1. A Pretty Pink Dick

1

A PRETTY PINK DICK

Maeve

Present day

Does this clutch look like a dick?

When I grabbed it from the back of my closet of thrift shop wonders this evening before racing out the door, it looked innocent enough for a fancy pants event. But now that I’m sitting demurely under a chandelier in an upscale ballroom in a historic mansion, I’m having second thoughts about my choice of accessory.

I want to ask Asher what he thinks of it—one of our regular questions for you— but he’s getting ready to parade around on stage so someone here can bid on a date with him.

Pretty sure I can make an executive call, though, about the clutch. It’s pink, shiny, and about seven inches long .

Yup. It’s definitely got dick energy, and I don’t want to look like I’m fondling it as I sneak another peek at my phone during this charity fundraising auction.

In my reserved seat in the front row, I surreptitiously slide my index finger along the sparkly satin material and snap it open in slow-mo, hoping no one notices me checking my phone again. There’s room for lipstick, too, in the clutch and a couple credit cards, so maybe people will think I’m just making sure my makeup is safe and my accounts are in good standing.

No one will see me sneaking a peek. No one, like, oh say, my big brother next to me. Or his wife next to him. Or, really, anyone at all.

Because…rude.

But in my defense, I’m waiting for an email about a life-changing job, and it’s supposed to arrive tonight. I peer around the packed ballroom. Every seat is taken this Thursday night in January, filled with perfumed, groomed, and coiffed humans eager to bid for dates with all the eligible hockey bachelors in the city.

Asher’s not due to strut his stuff yet. Miles Falcon is up next, so I can get away with one more look before it’s my best friend’s turn.

As Erin—the color commentator for the team’s games on The Sports Network—regales the audience on stage, I slowly slide out the corner of my phone. My agent told me she’d email this evening about a huge mural project she submitted my portfolio for weeks ago. I made it past the first round. She assured me the decision was coming tonight, and I was among the top three candidates.

“And now we have Miles Falcon, the accomplished center for the San Francisco Sea Dogs who dominates the faceoff,” Erin says into the mic, her confident and playful voice filling the room as she reads from an index card touting Miles’s hobbies like hiking mountain trails and playing a mean game of pool. “He also enjoys the thrill of urban treasure hunts. Get ready to bid high when it’s time—because a date with Miles Falcon will be an adventure!”

Well, with that kind of setup, no one is going to be looking at little old me.

As Miles crosses the stage, I slide a thumb over the screen and pray to the universe to deliver me my dream job at last. I’ve spent the last few years cobbling odd jobs together, trying desperately to make a living as an artist. Mostly, though, I’ve been making a living as a server at some high-end events, which thrills my aunt, who owns the catering company I work for, but it doesn’t thrill me.

When I glance at the screen, it mocks me with its nothingness, and the empty bars in the corner where my cell reception should be.

Who invented phones?

Shoulders slumping, I snap the clutch closed as my brother nudges me.

“Maeve. You can swipe right later,” Beckett whispers in my ear.

I shoot him a look. “I was not checking a dating app. Those things are dead to me,” I hiss.

They are so dead that I hosted a party with my girlfriends the other month to delete the hell out of the latest and last dating app I’d tried. It had delivered nothing but bad matches, like men who claimed dumpster dinners were a new life hack, or guys who asked me for pictures of my feet.

Screw apps. I’m a goddamn goddess. I deserve only top-tier matches.

Beckett glances down at the phone peeking out of the little purse, then back to my face, his gaze just shy of disappointed. He’s such a big brother. “Asher’s next,” he reminds me in case I forgot.

Which I didn’t.

“I know,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. “He’s the reason I’m here.”

My brother arches a brow. “Oh, so you are going to bid on him?”

I stare him down. “Yes, Beckett. I’m going to bid on a star athlete. With all my spare change. There’s actually a piggy bank inside here,” I say, patting the clutch. “Can’t wait to break it open.”

The coin in it, plus my catering gigs at my aunt Vivian’s company, add up to almost, maybe, possibly just enough to cover the rent each month.

