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That was Brant’s only response, and then there was blessed silence as Brock breathed in the steam from the shower.
    She was just a woman. A really pretty, vibrant, girl-next-door, attractive woman.
    With seven freckles.
    Damn it.
    Small straight white teeth.
    An overly plump top lip.
    “Damn, damn, damn.” Brock slammed his hands against the tiled wall.
    The reminder of the auction he’d agreed to was like a brick in his stomach, a heavy, horrible brick of guilt.
    Today he and Grandfather would go over all of the fine print. A list of potential women and rich families would be compiled based on past donations to Wellington charitable causes.
    From that list, Brock knew his grandfather would pick his favorites, the ones that “made sense”, just like Harvard had made sense, and football, and wearing three-piece suits at twenty.
    Because at the end of the day that was all that mattered. Keeping his grandfather happy.
    The only thing that didn’t make sense to Brock was why they even needed this auction. It was a simple question—but one that he was too scared shitless to actually ask. What was the real reason behind the auction? Did they really need good press that desperately?
    When he turned off the shower, he stepped over the shoe—the elephant in the room.
    A giant elephant, reminding him he needed to start living life for himself.
    He stared back down at the shoe, and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. The girl from last night…he knew her name, and that was a start. How hard would it be to find out who she really was? Maybe he’d luck out and she’d be from one of the wealthy families donating to the cause.
    Right. And maybe he’d get struck by lightning.
    But if she wasn’t part of the auction what would be the point?
    Because even as his heart thumped yes, yes, yes when he thought about pursuing her—logic screamed no.
    Maybe if he was to just randomly bump into her, joke about having her old shoes?
    Good pick-up line.
    Solid.
    She’d be eating out of the palm of his hand.
    With another groan he quickly got ready to go to the office. Images of a woman with brown eyes and plump lips invaded his thoughts the entire time.

Chapter Eight
    A sense of dread washed over Brock as he entered his grandfather’s office.
    And it wasn’t because his grandfather was waiting to seal his fate without a word of argument from Brock.
    No, hell had started the minute he got out of his car and made his way into the lobby of the Wellington building, and was fucking mauled by enough reporters to cover a presidential nomination. Democratic and Republican.
    “Shit.” There had been no side-stepping, no avoiding. So he did what he always did, what he’d been trained to do.
    What he hated.
    He smiled, shook hands, and made his way through the crowd with the excuse of being late for an important meeting with his grandfather.
    “Is it true?” One reporter asked shoving a microphone in his face.
    “Is what true?” He asked through clenched teeth. And why the hell was he even engaging?
    The reporter wore red lipstick and a tight black pantsuit.
    She grinned widely as more microphones were thrust into his face.
    “The marriage.”
    Two words.
    “Marriage?” He spat the word. “There will be no marriage.”
    The reporter gave him a confused look. “So it’s not true that your grandfather has agreed to choose a suitable wife for the Wellington Dynasty from one of the many women who attempt to purchase you at the auction?”
    That was a rumor the press had started buzzing about ever since they’d learned of the auction. There was no way in hell his grandfather would take it that far.
    “No more questions,” he barked, jabbing the elevator button harder than necessary. Thank God the doors opened and closed on the waiting crowd just in time for him to have a full-fledged panic attack as the elevator surged to the top floor.
    Marriage.
    No.
    He wouldn’t.
    His grandfather wasn’t that insane.
    Was he?
    Talk about