One

1

CARMEN

Normally after working lateat the grocery store, I leave with a coffee so I’m awake for the drive back.

But tonight I won’t be doing that, because I drop the coffee when I jump out of my skin.

I’ll get back to him later. Right now, I’m feeling too distraught about the spilled coffee to register the voice. Iced lattes cost a fortune these days.

And it’s this fucker’s fault for creeping up on me.

I tear myself away from the coffee before I get too attached. This man owes me six bucks for making me drop the one thing I can’t drive home late at night without.

“I get it. Now you’re too scared to show yourself, seeing as you’ve made a cranky woman drop her coffee. You owe me.”

“A person who gets angry over losing a few bucks is a person who is broke,” says the voice, with an Irish lilt.

“Excuse me?”

But I am carrying a weapon—steel-toe boots are deadly if you can kick a person’s face hard enough.

“Kindly fuck off and leave me alone.”

“You might want to use your manners.” A dark figure emerges from the fog, taking the shape of a man. One with iron-gray hair and eyes that are almost as black as the night.

Not.

“Kindly fuck off and leave me alone,please.”

“That attitude is exactly why you will always work in a grocery store.”

It’d be well worth my time to put this man in his place.

“Did you leave your good side back in Ireland? What is wrong with you?” I go to shoulder past him, but he grabs my arm instead and pushes me back.

“At”—I consult my watch—“precisely ten past midnight? I think I’m good.”

Of course, the man doesn’t take my word for it. He looks me up and down like I’m wearing a gown that costs more than my annual rent.

Is he not seeing the deadbeat grocery store uniform?

Where the fuck is he going with this

I turn over my shoulder and look at my workplace that’s now all closed up for the night. “I don’t know about that. There’s one hundred and fifty-two aisles inside, all of which have a width of about six feet.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Are we looking at the same person here? Eight hours ago, I threw my hair up into a bun without even looking in the mirror. God knows what state it’s in now.

Also, I might understand this gentleman’s comment if any cleavage was on show.

And hasn’t been for two years.

“Here.” The man digs into his pocket and produces a card. “Take this.”

I do as he says. At the end of the day, the more annoyed I get, the longer I draw this out. And I can’t afford to argue when the nanny who’s watching over Otis charges what feels like a hundred bucks a minute.

“Wait.”

Wasting time isn’t a luxury that single moms have.

“I’ll look at it later. I promise.”

“Antiques aren’t really my kinda thing.”

“Not that kind of auction.” The Irishman grabs me by the wrist and steers me back toward him. “Let’s just say it’s the kind of auction where you could go for a lot of money…”

“And who gets to keep the money? Assholes like you who make women drop their iced lattes in the dead of night?”

“I’ll consider it.”

A lie.

“You’ll never need to work a day in your life again.”

“The auction connects beautiful women like you to men with money. Men with lots of money. The majority of my patrons are millionaires.”

I stopped wasting my time with millionaires two years ago when one rudely walked out of my apartment the next morning and never said goodbye. Everything that came out Carter Trescott’s mouth was curated to get him laid.

And it worked.

“I’ll think about it.”

Another lie.

“Make sure you do. One night with the right man could change your life.”

But I suppose this could actually change my life. Since he’s talking mostly about money—not sex.

“One night?” I call back, finally on route to my car.

“With the right man you could retire at the age of twenty-five.”

That’s much better than the “beautiful” complement, because I’m twenty-eight.

“Give me a call. The auction is on Friday, two days from now.”

I turn around to check the rearview mirror, and I can no longer see the man.

It wouldn’t surprise me if this was all just a figment of my imagination. Times are desperate. When I’m not trying to balance two jobs, I’m pulling out teeth trying to get Otis to eat his vegetables.

Newborns make life hard.

I make a right at the end of the road and head back to the city. Of course, Otis and I aren’t rich enough to live in the heart of it all. The suburbs are fine, even though I often question our safety.

I feel like I’m being watched, but maybe that’s just maternal paranoia kicking in. I never thought I’d say this, but Carter Trescott was the best thing that ever happened to me. He gave me his sperm and helped me produce the most beautiful baby boy that this world has ever seen.

And this is a fact—strangers approach me in the street just to say how gorgeous he is.

A father that doesn’t even know Otis exists.

But it’s better this way. Simpler.

If Carter was involved in his life, I have no doubt he’d be teaching the two-year-old about the stock market, signing him up to online courses that promise a “head start” in life.

Otis doesn’t need a millionaire dad who would’ve probably ended up disappearing later down the line anyway. What he needs is stability.

He has more of a chance in life with one parent instead of two.

Arriving home, I shift the gear stick into neutral and activate the parking brake. The car is due a service, but I’m enjoying seeing how many miles I can drive before the cops eventually pull me over.

I unlock the door and wince as soon as I hear movement. Sadie greets me at the door and I place the cash in her palm, plus forty for the extra hour.

“I’m so sorry. I got caught up at work.”

Sadie stifles a yawn and turns it into a smile. “No stress. Otis has been fast asleep for hours.”

“I also need to make you aware that my hourly rate is going up.”

This might be worse than the spilled coffee.

I nod and hope that my “okay” doesn’t sound too morbid.

And guess who benefits?

Selfish bastards like Carter Trescott.

They have it all. The face, the house, the money, the likability. It would be generous if people like him could share their wealth with the rest of us.

But that’s the whole point—people like Carter stay at the top so that people are constantly looking up at them.

“I’m sorry,” Sadie says. “I know this isn’t what you wanna hear at this time…or any time. But it’s?—”

Sadie nods, grabs her things and hugs me goodbye.

She shuts the door behind her, but it feels more like a slam, shuddering my body. How the fuck am I supposed to fork out extra money?

Answer: The illegal auction happening Friday.

What other fucking choice do I have?

Begrudgingly, I take out the card and stare at it. Conrad O’Neill. He sounds like even more of an ass than Otis’s father.