Chapter 76 Chapter 75
Harper POV
If there is a hell designed specifically for people who are trying very hard not to think about one particular boy, it looks exactly like a conference room with bad lighting and a long polished table.
And Logan Shaw sitting across from me.
I don’t look at him.
I’ve gotten very good at that in the last twenty-four hours.
I’m sitting straight-backed, legal pad open, pen in hand, doing my absolute best impression of a woman who has her life together and definitely did not have sex with the hockey captain twice and then get emotionally ghosted.
Beside me, Lila is flipping through the sponsor packet like she’s genuinely interested in font choices.
Across from us are three people from the fundraising committee and, at the head of the table, Daniel Myers and Richard Hargreeve—the lead sponsor, alumni donor, and the man who single-handedly turned our charity gala into a date auction instead of a silent auction.
I still don’t know whether to thank him or key his car.
Logan is two chairs down from me, leaning back like he owns oxygen, arms crossed, jaw tight.
He hasn’t said a word to me.
He hasn’t even looked at me.
Which somehow feels worse than if he were glaring.
Myers clears his throat. “Alright, let’s go over final logistics. The bidding order is set. We’ll have the team walk out individually, sorority presidents introduced, short speeches, then the auction begins.”
“Media coverage is confirmed,” Hargreeve adds. “Local news, campus press, alumni magazine.”
I nod, writing it down even though I already know.
Everything is going smoothly.
Which means it’s about to go terribly wrong.
Hargreeve’s gaze drifts between me and Logan.
He frowns.
Actually… he squints.
Then he leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I’m going to be blunt.”
Oh no.
“I’ve been in marketing for forty years,” he says. “And you two have the worst chemistry I’ve ever seen.”
Silence drops over the table.
My pen stills.
Myers blinks. “Sir?”
“You’re icy,” Hargreeve says, gesturing between us. “You won’t even look at each other. You’re supposed to be the centerpiece of this event.”
I finally glance up.
Logan is staring at the wall like it personally offended him.
“I don’t see the problem,” Myers says carefully.
“The problem,” Hargreeve says, “is that no one is going to bid on a date with either of you if you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
My stomach tightens.
“That’s not how auctions work,” one of the committee women says. “They’re bidding on the person.”
Hargreeve smiles like she just said something adorable. “People don’t buy things. They buy stories.”
His eyes lock on me.
Then Logan.
“Right now,” he says, “your story is cold. Uncomfortable. Awkward.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “With respect, Mr. Hargreeve, this isn’t a performance. We’re not—”
“—dating?” he finishes. “Yes. That’s obvious.”
Myers clears his throat again. “They’re just… professionals.”
Hargreeve snorts. “Professionals don’t look like they’re trying to avoid catching a disease from each other.”
Lila makes a very small choking sound.
I grip my pen harder.
Hargreeve leans forward. “Here’s what people want. They want to see fun. Chemistry. A good time. They want to think, ‘Oh, I want what that person had.’”
I get a bad feeling.
A very bad feeling.
“So,” he continues pleasantly, “you two should go on a date.”
The room goes completely silent.
I’m pretty sure my soul just left my body.
“I’m sorry—what?” I say.
Logan finally looks at him. “That’s not happening.”
Hargreeve ignores him.
“A public one,” he says. “Dinner. Something nice. Photos. Maybe a little press. People see you two together, relaxed, laughing, enjoying yourselves—suddenly you’re not just auction items. You’re proof of concept.”
I stare at him. “Isn’t the auction for people to bid to go on a date with us individually?”
“Exactly,” he says. “People always want what others have.”
Myers shifts in his seat. “Sir, I’m not sure forcing—”
“Not forcing,” Hargreeve says. “Suggesting.”
Logan lets out a short, humorless laugh. “No.”
Hargreeve turns to him. “Son, I’m the reason this event has triple the funding it did last year. You want the children’s hospital wing or not?”
Logan’s jaw tightens.
I feel sick.
I try again. “I don’t understand. What’s the point of us going on a date together?”
Hargreeve smiles like he’s been waiting for that.
“Because,” he says, “if the campus sweetheart and the hockey golden boy can have a great time together, everyone will want a piece of that.”
My stomach drops.
“That’s manipulative,” I say.
“That’s marketing.”
I glance at Logan.
He looks like he wants to put his fist through the wall.
Good.
At least I’m not alone in that.
“This is inappropriate,” Logan says. “We’re not—”
“—dating,” Hargreeve finishes again. “No. But you’re both adults. You can survive one dinner.”
I open my mouth to object.
Lila’s hand presses lightly against my knee under the table.
A warning.
A reminder.
This gala matters.
The charity matters.
The girls matter.
I hate this.
I really, really hate this.
Myers sighs. “Let’s not decide this right now.”
Hargreeve stands. “You should. Because if you want this auction to hit the numbers I promised the board, you need a narrative.”
He looks at me. “Miss Lane, you’re very good at selling ideas.”
Then he looks at Logan. “And you, son, are very good at being looked at.”
Logan’s eyes flick to me for half a second.
Then away.
“I’ll think about it,” Myers says diplomatically.
“Good,” Hargreeve replies. “Do that.”
He leaves.
The room exhales.
Myers rubs his face. “I am so sorry.”
“I’m not doing it,” Logan says immediately.
“Neither am I,” I say at the same time.
We both pause.
Then both look away again.
The rest of the meeting is a blur of scheduling and budgets and things I normally care deeply about.
Today, I can barely hear them.
Because all I can think is:
A date.
With Logan.
Public.
Staged.
A lie.
After everything.
When it finally ends, people start packing up.
I gather my papers quickly.
I do not look at him.
I can feel him there anyway.
“Harper.”
I freeze.
It’s the first time he’s said my name in two days.
I turn slowly.
“What?”
His jaw works like he’s choosing words he hates. “I’m not doing that.”
“Good,” I say. “Because neither am I.”
“Good,” he repeats.
We stand there, six feet apart, the air between us thick with everything we’re not saying.
Then Myers calls my name.
I turn away.
My heart is pounding way too hard for a meeting that’s already over.
As I walk out, one thought keeps looping in my head:
Of all the horrible ideas in the world…
This one is going to happen.
I can feel it.
And it’s going to be a disaster.