I’m not here to bid. I’m here for one reason only—Asher Callahan worships at the altar of superstitions. He’s gone for the highest bid at the last two of these auctions while I’ve cheered him on from the front row, and he hasn’t missed a single hockey game in all that time. Now he claims I am the key, somehow, to his fundraising success and injury-free status on the ice.

Who am I to argue with someone’s quirks? I’ve got a suitcase full of my own. So here I am in the same chair, rooting for my bestie to go for top bucks.

As I set my hands on the clutch, I spot Asher offstage in the wings, looking polished in a three-piece, sapphire-blue suit I picked for him to wear tonight from his closet of custom clothes. The man makes this tailored choice look stunning. It hugs his muscles in all the right ways. Plus, that vest looks as good as I’d predicted.

Asher runs a hand through his thick, slightly unruly brown hair. His green eyes are movie-star-level mesmerizing. He spots me as he smooths his lapels, and he smirks, lifts a brow, then mouths , “Hey, good luck charm.”

I roll my eyes. “ You’re ridiculous,” I mouth back.

But I’m ridiculous, too, since I’m here, showing up for him as requested.

As Miles leaves the stage, Erin flips to the next card—this one for the final hockey star in this year’s auction. “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to meet the player who’s as golden as his stats! It’s our fan-favorite left winger—the fiery Asher Callahan !”

The crowd goes even wilder than before as Asher strides across the stage. Whispers of I’m going to bid so hard on him, and OMG, I want him land on my ears. A few seats away, a woman with jet-black hair and a spray tan points at him. She looks familiar. Maybe she’s the daughter of some San Francisco rich dude? Oh! I think she’s the one who’s launching a new beauty line. With a cool, confident air, she says something to the friend next to her.

Probably, I’ll win him, hands down.

More power to you, babe.

Erin introduces him. “When Asher’s not leading the charge on the rink, he’s a dedicated supporter of mental health initiatives, using his platform to make a positive impact.” Erin sings his praises, encouraging big bidding for charity. “But do you know why we call Asher fiery? The Vancouver-born winger is a hot sauce aficionado, constantly hunting for the hottest, most daring flavors to challenge his taste buds. So, if you’re up for an evening full of spice and excitement, raise a paddle for Asher when it’s time to place your bids…because a date with him is sure to sizzle! ”

Pride floods me at the intro—not the hot sauce part because whatever. The other part. With his megawatt smile and high profile, he’ll have no problem going for top dollar, with or without me.

Erin finishes Asher’s intro and says, “We’ll take a fifteen-minute break for you to prepare your bids now that you’ve seen all the entrants. Then, get ready to break the bank to support a good cause.”

I get ready to support a good cause too—my self-esteem. It’s time to find somewhere in this historic mansion with cell service. “Be right back,” I tell Beckett, gripping the clutch tightly.

“Good luck checking your matches. But remember, just because you think napping is an Olympic sport, it’s a bad idea to pick a guy who lists sleeping in as a hobby.”

“I told you,” I say, “I am not trolling for dates right now. Also, napping is an Olympic sport, and I am a gold medalist.”

Whirling away, I hustle my ass toward the door, weaving through the guests who pop up from their seats as they plan their bids. Women with cut-crease eyeshadow and glittery dresses. Men with sharp suits and fresh haircuts. The team raises a ton of money for charity at this annual event, with its eligible players entering each season.

I dart through the pretty crowd, the scent of seductive colognes and alluring body sprays nearly cloying—everyone is dressed to win a date with a pro athlete tonight.

My focus, though, is singular, and it has been for a long time.

Follow your dreams.

Those words are tattooed on my heart, and I’m putting them into action. After I escape the ballroom, I extract my phone and scurry down an opulent hallway, holding the device out in front of me like an offering to the technology gods.

Still no signal.

What about the ladies’ room? I pop inside, where a throng of women check their reflections. It’s a dead zone in here, too, so I retrace my steps and then march farther down the hall.

