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"Henry, why aren't you dressed yet?"
"Hello to you, too," Hank said with a roll of his eyes as he slipped inside the dressing room.
The dressing room was small, barely able to fit a faded privacy partition and a small wooden desk presently besieged by an array of colorful ties that Evan rifled through. He held each one up to the light and then against his suit jacket as he hemmed and hawed, sparing his brother only a passing glance as Hank shut the door behind him, but it was enough time for him to shoot Hank a disapproving frown before returning to his task.
"The auction starts in like twenty minutes, Henry." Evan forcefully undid the tie around his neck, throwing it down on the desk. "This is too important an event for you not to take seriously."
"I didn't know you felt so strongly about raising funds for the clinic, Evan. That's actually very thoughtful of you," Divya said, leaning against the wall and sharing a look with Hank as she drew the last few words out.
Evan paused slightly, selecting a new tie from the desk as he absently replied, "Oh yeah, the clinic, great, great cause. Which color do you think? The mauve or the lilac?"
"He doesn't care about the clinic so much as he cares about the publicity it'll bring HankMed," Hank said, setting his medical bag down on the desk, uncaring as ties crumpled beneath it, and ignoring Evan's protests at said crumpling. "Notice how he doesn't care that I'm running late because I was helping a patient."
"Why can't I care about both?" Evan asked, throwing his arms up in the air, a motion which caused both ties to smack him in the face. "It's not my fault that you don't understand business, Hank. Publicity is good. We are trying to build a book of clients here, remember? And besides, I know the patient is fine, you texted as much like a forever ago."
"I texted like fifteen minutes ago—and no, not today, we're not. Today we are trying to raise money for the clinic, not peddle HankMed contracts," Hank said, stepping forward to tug one of the ties out of Evan's hands. "Just wear this one, you idiot. Here, hold still."
"I actually think we should go with the mauve," Evan tried to object, vainly attempting to bat Hank's hands away. "And why can't we support the clinic and sign new HankMed contracts? It's literally a win-win."
Hank ignored his brother, throwing the tie around his neck and expertly evading Evan's attempts to stop him with the ease born out of years of putting up with the younger Lawson's shenanigans.
"The lilac one is fine, Evan, stop fighting and let Hank tie it," Divya laughed, tapping away on her phone as the Lawsons struggled.
"It needs to be perfect," Evan complained, the fight draining from his limbs as he conceded defeat, casting his eyes towards the ceiling in a silent plea for help that went unanswered.
"I hardly see why it matters," Divya teased, tongue between her teeth as she stepped closer, surveying Evan's outfit with a critical eye. "It's not as though anybody actually wants to go on a date with you under normal circumstances, much less be willing to pay to go to dinner with you."
Evan sputtered, starting to spin around to face Divya, but Hank jerked him back into place as he finished knotting the tie with more force than strictly necessary.
"Easy there, Henry," Evan complained, pushing Hank away, and this time Hank let him, rocking back on his heels as Evan escaped his clutches.
Evan smoothed a hand over the tie as he turned to look at himself in the small mirror that hung above the desk, eyes narrowed as he took in Hank's handiwork. He tilted his head to the side, twisted to the right, and then to the left as he considered his reflection. For a moment, Hank thought he might tear the article off and start this whole thing over again, but instead Evan just sniffed and thumbed at his nose, apparently satisfied with the ensemble.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Divya. I'll obviously be fetching the highest bid tonight."
Behind Evan's back, Divya met Hank's eyes, and they both burst into laughter as one.
"Laugh it up," Evan grumbled, grabbing a bottle of gel from his bag underneath the desk and applying a liberal amount to his palm before returning to the mirror to fuss with his hair. "We'll see who gets the last laugh when I'm sipping champagne with a rich heiress on her yacht."
"You'll bid on him when nobody else does, right?" Hank asked Divya in a loud faux whisper as Evan combed his fingers through his hair. "You can take it out of petty cash."
"You don't even know what petty cash is," Evan snapped, whirling around to narrow his eyes at Hank.
"Don't worry, I came prepared," Divya promised. "How does $50 sound?"
"Far too high."
"Ha ha, you are both so funny," Evan said, picking his hat off the desk and gingerly placing it on top of his carefully styled hair, looking from side to side before making another small adjustment. "Save your money, Divya. You'll need it to make sure somebody bids on Hank. I mean, just look at what he's wearing. You're embarrassing me, Henry."
"I hate to admit it, but he has a point. It really isn't the ideal outfit for this sort of event," Divya agreed as she looked over Hank's khakis and polo, nose wrinkling not unkindly.
"Thanks, I know, " Hank said dryly, much to Divya's amusement. "Jill is bringing me something to wear. She had very strict instructions that I was not allowed to pick out my outfit."
"A wise decision," Divya said, nodding.
"Hey—"
He didn't have time to make any objections—there was a knock on the door, and Jill strode in without waiting for a reply. Her heels clicked on the linoleum floor, a dark red hue that matched her dress perfectly. A navy blazer completed the outfit, making the teal garments draped over her arm stand out starkly as she closed the door.
"What was that, you didn't even give us time to respond! What if I were in the middle of changing?" Evan demanded, clutching a hand over his heart as Jill stepped up to Divya's side.
