Justine Davis - A Whole Lot of Love

“But you especially care, because of Pete.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. He fought down the silly notion that had been floating around in his mind for the past twenty-four hours, that somehow, if he did this, went so public with his support, it would put the seal on Pete’s fate, make it impossible to deny.

Bill left it until they were seated in his car. “How is he? Have you seen him lately?”

Ethan didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to remember. Ironic, he thought. But Bill was waiting, looking at him curiously, and he forced the words out.

“Last time I was there, he didn’t know me.”

He didn’t mention how long ago it had been. He wasn’t proud of how he’d cut and run, but he simply hadn’t been able to make himself go back.

“That’s rough,” Bill said in that sympathetic tone Ethan had learned to despise from anyone, a sympathy offered without any real understanding. He knew Bill genuinely felt bad for him; they’d been friends for nearly all their lives, since their families had moved to the same block. Although Bill was a year older, they’d gone to all the same schools. Bill was one of the few things in Ethan’s life that hadn’t changed, and he valued the relationship because of it. But Bill’s life had been blissfully devoid of misfortune, so he didn’t really understand.

“I know how much he meant to you,” Bill said.

“He’s not dead yet,” Ethan snapped, irked at Bill’s use of the past tense.

Bill pulled back. “Touchy today, aren’t you? I swear, you need to get yourself la—”

Ethan held up a hand before Bill could finish his prescription for his sex life. “If that was the answer to everything, the way you think it is, you’d be a full partner by now.”

He knew that would sufficiently distract Bill; his lack of progress in the law firm he worked for was enough to start him on a diatribe that would go on as long as his listener could stand it.

Ethan put on an expression of attentiveness, but he’d heard it all before, given Bill his opinion before, and didn’t see any point in doing it again when he knew his friend wouldn’t make a move until he was ready. So instead he sat silently, letting Bill run on, while his mind went…elsewhere.

By the time Bill dropped him off at home, Ethan had admitted to himself that he was quite looking forward to his next call from the persuasive Ms. Laraway. Even if he was still determined to say no.

“Do you do the auction itself?” Ethan asked.

He sounded merely curious, so Layla tamped down any suspicions that he might have a motive for asking. From the beginning, many of the men she called started asking questions about her part in the proceedings. It had taken Harry—gentle, tactful Harry—to explain to her that they wanted to be sure they got a look at her, after hearing her voice. He’d left it at that, but Layla knew perfectly well that he knew what generally happened after that. She’d been doing this for six years now, and some things never changed.

“No, we hire a pro to run the actual auction. Adds momentum.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Now, for your date, I highly recommend that you make it something you enjoy doing anyway. Makes the evening easier to get through if you for some reason don’t hit it off with your companion.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“No, most people have a great time. You already have something in common with your date, caring about Alzheimer’s research. There’s something very feel-good about doing it, I think. And having no romantic expectations helps everyone relax.”

“So, no matches made in heaven have come out of this?” he said wryly.

“Actually, a couple of relationships have grown out of it, but we haven’t had a wedding yet.”

“You’d have to be the maid of honor,” Ethan said. “Or matron.”

Layla’s tapping of her pencil on her notepad—a habit she’d never had until talking to this man—stopped. Was this some subtle probe to see if she was married?

Of course not, she told herself.

And this kind of silly speculation was unlike her. She made herself focus and leave the foolishness behind.

“Afraid I don’t do weddings, this auction is more than enough,” she said, purposely but cheerfully misunderstanding his intent. “Now, back to your arrangements.”

“What if it’s something you like, but your…companion hates?” he asked, seeming to let her change the subject easily enough.

“Then hopefully she won’t bid on you,” Layla said with a laugh; she was delighted that he still hadn’t said no. Each minute that she could keep that from happening upped the likelihood that it wouldn’t. And, she admitted, allowed her to keep talking to him. “Although I can’t vouch for the sanity of some women in the heat of bidding on an attractive man. Of course, we encourage that. It is all for a good cause, after all.”

“I appreciate your efforts and enthusiasm, Ms. Laraway, but I’m afraid most of your bidders would find what I’d come up with rather boring.”

He wanted to say no. He intended to say no. She sensed that. And she wasn’t sure why he hadn’t yet.

“You might be surprised,” she said. “Some people prefer…simpler things.”

“Like you? What’s your idea of the ideal evening?”

Listening to you talk. Then she sat up sharply, realizing with a little shock what she’d just thought. For the first time in her life she had an inkling of what the men she talked to were feeling. Quickly she pulled herself back together and went for the diversion.

“Sorry, I can’t bid. Conflict of interest and all.” As if she ever would, anyway… “Why don’t I send you a list of the ones I already have, so you can get an idea of what’s being offered, and you can go from there?”

He didn’t respond for a moment, and with an instinct honed fine in six years of this work, she knew he had reached the moment of decision. And that same instinct—augmented by a gut-level feeling she didn’t question—told her the time for ignoring his objections and reservations was gone. Told her that this was a man who would prefer honesty and forthrightness.

“Mr. Winslow, if you’ve seriously considered this and are still uncomfortable with it—in other words, if the benefit you see doesn’t outweigh your hesitation—just tell me and I’ll remove you from the list, and you won’t hear from me again.”

Again there was a brief silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, “I’ll do it.”

This time it was she who hesitated. Odd, she thought; she was usually eager to jump in and cement the concession. “You’re sure?” she asked instead.

“I said I’ll do it.” He sounded the tiniest bit cranky, as if now that he’d made the decision, he didn’t want it questioned. “Send me that info you mentioned.”

“I will. Right away.” And then, recovering her inexplicably shaken poise, she added, “Thank you, Mr. Winslow.”

“If I’m going to sacrifice my body for the cause,” he said dryly, “the least you can do is call me Ethan.”

“All right. Ethan.”

It felt strange to even say. And not until she had did she realize she’d been avoiding using his first name even in her thoughts, despite the easy familiarity they’d achieved in their phone calls.

She managed a polite goodbye, hung up, picked up her pen and added Ethan Winslow’s name to her list.

And wondered where her usual sense of accomplishment was.

Layla made a last-minute check in the mirror. Her long black dress was the best she had, the small but lovely diamond necklace and earrings her father had given to her sparkled, her makeup was perfect and her hair was tidily tucked into its French twist. Nothing could change the basics she had to work with, but she’d dressed up the dandelion as best she could.