“Safety Clay Johnson is six foot four and two-hundred-and-fifteen pounds of pure muscle,” I read from the script, chuckling when the room echoed with cat calls. “He’s a Cali boy with a love for the beach and reggae music. When we asked his teammates what word best describes Clay, they answered easily and in unison with…” I paused, smiling at the word before I said it. “Loyal.”

I glanced back at Clay then, loving the humble smirk that found his lips as I did.

“His date has been graciously donated by Picnics & Posies,” I said, turning back to the microphone. “Join Clay for a romantic picnic in Boston Common, complete with a bottle of sparkling grape juice, or champagne for those old enough to legally drink, as well as a charcuterie board and local pastries from the North End.”

The room was buzzing with whispered conversations, everyone preparing to make their bids.

“We’ll start the bidding at one-hundred dollars.”

Paddles shot up into the air all over the room, which made everyone laugh and start screaming out random dollar amounts they were willing to pay to win.

“Five hundred,” I jumped, surprised at how many numbers still stayed in the air. “A thousand!”

We lost quite a few with that one, but there were still a dozen holding strong.

“Fifteen hundred,” I tried, and I laughed in true disbelief as I ran straight to, “Two thousand.”

That dropped all but three.

I beamed at the remaining contenders, one I recognized from the board of a local advertising agency, one who was sporting a Zeta Tau Alpha jersey and conversing with her sisters like they were all throwing in money for the bid, and…

Maliyah.

My eyes caught on her, and hers narrowed into slits before she held her paddle even higher, as if I didn’t already see it.

“Twenty-five hundred,” I said, though my voice wasn’t quite as loud this time.

The Zeta pouted, looking to her sisters who shook their heads before she let the paddle drop.

“Three,” I said, not needing to say the thousand, and Maliyah glanced over at the lovely older woman whom I wished would win, only to immediately hate myself for wishing it.

Clay would want Maliyah to take the highest bid.

This is what we’d been working for, what we’d been parading our fake relationship around campus for months to achieve.

Maliyah wanted him back — and she proved it with a victorious smile as the other woman nodded her congratulations and lowered her paddle.

My sandpaper tongue wouldn’t work, wouldn’t swallow or let me speak as I banged my gavel against the wooden podium. “Sold, to number two-eighty-one,” I finally croaked.

Maliyah arched a brow at me, and I wished I could have schooled my expression, that I could have refused her the satisfaction of thinking she’d gotten to me. But I was a pale, frozen ghost as I watched her in return.