"I heard you three laughing and chatting away, so I figured it was safe to enter. Besides, given how you like to barge into rooms without caring about privacy, I don't exactly think you're in the position to lecture me," Jill said breezily, giving Divya a one-armed hug as Evan sputtered.
"For you," Jill added, holding the teal clothes out to Hank as they all ignored Evan.
"Scrubs?" Hank asked, recognizing the outfit before the handoff was complete, the smooth material of the scrubs cool in the summer heat, "We're really playing up the doctor angle then, huh?"
"Naturally, Dr. Lawson," Jill said, her eyes sparkling with a mischief that didn't bode well for Hank.
"Right well, I'll just—" Hank said, only slightly suspicious as he motioned towards the partition before dipping behind it to get dressed.
"Good crowd gathered yet?" Divya asked, her voice floating around the partition as Hank ducked out of sight.
"Yes, the hall is almost full," Jill said, the relief palpable in her tone. "So hopefully, we'll have a good fundraiser tonight."
"Evan thinks he will fetch the highest bid."
"It's certainly an aspiration."
"It could happen!" Evan insisted.
"Of course," Jill placated. "No matter what, though, I appreciate you all helping out with the fundraiser."
"Anything for charity," Evan said, which drew a snort from Hank.
He was half into the scrubs, struggling a little as he listened to the conversation on the other side of the partition. He wondered if these were the only pair Jill had grabbed from the hospital because they seemed to be a size too small.
"You mean anything for an excuse to dress up like a painted peacock," Divya corrected.
"I don't have to stand around and take this abuse," Evan declared, and there was the sound of quick footsteps and the door wrenching open.
"You're the fifth bachelor," Jill called after his dramatic brother. "You can wait behind my brother by the curtain."
"Um, Jill? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but these scrubs are the wrong size," Hank said as he finished wrestling the shirt into place, the sound of Evan slamming the door almost drowning the words out.
He managed to squeeze into the scrubs, but his earlier concerns proved correct—they were indeed a size too small. The shirt clung to his arms and chest, and the material stretched thin over his ass and thighs, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
"I know what size you are, Hank," Jill said as he emerged from behind the partition, her lips twitching as though he were the ridiculous one. "I grabbed the right scrubs."
"Did you?" Hank asked, tugging on the sleeve in a vain effort to peel it away from his skin.
"You're not going into the operating room, Hank," Jill reminded him wryly, stepping forward to assess the outfit.
Jill turned him around as Hank sputtered, and he could feel her appreciative gaze sweep across his ass. In the mirror, he saw Divya press a hand against her mouth to muffle laughter.
"…right," Hank said, because right, of course, he wasn't here to help run an understaffed ER, he was here to entice people to donate money. Divya didn't even bother to try smothering her next round of laughter as he turned back to face the women.
"Yeah, those fit just as I knew they would. You," Jill said, grinning as she wagged a finger at him, "you might fetch the highest bid tonight."
"Because I look like I stepped off the set of a low-budget Grey's Anatomy knockoff, possibly one X-rated?" Hank asked, looking in the mirror.
The scrubs did make his ass look great, he would give her that.
"It's not that bad, it still has the veneer of respectability," Jill dismissed.
"Oh well, at least there's the veneer of respectability," Hank echoed, then winced at how flirtatiously it came out.
Jill heard it too, her smile small as she stepped away. "Of course, wouldn't want to do anything that would harm your reputation, Dr. Lawson. Anyway, I'd better get back out there, got a few more items to take care of before the auction starts here in—shit, five minutes."
"Of course," Hank said as Jill turned away, opening the door to leave.
"And Hank—thanks again for, you know, helping out and volunteering for this thing. I know it's kind of silly but—"
"Anytime," Hank said, waving her thanks away. "You know I'm always happy to help the clinic."
"Right, well, accept my thanks regardless. You're on after Evan."
"I'll be right out," Hank said, inclining his head as she slipped out the door.
Divya's gaze flickered from the door to Hank, her eyes crinkling kindly.
"That was a bit awkward," she whispered, stepping closer to Hank and smoothing out a crease in the scrubs along his shoulder.
"No, it's fine," Hank dismissed, turning to the mirror. "We're fine."
"I know it's just—" in the mirror, Divya's image wrinkled her nose.
"It's not even the worst breakup I've had this year," Hank assured her with a laugh. "And I don't know if you can even really call this one a breakup with Charlie back in town and not putting labels on things before that. It's fine. Jill's a good friend, and I'm glad to help."
"If you say so," Divya allowed, letting the subject drop. "Here, let's fix your hair before we throw you to the sharks."
"I appreciate it," Hank said, sitting on the edge of the desk as Divya dug out Evan's hair gel and applied a small amount to her palm before stepping forward to mess with his hair.
"With that outfit, you are sure to fetch a pretty penny more than Evan," Divya said, clearly trying to lighten the mood as she fussed with his curls.
"As long as we raise a decent amount for the clinic. Although I won't lie, it'll do my pride some good if I get a higher bid than him."
"I can't imagine anyone wanting to bid on Evan," Divya said, stepping back to survey her work. "I'm still not convinced I won't have to swoop in and rescue him. Oh, I think they're about to start. Come on, let's get you backstage."
