Page 38 of The Auction Block

For the next hour, several men come to chat with Blake, and I damn near lose my shit. Each one of them makes a point to touch me in some way when they ask him who I am. The innuendos and comments make me want to puke, and remind me why I dislike most men in general. Blake's cheeks redden and his eyes narrow at each comment as he retorts with something equally rude. The men pretend like he's given them a compliment.

He keeps a watchful eye on me at all times, which is both endearing and annoying. I'm supposed to be watching him, not the other way around. A bell chimes throughout the room, and a hushed blanket falls over the party-goers as an older man steps onto the stage.

Let the games begin.

"Hello, and Welcometo the Eighth Annual House of Ruth Charity Ball," the Master of Ceremonies says in a proud, clear voice. "If everyone would please take your seats, dinner will be served momentarily."

Blake hands me a white and blue card.

"Blake," I whisper, leaning toward him.

"Yes," he says, his lips next to my ear.

"You realize I’ve no idea what half this shit is, and I don't drink . . . hardly ever."

He leans back, staring into my eyes, an amused smile playing on his lips. "No worries, hon, just try it. The wines are good, and cost a damn fortune."

I glance out of the corner of my eye, and his stepmother is watching us intently. Sighing, I smile at him and sit back.

The food is amazing. I've taken three bites of dessert and can't manage anymore, though I'd like to. The servers clear the plates, and the band takes the stage. Polite applause resounds through the room.

Shouldn't have drank the wine . . . fuck, my head is fuzzy . . . shit.

Blake stands and holds his hand out. "Dance with me?"

I take a deep breath trying to process his request. Slowly, I place my hand in his, trembling, and he helps me to my feet. The room blurs for a second, tilting me to the left, slightly. He puts his other hand on my waist, steadying me.

He raises an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"I told you . . . . alcohol and me . . . bad idea."

At least I'm not slurring my words.

Blake leads us onto the dance floor, where we join at least forty other couples. We move across a small space, dancing together in a unified, fluid motion. As the first song ends, he lets go of me and we both clap for the band. Taking my hand in his again, placing his other on my waist, he tilts his head, gazing into my eyes. He looks confused.

"You dance well." He pulls my body tightly against his.

"So do you." I smirk.

The song is a slow, sensual number. Blake doesn't take his eyes off mine. In the back of my mind, it registers that I'm not shaking for the first time in nineteen years at a person's touch.

Must be the alcohol . . . this is a bad idea.

Liquid courage. I've never had courage in situations like this. When it wears off, I'll go back to being me . . . angry, scared, and untouchable.

"Have you been talking to Caleb about me through email?"

He chuckles low in his throat. "Yes, but I delete them just in case you get the urge to hack that to."

"Deleting them wouldn't stop me from finding them. You ought to just say to me the shit you say to him," I say, searching his eyes with mine.

"I didn't think you'd want me to," he whispers, his eyes on fire.

"I have no idea what I want anymore." I stumble over my own feet.

Blake tightens his grip, steadying me. Letting go of his hand, I slide mine up his shoulder, around his neck. He places his free hand on my waist with his other one, and presses his forehead against mine. My fingers move slowly up his neck, curling in his hair.

Why can't I be normal sober?