Page 48 of Primal
“Did you enjoy your dickwagging contest?”
“It ended a bit prematurely,” I answer with a grin. Her eyes only narrow at my joke. I lean over her to pick up Marco’s business card, look at it for another second, then throw it away to be forgotten. “I was doing you a favor, you know. You looked like you didn’t want him around.”
“I don’t want you around either,” she hisses before moving to go. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Is that how you’re going to treat your fiancé?” I ask.
She pauses mid-step and turns back to me. Her gaze is calculating, bouncing from my hands and back up again, but shedoesn’t say anything. I lean against the table with an elbow and a smirk. “Or have you forgotten who you belong to, since you refuse to wear your goddamn ring?”
Fiora fishes into the window of fabric on her chest. From the right side of her bra, she pulls out the engagement ring on a thin chain. Her eyes don’t leave mine as she tucks it back and hides it away like it’s some dirty secret.
“Tonight, I’m not Fiora Godwin, so don’t bother calling me that name.”
I don’t follow her at first. She stalks over to the auction goods, where she keeps her back to me as she studies them. What the hell does she mean she’s not Fiora Godwin? Who else would she be? Curiosity keeps me rooted to that table, watching her linger around all the prizes. She is particularly interested in and even signs her name on two of them: a huge gift basket of spa items that is full of pink fuzzy shit and a signed picture of Barry Manilow. I don’t take her for the type to enjoy ballads. But then again, I didn’t take her as the type to come to a charity auction either. There’s a reason she insists on being here and pretends to be something she’s not.
“The auction will close in five minutes! Everyone, place your last bids to win your prizes!” one of the hosts announces.
This causes a tidal wave of people running toward the back of the room. Most auctions I’ve attended are the silent type with constant bids, but this one seems more low-key and basic, with people signing up via a list. The crowd murmurs excitedly as they place their last bids, but people glance at the list for the gift bag and picture and pointedly walk away. Has Fiora placed a bid on those? And how much did she put down?
Once the five minutes are up, the ballroom’s lights dim, and the doorwoman takes the stage. She’s changed into a sequined dress reminiscent of a disco ball, a pair of huge aviators on her face. She pulls them off and throws them toward the crowd witha loud cheer like she’s pumping up a concert and not a group full of rich donors.
“Welcome everyone and thank you for your generous donations to the Kids Crisis Center! I would go on and say how much this all means to us, but I’m sure you’re all here for one thing.”
My one thing stands by a table at the front and politely laughs at the lame joke.
“Well, let’s get to it! First prize—a beautiful 1950s candelabra—goes to…”
I keep staring at Fiora, sure she’ll turn to me, but she doesn’t. She claps when the winners of their bids take the stage with a cheer, show off their loot, and leave the stage.
“And the third prize—an amazing bath set—goes to…”
Fine. I’ve been more than accommodating to her bullshit so far, but I’ve had about enough. She’s not going to come into my damn hotel and ignore me like I’m that prick Marco.
I start to head toward her when the host laughs.
“Braken Frost!”
I pause mid step and turn toward her with a confused look. The fuck? I sure as hell didn’t bid on anything here, let alone a bath set. The entire thing looks like a unicorn vomited into a wicker basket and wrapped it in a pretty pastel-pink bow. The only thing I can see clearly is a large, fuzzy pink robe and matching slippers.
“Everyone, please give a hand for Mr. Frost! He graciously let us use his hotel for this event and has bought this item for $5,000!”
I sure the fuck did not. I’m about to shout that someone is playing a practical joke when the slightest movement catches my eye. Fiora is laughing behind a champagne flute, and when she notices me staring, she wiggles her fingers in a small wave.
That little minx.
If she wants to play games, we can play games.
I fix my tie, take the stage, and accept the spa basket. It contains a few bath bombs, some facemasks, a bar of dollar store soap, and those little candles that can float on water. If Fiora thinks she’s embarrassed me, she has another think coming.
“Can I say a few words?” I ask the host with a smile. “Only a few seconds.”
“Of course, of course!”
She holds the microphone up to my lips to let me speak. I turn to the small crowd, making sure to smile for the photographer who takes my picture.
“I’m sure it looks strange for me to be standing here with a robe that’s about two sizes too small. It is my color, though.” I wait for the chuckles to subside before I continue. “But this gift is actually for the future Mrs. Frost. I’m sure she’ll love it.”
A few gasps rise from the crowd with murmurs of excitement. The cameras keep flashing as I head off stage holding the godforsaken gift basket. Fiora stares at me dumbfounded as I pass her table, but I don’t look her way. I haven’t said her name, and I haven’t even looked at her. If she plays her cards right, no one will know it’s her. But if she messes up, her little secret is out of her own accord.