The hall was packed by the time Boris arrived. The auction had started only a few moments earlier, the crowd's attention grabbed by Jill's pre-auction announcement and the start of the festivities; as such, nobody noticed Boris and his team slip inside. He chose a seat near the entrance, his back to the wall and angled to watch both the stage and monitor the crowd. It didn't provide the best vantage point for appreciating the stage's occupants, and Boris refused to dwell on why that annoyed him. Boris sipped his champagne as the first bachelor, a doctor from Hampton's Heritage, flaunted around the stage in what was hardly an inspiring manner.
Boris took another sip of champagne as his eyes fell to the auction pamphlet in his hands. The front page walked through the clinic and its mission, which Boris bypassed to glance inside at the list of bachelors. The auction's rules were detailed across the inner front page (legal disclaimers, acceptable date activities, expected date length, and so on), but his eyes were drawn to the image near the front of the lineup where Hank Lawson's face could be found smiling up at him.
Dr. Henry "Hank" Lawson, the caption read, Hampton's latest concierge doctor. When he's not too busy saving lives, Dr Lawson enjoys running on the beach and good conversation.
Boris raised an eyebrow at the lackluster description. In his mind, he saw Hank's chin held high before the Gardners, eyes radiating bright in the New York apartment, the press of his mouth in the quiet of the lower bank vaults. How one could distill that into the paltry description here was unfathomable. It was dangerous to let his mind wander back to that trip to New York, to the folder Dieter delivered to the good doctor just a few hours before this very event, to the intensity of Hank Lawson and all his foolish, dangerous convictions (to all his pretty smiles and those nice, toned legs leading to a firm ass that Boris most certainly did not stare at from the window of his second-floor study as Hank embarked on his daily runs—)
Boris crossed his legs, evaluating the crowd to force his attention back to the present.
It was an impressive turnout.
While the majority of the crowd appeared to be medical (local healthcare workers, a splattering of doctors from the city, Hampton Heritage's own staff), there was a not-insubstantial subset of the crowd that belonged to those who ran in Boris's circle—bankers, hedge fund managers, various members of the older Hampton elites. Boris was wholly unsurprised to find Elizabeth Newberg among the gathered, sitting one table removed from his own. He had chosen his seat for its strategic vantage point, but he would be lying if he hadn't considered the proximity to Newberg advantageous. He had no doubt that her colorful commentary would prove as entertaining as it would be constructive over the course of the evening.
"Divya, darling, you must join us."
Speaking of.
Boris glanced over at Newberg's loud invitation to see Divya Katdare walking with her head bowed and pace rapid as she slipped into the auction hall. Divya glanced up at Newberg's call and smiled.
"Mrs. Newberg, I'm so glad you could make it," Divya said, dropping her purse onto the table as she greeted Newberg with a kiss on the cheek.
"Of course, darling, anything for HankMed. Not that I would dare turn down a chance to attend a charity bachelor auction." Newberg took a sip of her champagne as she looked at the stage before glancing back at Divya, wiggling her eyebrows.
That drew a laugh from Divya, who shook her head as she turned to greet the others at the table, accepting the glass of champagne that Newberg passed her.
"Tucker, Libby," Divya said, her voice warm but with the undercurrent of disapproval. "I'm entirely certain that the auction rules state you must be eighteen or older."
"To bid on a date," Tucker agreed, back perfectly straight as he winked at Libby. "But there's nothing in the rules barring us from attending or giving a general donation."
"Uh-huh," Divya drew the word out as she took a sip from her flute.
"Oh, let them have their fun," Newberg dismissed with a wave of her hand, eyes flickering over the crowd. Her expression was disinterested, the grip on her champagne irreverent. To anybody else, she would appear bored, but Boris knew she was carefully cataloging each bid. "It's all for a good cause, after all."
"I'm glad that Jill was able to get such a nice hall," Libby said, glancing around the room. "I think we've come to a few antique auctions here before."
"Jill's brother knows the owner, apparently they owe him a favor."
A round of applause rose from the crowd, and Newberg hushed her companions with a frantic flapping of her hand, looking down at the pamphlet in front of her.
"Quiet everyone, I think Evan's on next."
"They let Evan participate? I thought the idea of this thing was to raise money." Tucker raised an eyebrow as the last bachelor walked off stage to polite applause.
"They did, against my better judgment, I might add," Divya drawled to the amusement of both teenagers.
"Oh, hush, all three of you," Newberg tsked, eyes fixed on the stage. "He's sure to get a good price. He's handsome, young, virile—"
Libby burst into giggles as Tucker visibly refrained from shuddering, his face pinched.
"Which all falls apart the moment he opens his mouth," Divya said.
"Oh, darling, you act as though that mouth isn't a large part of the appeal. It's hardly as though anybody expects him to talk."
Libby's giggles gained an edge of hysteria at this. She muffled her laughter into Tucker's shoulder, as her boyfriend sputtered and Divya choked on her drink.
"Mrs. Newberg, not in front of Tucker and Libby," Divya chastised, coughing as she tried to regain her composure, but she couldn't hold back a grin as she turned her head to clear her throat.
"Nonsense, they're seventeen. Surely you remember being seventeen," Newberg dismissed as Evan Lawson flounced onto the stage.
