Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Allie

" E asy, tiger! Looks like you're ready to run like hell."

Under the harsh backstage lights of the charity auction, my heart races a mile a minute.

"I'd honestly rather be anywhere else right now," I confess, feeling the pressure.

Somehow, this spirited sous chef has ended up on the menu as tonight's main course.

"Remember, Al, it's for the kids," Stacy reminds me, her enthusiasm undiminished by her insane mermaid costume. The temptation to douse her with a bucket of toilet water for dragging me into this is overwhelming, but I resist.

I can't stay mad; the night's efforts are for a noble cause. The proceeds are set to benefit foster kids—a community I hold close, being a former foster kid myself. This thought soothes the chaotic butterflies in my stomach.

Still, the prospect of dating—especially auctioned off for charity—is as appealing as pulling my lashes out.

Peeking from behind the curtain, I survey the crowd. A sea of eager faces, all potential bidders.

I find myself questioning their motives. "Are they really here for the kids or to watch the spectacle?"

"Don't be like that. After all, this could be the start of something new," Stacy whispers, giving me a hopeful nudge.

"Okay Ariel on steroids, don't tell me you're hinting at a love connection tonight."

She shrugs. "You never know. Could be a cute story to tell your grandkids one day."

Her optimism is hard to escape, and despite the absurdity of the situation, I find myself begrudgingly intrigued.

Who knows what tonight might bring? Maybe I'll meet someone who isn't put off by a woman who knows her way around a chef's knife. Or, at the very least, someone who doesn't think microwaving pizza rolls counts as gourmet cooking.

"I look ridiculous," I mutter, tugging at the edges of my coveralls as if they might magically transform into something more me.

Stacy, however, dismisses my self-deprecation with a scoff, her eyes sweeping over my outfit as she tilts her head thoughtfully. "Please, you look incredible—seriously, it's a subtle kind of sexy," she insists confidently.

She has a way of boosting my confidence, even when I'm dressed for a mechanic's convention rather than a date.

Skeptically, I step in front of a nearby mirror for a once-over.

The auction's theme tonight is "Adventure Awaits," and my date, should someone actually bid on me, consists of a helicopter tour of NYC, hence the coveralls, the top part undone and tied around my waist, revealing a tight, white tank underneath. The outfit is meant to scream adventurous, I suppose, but all I'm hearing is a faint whimper of fashion distress.

Stacy catches my eye in the mirror; she's grinning at me mischievously.

"I'm a little jealous, actually. A helicopter ride over the city? Come on, that's bucket list material." Her outfit, with a shimmering tail fin to boot, is more suited to her destination.

"Yeah, well, your date at the aquarium sounds a hell of a lot more my speed," I quip, trying to smooth down my hair, which seems to have taken the adventure theme as a personal challenge. "Honestly, I'm starting to remember why I spend 90 percent of my waking hours in a kitchen, hidden away from people."

"That's precisely why it's so great you're here," Stacy insists, her voice firm but friendly. "You can't hide behind those pots and pans forever, Al. Besides, think of the stories you'll have for the next family meal."

I can't help but laugh, the sound echoing off the walls of our makeshift dressing room. She's right, of course. The kitchen is my comfort zone, my sanctuary from the unpredictability of the world outside. But standing there, poised on the brink of something completely out of my comfort zone, I feel a flicker akin to excitement—or maybe it's just the adrenaline from imminent public embarrassment.

As we make our way toward the stage, the reality of the situation settles in. I'm about to be auctioned off for a helicopter tour over one of the most iconic cities in the world, dressed like I'm about to repair the chopper rather than ride in it.

Just as Stacy and I are about to make our grand entrance to the world of auctioned dates, a guy strides off stage, his outfit screaming Broadway's The Lion King louder than a roar in the savanna. His face is lit up with a mix of shock and excitement as he heads straight for us, eager to share his disbelief with somebody.

"You won't believe the bid for my date!" he exclaims, barely containing his energy. "Outrageous!" He looks like he might burst into a rendition of "Circle of Life" at any moment.

