Drew Starkey Imagines

Kook Auction - Basket Maker

The annual Figure Eight charity auction was supposed to be harmless fun. Just Kooks bidding ridiculous amounts of money on baskets filled with sandwiches, fruit, and overpriced cookies, pretending it was all for charity when really it was about showing off.

You hadn't planned on participating, but Kiara dared you to sign up, and you weren't about to back down. So you'd spent the night before making sandwiches, cutting up fresh strawberries, packing sweet tea in mason jars, and tying the basket with a ribbon that matched the pastel summer theme.

You figured maybe a neighbor or a random older couple would buy it. At most, one of your friends would throw in a pity bid.

You hadn't counted on JJ.

The auction was set up on the lawn of the country club, white tents overhead, the salty ocean breeze drifting through. The MC was perched behind a podium, rattling through basket numbers one by one as the crowd milled around with wine glasses and sunglasses that cost more than most cars.

When the MC called your name — "Basket number sixteen, crafted by [Y/N] [L/N]" — you stepped forward with a small smile. That's when JJ's voice rang out from the crowd.

"Twenty bucks!"

You blinked. He was leaning against the rope separating the bidders from the stage, grinning in that cocky way only JJ could pull off. He looked wildly out of place in his faded baseball cap and Pogue charm, but clearly he didn't care.

The MC hesitated. "Do I have thirty?"

A few chuckles rippled through the Kook crowd. JJ lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, twenty-five! And I better get her company with that."

Your cheeks burned. "JJ—"

Before you could say anything else, another voice cut through the noise, smooth and amused.

"Fifty."

Heads turned. Standing near the back of the crowd, hands in his pockets like he owned the place, was Rafe Cameron. His shirt sleeves were rolled, sunglasses hooked on his collar, hair catching the sunlight just enough to be annoying. He wasn't even looking at the MC — his eyes were on JJ, and there was something in his smirk that promised trouble.

JJ's grin faltered. "You've gotta be kidding me."

Rafe took a step forward, his tone casual. "Sixty."

JJ scoffed. "You don't even want the basket — you just don't want me to have it."

Rafe's smirk deepened. "Maybe I'm not here for the basket." His gaze slid to you, lingering long enough to make your stomach flip. "Maybe I'm here for the company."

A murmur went through the crowd.

The MC's eyes lit up. "Do I hear seventy?"

"Seventy!" JJ barked, digging in his pocket for a crumpled mess of bills. "All I got, right here!"

"One hundred," Rafe said instantly, pulling a clean stack of bills from his wallet without even glancing down.

Gasps rippled through the audience. JJ stared at him. "One hundred dollars? You're insane."

"No," Rafe said, stepping close enough that the space between them felt charged, "I'm just prepared."

And then, before the MC could even confirm the sale, Rafe strode up to the table, lifted the basket with one hand, and turned toward JJ like he'd just won the final round of a fight.

"Basket." He lifted it slightly.

His finger shifted, pointing to you. "Basket maker."

Then his eyes flicked back to JJ, a slow, deliberate smirk tugging at his lips. "Guy who didn't bring enough money."

The MC, clearly delighted with the drama, called it: "Sold! To Rafe Cameron for one hundred dollars!"

Rafe turned to you. "Looks like we've got lunch plans."

You crossed your arms. "This isn't a date, Cameron."

His grin widened. "Keep telling yourself that."

As Rafe walked away with the basket, JJ called after you, "Don't let him hog the tea! And if he tries anything—"

Rafe didn't even turn around, just lifted a hand in a lazy wave. "See you around, Maybank."

And just like that, you were following Rafe across the lawn, your pulse hammering and the sinking realization that you had no idea what you'd just gotten yourself into.