Boris spared half a glance at the younger Lawson. He didn't look terribly different from normal, his gray suit and pastel accessories cheap and off-brand, accented by that terrible hat he always inflicted upon the public. He certainly wasn't unattractive, Boris could concede in the privacy of his own mind, if you were willing to overlook or were blissfully unaware of how obnoxious the man could be. He may be inclined to be less unforgiving of Evan's arrogance had it not led him to stumble upon the shark and all the headache that came with that discovery. (Even if it had granted Boris the opportunity to see Hank with outrage burning bright in his eyes, nostrils flared, a kitten that thought itself a tiger. The sight also came with the very real threat of Hank leaving, however, so Boris wasn't inclined to be charitable.)
Evan twirled about on stage, twisting this way and that, much to the amusement of the crowd, not unlike the peacock his clothing emulated. Jill's face twitched at his theatrics, her fingers flexing at her side before she crossed her arms as Evan turned dramatically from side to side as though he were modeling.
"Let's start the bidding at two hundred," the auctioneer said, the words echoing slightly as she leaned into the microphone, unfazed by Evan's erratic movements. "Do I hear two—"
A paddle raised, a model that Boris vaguely recognized starting the bidding off, much to Evan's delight.
"Two hundred in the front here, do I hear—"
"Three hundred!" Someone in the back shouted, Evan giving an exaggerated spin and flexing his arms as though that would spur further excitement.
In front of him, Tucker made a gagging sound.
"Three hundred, do I hear three fifty? Three fifty to the woman in the red hat, do I hear four—"
Newberg raised her paddle. "Six hundred!"
"Mrs. Newberg!" Divya objected, trying to sound scandalized as Evan's peacocking stuttered as he turned to face his newest bidder and found Newberg. His expression froze, eyes flickering to the earlier model, then back to Newberg.
"It's all for the cause, dear," Newberg insisted with a wink, taking another sip of champagne as she gave Evan a little wave. “And the clinic too, of course."
Boris's lips threaten to twitch at the scandalized noise Tucker made in reaction to the words, taking a sip from his own champagne to force the expression back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Libby raise her head from Tucker's shoulder.
"I mean, he really isn't that bad looking—"
"Libby!"
"I don't get it," Divya clicked her tongue as Tess Frimoli, the retired ballerina, joined in the bidding. "I swear if he gets the highest bid tonight, we'll never hear the end of it."
"It's great for Jill and the clinic, though," Libby pointed out as the bid rose to eight hundred.
"Of course, but I'm the one who will have to listen to the gloating for the next year," Divya drawled with a sigh as she flipped through the auction pamphlet.
"Hank will fetch a higher price," Newberg said, the words spoken with absolute authority as she raised her paddle, "everyone loves a doctor with a sad backstory and strong, steady hands. A thousand!"
"I think I regret attending now," Tucker sighed. "Are you just trying to drive up the price or do you honestly want to win?"
Newberg merely smiled, waving down a member of the waitstaff for another drink.
"This is going to go straight to his head and make him even more insufferable than normal," Divya groaned, finishing her drink in one long go and letting Newberg get her another.
Boris was inclined to agree, particularly as Frimoli and the model went back and forth as they met Newberg's bid and went higher. Evan's head bounced between the two like an overly excited spaniel, rocking on the balls of his feet.
"We have twelve hundred, do I hear thirteen hundred? Thirteen hundred anyone? No? We have twelve hundred then, twelve hundred going once . . . going twice—"
Tucker narrowed his eyes at Newberg, who passed a fresh flute of champagne to Divya and laughed at the teenager's scrutiny.
"I think I ought to let the young one enjoy her victory this time," Newberg said with a put-upon sigh, crossing her legs and smoothing out creases in the fabric of her dress. "Besides, it's not like I don't know where Evan lives."
Boris huffed slightly at her deliberate tease as the auctioneer finalized Frimoli's bid, reminding her that she could check in with Evan and discuss logistics after the auction. On stage, Evan joined in the clapping, throwing a wink at his date.
"Twelve hundred dollars to go on a date with Evan," Divya repeated, shaking her head in disbelief as Evan took off his hat and dipped into an exaggerated bow before blowing a kiss at the crowd. "Unbelievable. He's going to be insufferable."
"Isn't that the largest bid so far?" Libby asked.
"He's only the fourth bachelor," Newberg said, "that's nothing, just wait and see."
At the opposite end of the stage, Jill Casey stepped up to a microphone, gently squeezing Evan's shoulder as he walked by. She had a pamphlet tucked under her arm, which she pulled out more in habit than actual need to check the lineup. Boris didn't need to check his own program to know who was coming on stage next, shifting in his seat as he watched Evan disappear behind the curtain.
"All right, up next we have Dr. Hank Lawson," Jill leaned into the microphone to announce, glancing over her shoulder with a warm, encouraging smile. "Hank is the Hampton's newest concierge doctor, and when he's not too busy saving lives, you can find him running on the beaches or on one of the East Coast's many hiking trails."
Boris had leaned forward without realizing it, hand stretched out across the table, when Hank stepped out from around the curtain, wearing . . . scrubs.
They'd put him in scrubs.
