The Bachelor's Promise (Bachelor Auction) by Naima Simone

condescension.
    When he finally met her gaze, something dark flickered in his eyes before his aloof expression and shuttered stare revealed nothing. If not for that flash and the tiny, telltale tic along his chiseled jaw, she might’ve believed he was unaffected. Might.
    “Hey,” Chancey cooed, sidestepping John and swishing over toward the front door, where Aiden remained standing. “Can I help you?”
    Dear Lord . “What are you doing here?” Noelle asked.
    Just great. The last words she’d said to Aiden had been that she didn’t need his help. That she could take care of herself. And then the next time she saw him was in a flooded, water-damaged, funky apartment. At some point in her twenty-five-going-on-twenty-six years, she’d committed a mortal sin, and God was sticking it to her. Royally.
    “I came to see you,” he said, the bored tone still managing to convey the “obviously” he’d left unspoken. “What happened?” he repeated.
    “Mrs. Leonard happened,” Chancey explained, waving a hand toward the stained ceiling. “A very sweet lady, but she’s older and dementia is setting in. Which is why she probably mistook her sinks and toilet for drawers and stuffed panties, bras, scarves, and jewelry down them. So we’re flooded and homeless for at least two weeks. At least Noelle is.”
    Aiden’s attention jerked from Chancey to land back on Noelle with unnerving intensity. She fought not to fidget under the relentless weight of his inspection. Once more it lowered, scanning her bare legs, and her skin tingled.
    “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” she assured Chancey, her eyes focused on Aiden. She would be—because she had to be.
    Besides, this wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to move with little or no notice. Before moving in with Caroline, her father had dodged more than one landlord because he’d failed to pay rent. They hadn’t been strangers to sneaking out of an apartment in the middle of the night or even being escorted out by a sheriff after hurriedly packing whatever belongings they could carry in a car.
    “Where are you planning to go?” he pressed.
    She hiked her chin up. “A motel.”
    His eyes narrowed. “You have money for a long stay?”
    “I’ll. Be. Fine,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore Chancey and John, whose heads whipped back and forth between her and Aiden as if watching a Wimbledon championship match.
    Why did he care? He’d made it perfectly clear that he would have preferred if she’d never darkened Boston’s city limits. She’d meant every word Friday night; she could take care of herself. Except for those seven years living with Caroline—the only time of security she’d experienced—she’d done just that.
    Aiden stared at her, and she returned it, while all she wanted was to escape the scalpel-sharp scrutiny. After Caroline’s diagnosis and then death, and when Aiden sliced Noelle from his life with the skill of a surgeon, she would’ve prayed for him to notice her, to just look at her. Damn, she’d been so naïve. To be on the receiving end of his full attention was intimidating. Disquieting.
    She sighed, ready to call “uncle” and retreat like a coward, when he strode forward, the splashing of water punctuating each step. Her jaw honest-to-God dropped as he stalked past her and into the kitchen, his muscled arm brushing her shoulder. He halted in front of the boxes and suitcases she and Chancey had managed to hastily pack and stockpile in one of the only safe zones in the apartment.
    “These yours?”
    The question snapped her free of her shocked paralysis. “Why?” she blurted.
    “Because if we stay here much longer, we’re going to need hazmat suits. So, if possible, I’d like to make as few trips as possible to move your belongings. So are these yours?”
    “Yes,” she admitted, shifting forward and placing a protective hand on one of the cardboard boxes. “But I don’t need your help. I can pack my car