arms, trying to flex my biceps in the process.

“Fifteen hundred!” the girl I’m dancing in front of shouts. Suppressing the urge to drop my jaw to the floor, I give her a grin and wink at her. She’s got long blond hair and pretty eyes. Definitely someone to help me move o—

“Sixteen!”

I whip around and spot a redhead waving her arm. Using the skills I’ve learned from Channing Tatum, I slide on my knees across the stage and then dance in front of her. Faux redhead is good. The natural ones always remind me of the way Theresa’s hair looks dangling over her bare shoulders in the moonlight.

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