Which. Naturally. For such an event, it was an appropriate clothing choice. Jill Casey was nothing if not a shrewd, intelligent woman. Professional, well-dressed bachelors were likely to draw in more money. The public's affinity for healthcare workers, particularly doctors, coupled with the propensity for scrub materials to stretch over the curvature of the wearer's body, made it the ideal ensemble to elicit higher bids.
And the scrubs certainly did their job, stretching over the curvature of Hank Lawson's body very well. A cheer rose in the crowd as Hank strode to the front of the stage with a sure, steady gait that betrayed quiet confidence without any of the pomp and circumstance that his brother employed. The scrubs protested each step, stretching obscenely across his thighs and shoulders before he came to a halt just at the stage's edge. He was smiling, shaking his head at something Jill hissed after him that drew a round of laughter from those close enough to hear it. Boris distantly registered the mirth, eyes fixed on the faint wisp of dark curls visible thanks to the V-cut of the scrubs just below Hank's exposed collarbone. Hank crossed his arms, biceps straining against the tight material and drawing attention to his bare forearms as the auctioneer's voice boomed across the hall, taking over as Jill took a step back, hands clasping behind her back.
"Alright, let's start the bidding at—"
"Five hundred!" Claire Grant sat near the front, but her profile and voice were unmistakable as she raised a paddle.
"Six hundred!" her sister immediately countered.
Claire's playful gasp was accompanied by a light swat to Lois's shoulder, which Lois dodged as Arlo called out: "Seven hundred!"
Hank recognized his former patients, his smile genuine and warm. There was the faint flush on his ears that betrayed he wasn't entirely comfortable with all the attention, but he stood straight and tall, broadcasting a confident humility as he shifted on his feet, the scrubs bunching in all the right places. Boris cleared his throat, reaching for his champagne.
"Eight hundred!"
"Is that Allison?" Divya asked, craning her neck and giving a little wave as she spotted the chef.
"Oh, yes, she owns that little Italian place, doesn't she? I love their carbonara," Newberg said, the words absent-minded as she fanned herself with the auction paddle, gaze fixed on Hank. "Which one of you lovely ladies do I have to thank for putting Hank in that getup?"
"One thousand!"
"Tucker!" Divya scolded, reaching out to snatch the paddle from the boy's hand as he raised it, half standing from his seat with a smug, sly smirk.
"Sit down, you're seventeen!" Hank shouted, pointing accusingly at Tucker as Jill snorted, spinning on her heel to try and disguise the lapse as a cough while the crowd roared at Tucker's cheek and Hank's playful response.
"Twelve hundred!" Newberg smoothly threw out, graciously saving the auctioneer from having to address Tucker's interruption.
"Two thousand!"
"Two thousand, I have two thousand from the gentleman in the green, do I hear—"
Excited shouts followed the latest bid, everyone turning in their seats, but Boris remained rooted in his chair, watching Hank's incredulous expression at the abrupt climb. He half-turned to glance at Jill, who had composed herself enough to shrug in encouragement. If Hank was hoping for more support, he certainly wasn't going to find any there. Jill's delight at the bids was clearly written across her face as she turned away from Hank, staring out at the crowd with her arms crossed, not unlike a proud farmer surveying a bountiful yield. Hank didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing as he turned his disbelieving attention back to the auction.
"Ah, it was Jill's idea," Newberg mused, because nothing escaped her hawk-like gaze.
"Oh, the scrubs? Yes," Divya confirmed, not that Newberg needed her to.
"Hm, and Charlie is still in town, isn't he? Well, you know what they say about one person's loss—twenty-five hundred!" The words were flippant as Newberg threw her paddle back into the air.
Hank's attention may have returned to the audience, but he still stood with his back half to the crowd, which gave a glorious view of how the scrubs clung to his full, firm ass, a second skin that hid absolutely nothing. Boris realized he was clenching his jaw, and he forced the muscles to relax as the rest of the hall also took notice of the advantage Hank's new position granted them.
"Three thousand!"
Ahead of him, Tucker oohed as Libby twisted around, not even trying to temper her curiosity, to see who threw out the latest bid.
"I don't know her—" Libby started to say, raising her voice to be heard over the increasingly boisterous crowd.
Boris needn't canvas the seats for the latest bidder—he recognized the voice immediately: April, the model from earlier that summer. Hank recognized her, too, as he shook his head in disbelief at the number, but his overall expression was still warm and friendly as he raised his eyebrows at April.
"It's been over a month!" April shouted, which was nonsense to most of the crowd.
It might have been nonsense to Boris too if he hadn't kept such a careful eye on his latest concierge doctor. One of the earliest reports his team had sent on Hank Lawson included the conversation April and the good doctor had outside his hotel; how Hank had brought up nightingale syndrome and steered April's affections away. A month, Hank had insisted, give it a month and see if you feel the same.
On stage, Hank laughed, shaking his head slightly as he acknowledged that, yes, she had followed his instructions and by his own rules he could hold no objections to her bidding. Boris took a sip of champagne, leaning back, not to check on April, of course, but it did bring her into his line of sight. She was sitting at a table close to the stage, one over from the Grants. Her dress, a brilliant golden hue that accentuated her features along with its plunging sweetheart neckline, shone in the limited lighting as she batted long eyelashes up at Hank, sitting at an angle so her face was visible to most of the room.
"Four thousand!" That might have been the chef again, but before—
"Five thousand!" April's counter was calm.