Don’t rich people need to communicate like the rest of us? Actually, come to think of it, they probably clap, and the universe delivers whatever they need on silver serving platters.

Frustration bubbles up inside me as I search for a room that’ll lead to, I dunno, maybe a window?

That’s it! All I need is a window.

I’m almost at the last door in the hallway when my phone flickers with a hint of a bar.

The door’s closed, which probably means I shouldn’t go in. There’s also a reserved sign hanging on it. Which is possibly a nice way of saying stay the hell out .

But reserved doesn’t necessarily mean off-limits. There’s room for interpretation, so I interpret.

Holding my breath, I gently push open the door that leads into…a library.

And it’s empty.

Well, it’s clearly not reserved now.

I shut the door most of the way, just in case anyone comes by, and take in the towering mahogany bookshelves filled to the brim with leather-bound tomes. They’re beautiful enough, but the real prize is in the corner.

“Come to me, you sexy window. Wait, no. I’ll go to you,” I say to the glass panes since now I evidently talk to windows.

I race across the library and stand under the towering window, phone held aloft. The first bar fills in. Hope floods my cells. Except…that’s barely enough service to send a text, let alone receive an email.

But if I were at the window level…

There’s a ladder positioned against the bookshelf right next to the window, and a grin takes over my face. That has to be a sign. I’m a painter, so ladders and I are tight.

I set the dick clutch on the marble floor, then give a quick glance at my vintage, rose-gold dress—1920s style but without the flapper fringe. I need a little more wiggle room, so I kick off my shoes, hike up the skirt, and climb the ladder attached to one of the bookshelves. I angle my phone toward the source of that elusive signal, trying to balance myself on the ladder rungs while holding the phone high.

The window is a foot or so away. If I can just stretch out my arm, my phone will receive emails like coins pouring into a leprechaun’s pot at the end of the rainbow. And I can surely reach a little farther. I’m limber. Hell, I’m almost a cat, thanks to the pole classes I take with my friends. This ladder’s practically a pole.

Like Belle in Beauty and the Beast , I lift my left foot up to get a little more reach, then stretch on my right.

A faint chime echoes through the library, breaking the silence with its sweet sound. That has to be my inbox.

My heart! It foxtrots.

My future is landing. I just know it. But right as I’m about to climb down, my heart tugs.

Only…that’s not my heart .

That’s the delicate lace bodice of this vintage dress caught on one of the protruding hooks on the ladder.

No, no, no, no .

I try to free the dress, but the hook stubbornly refuses to release its grip on the fabric.

Holding on tight to the ladder with one hand, I try to wiggle the lace with the hand that’s holding my phone. But footsteps creak in the hallway, growing louder. My heart speeds. Shit. I can’t be caught like this by mansion security. It might be embarrassing for Asher if his plus-one is discovered climbing ladders she shouldn’t be climbing, in libraries she shouldn’t be frequenting.

Are the owners going to slap me with a trespassing fine? Is that even a thing?

I don’t know, but my phone’s dangling from my fingertips in its protective case. I make a split-second decision and let it go. Right as it clatters to the marble floor, I hoist my boobs up, freeing the dress from the hook.

I am a superhero! I saved the dress and the phone and my ass.

I swing around the ladder like it’s a pole. It’ll be faster to jump than to climb down. I let go, bracing myself to land on my feet, when…

Oof!

My head snaps back as my dress snags on another hook. My feet hit the floor, and just as a loud rip echoes through the air, the door swings open and Asher walks in.

“I was looking for you. I’m almost up. I need my good luck charm.”

He stops, his smile vanishing when he sees me crouched on the marble floor, my pink zebra-print bra on full display thanks to my first-ever ripped bodice. This didn’t come in a fit of passion but rather a fit of desperation.

Asher’s green eyes widen, as if he’s never seen a person who’s been stripped by a ladder before and he doesn’t know what to say. But he has an auction to do, and I don’t want him to feel off-kilter.

I glance down at the phone case and back up at Asher. “Question for you—does this clutch look like a dick?”