"Honestly, though," I told him, my voice winded. "The wet shirt look is totally working for you. You sure you want this dull, old dry one?"
Surprise filled his brown eyes before he gave a slow, hooded smile. Using the shirt we were both holding onto to rein me in closer, he lowered his voice. "Why, Eva Tinker Bell Mercer," he murmured, his tone a teasing scold. "Are you flirting with me?"
"What? No!" With a gulp, I realized—Good God—I was. How freaking mortifying. Letting go of the T-shirt, I jerked a step back. "Crap. I'm sorry."
"Why?" Disappointment filled his face. "I didn't say I minded."
"Yeah, but you . . . I . . . " I frowned, not remembering why flirting with him was such a bad idea again.
But he seemed to get it because his eyes filled with understanding. "You already have a boyfriend."
"Huh?" I shook my head. "No. What would make you think that?" When his gaze drifted down to my stomach, I cleared my throat. "Oh, right. That. Yeah, no. No, I'm definitely not . . . not at all. That guy's . . . an asshole." I waved out my hand to indicate that Alec was long gone until it struck me how strange I must look, blathering on like an idiot and flailing my hands around. I dropped my arms to my sides, feeling like Reese when she went into goofball mode.
"Five minutes 'til opening," Ten called from across the room.
Behind me, Mason muttered, "Shit."
Pick and I exchanged glances before we turned together to watch Mason curse as he tried to fit a fast pourer onto a bottle of rum.
"You okay over there, Lowe?" Pick asked.
Mumbling under his breath, Mason nodded as he shook spilled alcohol off his hands. He totally did not look okay.
"Hmm," Pick began before he tapped me on the arm with the shirt. "I'm going to go change. Be right back."
I nodded but kept my attention on Mason.
"What is wrong with you?" I asked as soon as Pick took off.
"Nothing," he snapped. "Damn it. I spilled some on my jeans." As he spread his arms and looked at the single wet spot on his thigh as if it were the end of the world, I arched an eyebrow. He was definitely not acting like normal Mason.
"Okay, something's going on. What is your deal?"
He shot me a glare just as Quinn approached the bar. "Man, are you as nervous about this auction tonight as I am?"
I turned curiously to the tall guy who reminded me of a teddy bear. Huge and bulky, but too cuddly to hurt a fly. Hmm, maybe he was more like Baby Daddy's Danny. "What auction?"
"It's nothing." Mason's bark told me the opposite.
"Dude, it is so not nothing." Ten slipped back onto the stool next to me as if I hadn't just shoved him off it five minutes ago. "Auction night is a guaranteed money-maker . . . that is, if the winner chooses you. And I'm getting fucking chosen tonight. There's no Gamble around to cock-block me."
"Wait. I'm confused." I turned to Quinn, since I had a feeling Mason would only bite my head off again if I asked him, and I really didn't feel like talking to Mr. Milk Tits. "What happens on auction night?"
"We get auctioned off," Quinn explained quietly, the look in his eyes telling me he did not look forward to that. "At least, one of us does. Whoever wins gets to pick whichever one of us she wants."
A familiar feeling of dread sunk heavily in my stomach, and this had nothing to do with the pineapple-sized kid living there. I glanced at Mason, but he refused to look my way. So I turned back to Quinn. "The winner picks you to do what, exactly?"
He shrugged. "I'm not really sure. Serve her all her drinks and pay attention to her and stuff, and stick around her all night. Ten said something about flirting, but . . . " He sent me an uneasy glance.
Spinning to Ten, I set my hands on my hips and glared. "Well, you can count Mason out. He's not selling his body for any reason."
Ten just stared at me. "Jesus, you make it sound like we're going to turn into a bunch of gigolos."
The very word made me bristle. I could only imagine what it did to Mason. But I refused to glance his way, in fear I'd somehow oust him.
"We act attentive, that's all," Ten continued. "We don't have to sleep with the chick, or kiss her, or hell, even touch her. Especially if she's dog ugly." Pointing at me, he turned to Mason. "I thought the dark-haired broad was your girlfriend. Not this one."
"She is," I spoke up, poking Ten in the arm. "But as the dark-haired broad's cousin and best friend, I know exactly what she'd say right now if she were here. And she'd say, no fucking way. Mason's not doing this."
"It doesn't fucking matter what you think, anyway," Ten shot back in the same pointed tone I'd just used. "Because the winner's going to choose me, not him. Pick," he called as Pick emerged from the hall, wearing Mason's shirt, which—sigh—was a little too loose on him. "Make this crazy preggo cool her damn jets, will you?"
"Hey, watch what you call her." Pick moved toward Ten as if he wanted to get into his face and have a serious showdown, but I grabbed his arm.