"Six!" A male voice from somewhere in the far right, but it hardly mattered who because—
"Seven thousand." April was undeterred.
"Eight—"
April didn't let the next bidder finish: "Ten thousand."
The hall was vibrating, attendees leaning over themselves to look between April and her challengers; at Newberg's table, Libby was clinging to Tucker's arm, giggling madly as she enjoyed the chaos, Tucker joining in her laughter at the sight of Hank's disbelieving face. Hank tried to catch Divya's eye, but she was too busy laughing, one hand pressed over her mouth, to be of much help. Mrs. Newberg lifted her glass to him, wiggling her eyebrows, and offered nothing to assuage his incredulity.
Hank, too distracted looking for support in his usual companions, didn't see Boris sitting right behind them.
"I have ten thousand, do I hear eleven, eleven thousand—?" The auctioneer's voice was barely audible above the racket.
April's smile was dazzling as she winked at Hank, taking a delicate sip of her drink.
"Ten thousand going once, going—"
"Twenty-five."
A collective gasp rose, the hall falling silent as they turned as one to fix their gazes on Boris.
Boris sipped his champagne, calmly keeping his sight fixed on Hank. Hank's mouth parted in shock as hazel eyes met his, and what a sight that was—the open surprise on his ever expressive face, the ripples of genuine delight at finding Boris sitting there mingling with the disbelief at the number he'd casually thrown out. That sight alone made his reckless bid worth suffering all the gossip that would no doubt feature in tomorrow's society pages.
That's far too much could be plainly seen in Hank's expression, even as his eyes shone brightly, a smile tilting on his lips.
Boris raised an eyebrow in challenge: no, it wasn't.
He'd pay more, far more, if required. He didn't allow his mind to dwell on just how much he was willing to pay, how far he would go if pushed, quelling the train of thought ruthlessly. On stage, Hank laughed, a quick exhale of air as fondness edged out disbelief, the redness that had bloomed gradually throughout the event spilling down his face and into his neck, drawing attention to his exposed collarbone.
"Twenty-five thousand, we have twenty-five thousand. Do I hear twenty-six? Twenty-six thousand?"
Boris set his flute back on the table, keeping his gaze locked on Hank and ignoring all the eyes upon them. April didn't dare counter his bid—couldn't counter, her previous offer was already scandalously high even for a model of her calibre. Satisfying as it might be to see her shock, watching the flush spread down Hank's neck was far more rewarding.
The auctioneer's voice echoed around the hall: "Twenty-five going once—"
Hank's eyes bore into his. Boris stared back, unrepentant.
"—going twice. Twenty-five thousand for the gentleman in the back. As always, dates can be finalized with the bachelors after the auction. Let's have a round of applause for Dr. Lawson, please."
The post-bid clapping didn't begin immediately, the crowd still gawking at Boris as Hank awkwardly took a step back, clearly reluctant to break Boris's gaze. A loud whistle came from Newberg's table as Elizabeth took charge, starting the clapping. The hall remembered itself, not quite shaking off their shock, but enough sense returning to join Newberg in applause as Jill stepped forward to grab Hank by the elbow when he made no move beyond his first hesitant step. Hank stumbled slightly, glancing back at Boris as Jill tugged him offstage so the auction could continue.
Newberg caught Boris's eye as Jill ushered Hank behind the curtain. Boris kept his face impassive, letting one eyebrow raise a hair as he inclined his head in greeting, resisting the urge to glance back and make sure Hank truly was gone. Newberg's face split into a grin as she laughed, a bright, delighted sound as her knowing eyes searched his face. Boris refused to be the first to break eye contact, unwilling to give anything away.
Well. Anything more than his bid had, at least.
"Nice to see you out of the house and joining in the fun for once, Boris," Newberg said, each of her dazzling white teeth on full display.
Next to her, Libby tried her best not to stare while Tucker closed his mouth with a near audible snap, looking over his shoulder at the stage, then back at Boris.
"Hello, Boris, nice to see you," Divya greeted, not so subtly kicking the teenagers under the table in an attempt to get them to behave.
"Ms. Katdare, Mr. Bryant, Ms. Hagner," Boris returned the greeting with a dip of his head, and that was enough to snap Tucker back to his senses.
Tucker started to give a little wave, remembered himself, then dipped his head in return, hand smacking against his chest as he overcorrected his mistake.
"Enjoy the rest of your evening," Boris bade, standing up, his guards reshuffling to accommodate the change in position.
"Oh, you're leaving already—" Libby started to say, but Divya interrupted, her smile too wide and voice just slightly too loud.
"Of course, so glad you could make it."
Boris's eye threatened to twitch, but he managed to keep his face impassive as Newberg continued to laugh at all of them. Boris inclined his head a fraction in response to Divya as he adjusted his suit jacket before departing. It wasn't a retreat, merely a strategic exit. He'd made his point; there was no use lingering. He should sweep out of the auction and disappear into the night, but his feet had other plans, carrying him towards the opposite end of the hall, where a door led deeper into the building.