Right on his heels, a girl glides past, her figure skater costume complete with faux ice skates slung over her shoulder. "If you think that's something," she says, catching bits of our impromptu huddle, "the bid for Rockefeller Center ice skating was through the roof!"

Stacy claps her hands in delight. "This is amazing! It's all going to such a good cause."

I'm about to agree when a snippet of conversation from behind us catches my ear. I casually turn and glimpse another date for the evening, decked out in what I can only assume is her best attempt at a Cinderella gown. She's giggling with her friend. "I just hope I find Mr. Right tonight," she says, a twinkle in her eye.

Her friend, dressed in a costume that's a cross between Sleeping Beauty and Maleficent—I can't quite decide—leans in closer, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You sound like a gold digger."

Without missing a beat, Cinderella throws her head back and laughs, "Well, maybe I am. And maybe tonight's my night!"

Hearing Cinderella's unabashed declaration and the laughter that follows sends a fresh wave of nerves coursing through me. It's one thing to be up for auction for a good cause; it's another entirely to navigate the murky waters of post-auction expectations.

"Does this mean there are going to be certain expectations with whatever guy ends up winning the bid for me?" I ask. The words feel heavy, loaded with implications I hadn't fully considered until now.

Stacy, quick to sense my growing unease, reassures me with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Oh, please, Al, this is a classy affair. It's not that kind of date." But then, a mischievous glint appears in her eye, the kind that usually precedes her most outrageous ideas. "Well, unless you want it to be," she teases, a sly smile playing on her lips.

I can't help but laugh, shaking my head at her audacity. "Stace, you're terrible," I say, though the humor in my voice betrays my faux indignation. It's hard to stay worried with Stacy around; her ability to lighten the mood is a testament to our years of friendship.

Stacy just shrugs, unrepentant. "Hey, there are worse guys to be going out with tonight. You've seen the crowd—tons of rich, eligible bachelors out there."

Her gaze sweeps over the room as if to punctuate her point before settling back on me.

"And let's be real, you could stand to spend a night out with a nice, handsome man instead of yet another evening in the kitchen perfecting your béarnaise sauce."

Stacy knows me too well; my penchant for losing myself in the kitchen—especially when life outside it feels too chaotic—is no secret.

"You may have a point," I concede.

Peeking through the curtain, I can't help but let out a low whistle at the sea of glamorous attendees. It's like stepping into a scene from one of those movies where everyone is impossibly beautiful, sipping ridiculously expensive champagne.

They're the kind of people I've only ever observed from the safety of my kitchen, cooking them dishes that cost more than my rent.

"Honestly, what would I even say to a guy like that? ‘So, how do you like your truffles? Shaved over gold leaf, or just straight out of the diamond-encrusted tin?'" I ask Stacy with sarcasm.

"Just smile and pretend you're having the time of your life," she advises, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "Besides, it's not like either of us would be able to afford a helicopter ride on our salaries. This might be your only shot to see New York from above without baking a cake for a billionaire's birthday party."

With a deep breath, I straighten up, adopting what I hope is a convincingly carefree smile. Stacy's right—this isn't just about the auction or a date; it's about stepping out of my comfort zone and trying something new. And if I get to soar over the city in a helicopter while doing it, who am I to complain?

But the part of me that's more comfortable wielding a spatula than engaging in small talk with the city's elite is seriously contemplating a tactical retreat. Just when the idea of bolting becomes dangerously appealing, however, it's my turn.

Stacy, sensing my last-second hesitation, locks eyes with me.

"You look insanely hot, Al," she assures me with the confidence of a general rallying her troops. "You've totally got this." Her words are the nudge I need, a reminder that I'm not just here to brave my social anxieties but to make a difference, however small it might seem.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I channel every ounce of courage I possess and step out from behind the safety of the curtain. I plaster on my biggest, most dazzling smile—the one I reserve for successfully executing a flawless dinner service on a Saturday night.

Think of the kids , I silently repeat to myself, turning it into a mantra.

And that's when I see him.