Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody Fanny Merkin (the giving tree read aloud TXT) 📖

Earl shakes his head. “When you see the presentation I give, I’m almost certain you’ll be persuaded. Facts don’t lie.”

As we walk through the room, Earl introduces me to the other guests. There have to be at least five hundred attendees, all wearing animal masks. There’s no way I’ll even remember their names in the morning. If I see anyone on the street in the morning, will I recognize them?

Earl leads us to a table set up facing the rest of the room. A spotlight turns on him and someone hands him a microphone. I duck out of the light.

When he talks, his voice booms over the PA system. “Welcome, friends, to our annual charity ball!”

The crowd claps wildly for him. “I hope you enjoy the program we’ve put together for you this evening. The waiters are beginning to bring around the food right now, so don’t wait for me to finish blabbing before you start eating.”

There’s polite laughter. I shift nervously in my chair. The die stashed inside my body doesn’t hurt, but I can definitely tell it’s there. It takes all my concentration and muscle skills not to let it slip out.

“We’re going to start the charity auction soon, and I do hope you’ll open up your hearts—and wallets—for us, because it’s all for a good cause: to raise awareness of drunk diving.

“Folks, this is a very serious issue. I’m about to read off some statistics that, frankly, shocked me like a car battery hooked up to my nipples.

“Did you know that alcohol is involved in almost fifty percent of the nearly forty thousand diving accidents every year? Every minute, one person in this country is killed in a drunk diving accident. You may think that this doesn’t affect you, but think again: one in three people will be involved in an alcohol-related diving accident in their lifetime.”

He continues with the facts and figures for over an hour. By the time he wraps his speech up, the waiters are serving dessert. Thank God we didn’t wait to eat until he was finished. “But enough with the grim statistics,” Earl says. “Who’s ready to start the auction?”

Chapter Nineteen

A FAST-TALKING AUCTIONEER takes the microphone from Earl and launches into the bidding rules. Earl sits down. “That was a moving speech,” I tell him.

“Thank you,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. Well, sort of on the cheek, and partly on the piggy mask.

The crowd cheers. For a second, I think it’s because of us kissing, but then I hear the words “Sold! Fifteen thousand dollars” over the PA system. Someone just bought the first edition of A Shore Thing, which I made Earl put up for auction since I couldn’t accept such an extravagant gift.

“You’re doing so much good in the world, Mr. Grey,” I tell him.

“It’s to balance out the cruelty in my own heart,” he says grimly.

I don’t say anything, because there’s no use arguing with Earl Grey when he’s PMSing.

The next item up for bid is a fantasy vacation suite in Hawaii. Without thinking, I raise my hand and scream, “A billion dollars.”

The crowd oooohs. The auctioneer is stunned speechless for a moment.

“Going once . . . twice . . . sold,” the auctioneer says, “to the young woman in the pig mask.”

I look at Earl, whose gray eyes are burning with anger beneath his mouse mask.

“What?” I say to him. “I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii.”

“Where did you get a billion dollars?” he asks.

Uh-oh. “Are we using real money? I thought we were using Monopoly money.”

“No, Anna,” he says, his voice quiet. “We’re using real money here. I guess I’ll have to lend you the billion dollars.”

“Thanks,” I say sheepishly. Oops.

“You do know, however, that the fantasy suite in Hawaii that was auctioned off is one that I own,” he says.

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

He shakes his head. “What am I ever going to do with you, Anna Steal?”

I have no idea. I’m thinking the same thing about him.

The auction is over, and Earl is slow dancing with me on the dance floor. The house band, the Icy Dragons, is dutifully playing a faithful cover version of “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” at Earl’s request. His anger has dissipated, though he says he will probably have to liquidate one or two companies or move a few thousand jobs overseas to pay the billion dollars I owe to the drunk diving charity.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It must have been all the alcohol.”

“You haven’t been drinking, Anna,” he says.

“Then maybe the pot,” I say.

“You haven’t been smoking pot, either,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”

Earl is an expert dancer, and guides me around the dance floor with grace. “Where did you learn to dance like this?” I ask him.

“I was on Dancing with the Stars once,” he says.

“That’s so cool,” I say.

“I lost in the final round to Nicholas Sparks.”

“Is there anything that man can’t do?”

“Toss a salad,” Earl says gravely.

His body feels good close to me.

“You look so sexy in your mask,” he says. “I can’t wait to get you home and make you squeal like a pig.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I think.”

“What do you say we make our way to the men’s restroom? I don’t think I can wait until we leave to have my way with you, Anna,” he whispers in my ear.

I smile. “The bathroom? Is that sanitary?”

“Of course. You just have to use a wide stance,” he says. The band finishes the song, and most of the couples exit the dance floor for a breather. “It’s just about half past ten. How about we speed things up a bit?” the long-haired male lead singer says as the band launches into a fast-paced rendition of “It’s Raining Men.”

“I love this song!” I say.

“Me too,” Earl says. “What do you say we stick around on the dance floor and I show you some of the moves I learned