As he strode towards the back, he heard Tucker ask, "Should I have said something? Was I sitting too awkward, I think I was sitting too—"
"Twenty-five thousand," Libby hissed, the words almost lost to the latest round of bidding as Boris's strides drew him further away. "Twenty-five—can you believe—"
"Hush now, he might still be able to hear you," Divya's admonishment barely reached his ears as one of Boris's guards moved in front of him, opening the door and slipping through to secure the area before Boris followed a moment later.
The door closed without a sound, the audience muffled to an inarticulate buzzing as Boris took half a second to breathe, looking down as though checking his watch as he tried to still his slightly too fast pulse. He swore he could feel Newberg's all-knowing eyes burning through the solid door separating them. Boris mentally shook himself. He was being ridiculous.
The trip to New York had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. His eyesight may have returned, but the icy tendrils of fear that wound around his heart when his body began to betray him had yet to fully unwind. Even if the betrayal was due to his own desperate measures and not the disease, it was a stark reminder of how little time he had left, no matter what Hank thought, no matter how many medical files he wanted to see. Boris shouldn't have indulged him, but . . . there was just something about Hank. Which was why he couldn't allow April to win on a bid as low as ten thousand. Ten thousand for a date with Hank Lawson was insulting. The thought of April, in her glittering gown, fluttering eyelashes at Hank all night as she ran her foot over his toned calves and offered him bites of food off her fork when it should be—
Boris cut the thought off.
When it should be nothing. Hank wouldn't want to awkwardly turn the model down a second time, and Boris had rescued him from that. That was all. Yes. He should find Hank and tease the good doctor for his part in the day's festivities. Hank would bluster about the money, but he couldn't object, not really, when all the proceeds went to the clinic. All Boris would have to do was reiterate that point and wave off any concerns about their . . . date. They could just have dinner. Hank was always welcome at Boris's table, so it was hardly a departure from the status quo. If Hank was free tonight, they could even go after the auction while Hank was still wearing—
Standing around thinking was dangerous. Boris let his arm drop back to his side, nodding at his guards. He should find Hank before either of them overthinks this ordeal. Boris cast a glance around the hall.
"Where can I find Dr. Lawson?" Boris inquired, catching the eye of one of the earlier bachelors. It was the doctor from Hampton's Heritage (Van Dyke, if memory served).
"Hank?" Van Dyke looked up, noticed who he was speaking to, and did a visible double-take. "Shit—I mean, yeah, Ha—Dr. Lawson is, ah, first door on the right."
Boris pressed his lips together, unimpressed, but Van Dyke wasn't worth any further consideration, so he turned away, heading for the door indicated. He only needed to knock once before the door swung open, and there Hank was, eyebrow half-raised, and still wearing the scrubs.
"I figured it would be you," Hank said, the twist of his lips wry and fond as he stepped aside to let Boris in.
Boris stepped inside, motioning for his guards to remain behind. If he brushed against Hank as he slid past the man, well. The room was small.
"Jill mentioned she sent you an invite, but I didn't expect you to actually come," Hank said, hesitating with his hand on the door as he looked at the guards in the hall, then back at Boris.
Boris answered the unasked question by reaching forward and closing the door, leaving the two of them alone in a room hardly larger than a broom closet. A small desk was pushed against the wall behind Hank, a divider cutting across the back corner, clearly serving as a makeshift dressing room of sorts. Limited though the space was, it was hardly cramped enough to justify the proximity between the two men. Boris knew he should take a step back. As close as they were, he could smell the aftershave on Hank's skin, see just how well the scrubs clung to his shoulders.
"I was in the neighborhood, as they say."
"Sure, sure." Hank leaned against the desk, crossing his arms as he considered Boris. "You know, if you wanted to grab dinner, all you had to do was walk across Shadow Pond and ask me. There was no need for—" he waved his hand vaguely towards the door. "Would have been cheaper too."
"The money is trivial. Ms. Casey will spend it wisely," Boris murmured as he watched flecks of green-gold swirl in Hank's eyes, which were narrowed and laser-focused on Boris, cataloging every minute twitch with the same singular intensity he seemed to do everything. "Besides, you would have me suffer through the swill you call beer, and I know what you consider fine dining, Hank, and it's hardly fine and only barely even dining."
"You're deflecting. When you want me to join you for dinner, Boris, you carefully arrange the whole thing and send Dieter to collect me. Or a helicopter. No suffering required, and no paying an absurd amount of money—and it is absurd for a dinner, no matter what you say—in a very public setting. That's no small thing for you. I know how much you value your privacy."
True enough. Boris opened his mouth to defend himself when Hank pushed off the desk, an action that brought him perilously close to touching Boris and caused him to falter a moment before regaining his composure. Hank was so close that the exhale of Boris's breath stirred those dark hairs visible thanks to the low neckline of the scrubs. Boris swallowed, blinking hard, and forced himself to meet Hank's eyes. The smile on Hank's face was small and painfully fond, but his posture was deliberate, challenging.
"I do. However, occasions sometimes arise when remaining in the shadows is disadvantageous. Ten thousand was insultingly low. It wouldn't do for word to spread that I allowed my concierge doctor to be undervalued."
Hank's posture softened at Boris's words, but he stood still, waiting.
"Besides, if I sent Dieter to bring you to the house or abscond you off to the city again, you wouldn't be wearing this, now would you, Dr. Lawson?"
