Page 1 of The Policeman Bidder
One
Junie
Itugatthehem of my dress for the fifth time in as many minutes, regretting every life decision that led me to this moment. The emerald silk clings like a desperate ex, revealing curves I usually hide under loose flannel and well-worn jeans. It was Leah's idea—both the dress and this entire ridiculous situation.
"Smile, Junie," my best friend hisses through her teeth, elbowing me gently in the ribs. "You look gorgeous. Like a sexy forest goddess who wandered into a fundraiser."
"I feel like a sacrificial tree nymph about to be auctioned off to a lumberjack," I mutter, pasting on the world's fakest smile. My cheeks already hurt, and we haven't even started the bidding yet.
The Hawks Roost charity auction is in full swing. String lights twinkle overhead in Town Hall like captive stars, and the townsfolk of Hawks Roost are buzzing like bees in a honeysuckle bush. It's all very charming, in a cozy, small-town way… if you're not the main event about to be bid on like a pie at the county fair.
"Remember why you're here," Leah whispers, her perfectly manicured hand squeezing my arm in what's supposed to be reassurance but feels more like a threat. "Just smile, look pretty, and think about all those kids who need your program."
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, focusing on the framed photos displayed on our little Roots & Wings table near the entrance. Smiling faces of children holding up earthworms like trophies. A group shot from our last creek cleanup, everyone knee-deep in water and joy.
Leah’s right. I'm here for one reason: Roots & Wings. That's all that matters.
I founded the nonprofit two years ago—the same week I got arrested, incidentally—and we desperately need more funds to keep our fall conservation camp running. Standing on a stage in heels I hate and pretending I'm not silently wishing for a fire drill or power outage is a small price to pay for that.
Speaking of fire…
The barn doors swing open, and Deputy Weston Carter walks in like he owns the place. The conversations around me dip momentarily before rising again with renewed energy. Fresh gossip fodder has arrived.
Damn, he fills out that uniform perfectly.Not that I'm looking. Or noticing how his tan shirt stretches across shoulders that could block out the sun. Or how the navy slacks hug thighscarved by the gods themselves. Or how that badge on his chest rests directly over the heart he allegedly has.
Nope. Not noticing any of that.
I shift my attention back to the silent auction table and pretend to be extremely interested in a ceramic rooster that could win awards for "Most Hideous Kitchen Decor." Anything to avoid eye contact with the man who single-handedly destroyed my faith in authority and ignited a rage that still burns deep in my chest two years later.
"He's looking at you," Leah whispers with the subtlety of a foghorn.
"He is not," I hiss back, not daring to check if she's right. "And I don't care if he is."
"You're a terrible liar, June Elizabeth Bloom."
I shoot her a glare that would wither most people, but Leah—who's known me since we shared grape juice boxes in kindergarten—just smirks knowingly.
We've crossed paths plenty sincethe incident. Small towns don't leave much room for clean breaks, especially when the town is barely four square miles of densely packed gossip and generations-old grudges. But I've made it a point to keep things polite, professional, and minimal. A nod here, a tight-lipped "evening, Officer" there. I'm not bitter—I'm principled.
He arrested me for chaining myself to a tree. The oldest sugar maple in Tennessee, if you're asking. Orwereasking. It's mulch now. Granger Development cut it down the same day, right after they peeled me off it. Two hundred and eighty-three years of history, gone in less than twenty minutes.
I didn't cry until I got home. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.
"Junie Bloom!" the auctioneer calls from the stage, his voice amplified by a microphone that squeals with feedback. "You ready to find yourself a date tonight?"
My stomach lurches like I've missed a step on a steep staircase. Leah gives me a little push.
"Break a leg," she whispers. "Or someone else's if they get handsy."
I swallow a groan and climb the few steps to the stage, cheeks burning hotter than a forest fire. My dress hugs all my curves—too well, if you ask me—and the heels Leah insisted on make me feel like I'm navigating a tightrope without a net. But I hold my head high. I'm not here to flirt. I'm not here to find love. I'm here to save a camp full of tree-hugging, soil-digging kids who deserve to know there's more to life than concrete and screens.
"Junie runs the wonderful Roots & Wings environmental program for our local youth," the auctioneer continues, adding with a wink to the crowd, "And as some of you may remember, she's quite committed to her cause!"
The audience titters with laughter, and I force my smile to stay in place. Yes, let's all reminisce about my arrest record right before asking people to bid money on me. Perfect.
"All right, folks, we're starting the bidding at fifty dollars!"
I scan the crowd, willing someone harmless to raise a paddle. Maybe Mr. Taylor, the seventy-year-old beekeeper who brings raw honey to every town meeting. Or that sweet accountant who brings compost cookies that taste way better than they sound.