Boris wasn't sure where his good sense had disappeared off to, but it had abandoned him, possibly as long ago as the moment he invited Hank Lawson to stay at the guesthouse; it certainly was nowhere to be found now. And because his self-control was as absent as his good sense, Boris's fingers reached out to brush against the thin polyester stretched across Hank's hip as he watched Hank's tongue poke out to wet his lips.
"I might, if you asked nicely. I think you'll find I'll do quite a lot if you'd just use your words."
Boris swore he could feel the other man's heartbeat from the scant brush of his fingertips against Hank's hip, fast and loud, or maybe that was his own heartbeat thundering through his veins as Hank's eyes darkened. Boris swayed forward, and there wasn't any space in his brain for rational thought as Hank mirrored the movement, his breath ghosting against Boris's lips.
"Are you asking, Boris?"
Boris folded, giving in to the desires he always kept so carefully tucked away, spilling out under Hank's steadfast gaze and thin, hospital-grade scrubs.
He grabbed Hank by the waist properly, the distance between them disappearing as Hank surged up to meet him. Their mouths collided as Boris chased Hank's tongue with his own. The thin, cheap material of the scrubs was slippery beneath his hands, but he could feel every pane of Hank's body as he slid around to cup the full ass that taunted him from his window every morning and used the leverage to drag Hank against him. Hank groaned, and Boris felt the sound as much as he heard it as Hank buried his hands in Boris's hair, his grip borderline painful. Boris followed blindly, gasping as Hank ground against him. It wasn't enough, leaving Boris desperate for more as he delved deeper into Hank's mouth, pushing him backwards. Hank's legs hit the back of the desk, the impact barely registering even as objects tumbled to the floor.
Hank broke away to attack Boris's neck as Boris swore, German mixing with English when Hank found the sensitive skin beneath his jaw. He felt Hank grin before he nipped harder, soothing the sting away with his tongue as Boris swore again, gripping Hank tighter and urging the man on. He bent to lift Hank a few inches off the ground, just enough to drop that glorious ass onto the desk as Hank left a trail of hot, biting kisses along his neck.
"What—oh," Hank said, caught off guard as his feet left the floor, but he let Boris manhandle him, trusting and open.
Boris crowded between his legs, capturing his mouth once more and tilting Hank's head back until it hit the wall. Hank responded by wrapping his legs around Boris's waist, grabbing Boris's hands and putting them back on his hips. Boris let his palms spread across Hank's thighs, feeling the muscles flex as Hank dragged him closer, ankles locking together and digging into Boris's back. He was perfect, so absolutely perfect, groaning as they moved together, his hands threading into Boris's hair once more as he arched into Boris—
"Hank? Hey Hank, what gives? Tell these goons to let me in—"
Evan.
Hank froze at his brother's voice, breaking the kiss as his chest heaved, lips red as he tried to regain his breath. Boris rested his forehead against Hank's, watching him take steady, deep breaths as annoyance flickered over his face. His legs were still locked around Boris's waist, Boris's fingers spread across his thighs.
"If it's not life or death, Evan," Hank said, the words sharp, and Boris didn't even try to fight back a smile, leaning forward to bury the expression in Hank's neck.
He could feel Hank's pulse racing and pressed his lips against the beat, dragging his teeth over the pressure point. Hank shuddered, drawing in a ragged breath and tilting his head to give Boris better access.
"Uh, well, maybe? Divya said a patient called, sounded urgent, I think she said it was that girl from earlier with the blood pressure thing—"
Hank swore, the sound final and damning. Boris knew it was his cue to release him. He gave one final nip to Hank's neck before reluctantly pulling away. Hank unwound his legs from around Boris as he sighed, staring unhappily up at him, regret obvious in his eyes even as duty pulled his attention away.
"I suppose it is still in the middle of your workday," Boris allowed and was proud of how even his voice was as he adjusted Hank's shirt so it was less askew, pulling the doctor off the desk and onto his feet.
"It is," Hank agreed ruefully. "But I am free later."
"I should hope so, as I believe I spent what you referred to as an absurd amount of money to ensure it. Although I feel compelled to reiterate it was a paltry sum."
"Hank, seriously, what do I tell her? Stop ignoring me. What are you even doing—wait, these are Boris's goons, aren't they? Henry. Henry, are you—?" Evan's voice trailed off, his stammering going unanswered.
"It was absurd," Hank said, stooping to grab his medical bag off the floor. Hm. That must have been the object sent unceremoniously tumbling from the desk earlier, along with a dozen or so of the world's ugliest ties. "How does six sound?"
"I'll send a car."
"Of course you will," Hank huffed, but he was grinning. "You do realize this means that I can't be your doctor anymore, right?"
"We'll discuss it over dinner."
"I'm not giving your medical files back."
Boris raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Yes. Just because I can't be your doctor anymore doesn't mean I can't review them and help design a plan. We'll discuss it over dinner," Hank threw the words back at him, eyes sparkling.
It was Boris's turn to give a soft huff. Hank looked over his shoulder at the door, then back to Boris. He hesitated for a second, then dragged Boris down for another quick, searing kiss before turning away, clearly not trusting himself any more than Boris trusted his own resolve as Hank hurried to put distance between them.
"Hank," Boris called, his voice low, but Hank heard it, turning with his hand on the door. "Wear the scrubs."