Page 78 of Dropping the Ball

I take a few steps back. “Is that roughly where you see it sitting in relation to the stage?” When he nods, I try to picture the other elements. “It sounded way too basic when you explained your idea. I was trying to figure out how to tell you to try harder on the last-minute favor I begged for without upsetting the talent.”

“The talent.” His hands are in his pockets—he’s in dark gray joggers today—and he rocks a couple of times, like he’s considering this label. It forces me to consider his quads and wonder if I can ban joggers that force me to consider his quadson the jobsite. “The talent’s reaction depends on how you feel now that you’ve seen it.”

“The talent never misses,” I say. “In fact, I’m annoyed that this solution is going to make Gabriela Juarez’s vases look better than they deserve based on her inconveniencing you.”

He comes to stand beside me, facing his cardboard vase. “Awww, Katie. It’s good to know you care. But it’s fine. I respect the hustle, and it was good of her to accept a commission when she isn’t sure who will end up winning it.”

Evergreen and citrus drift toward me. My pulse speeds up, and I need distance.

I walk a few steps away, like I want a different angle on this crappy box. “I care about everything for this gala. I eat, sleep, and breathe this gala. And if a glass artist makes things harder for our sculptor, I care about that too.” There. Perfect tone of exasperation but keeping it light. Keeping it on the event.

“How do you feel about your sculptor making things harder for himself with an idea that would be awesome for the gala?”

I turn to look at him. “Tell me.”

“Better to show you. Up to the loft?”

“I have a meeting soon.” I glance down at my watch.

“A meeting,” he repeats.

“Yeah. Sometimes it’s over desks, sometimes over golf, and sometimes over cocktails. Or so Madi tells me. This is my first time doing a pitch this way, but if alcohol is involved, I like my odds.”

“I need to figure out how to get more golf meetings.”

“Can you explain your idea in ten minutes or less?” That still leaves me a cushion for meeting Drake.

“Yep. Let’s go.”

He turns and heads for the stairs but stops at the foot of them, looking down at my shoes. I feel the path of his glance down my legs like a touch.

“We’re taking the elevator.” He punches the button and the door rumbles open.

My spiked heels have zero desire to argue.

He waves me in. “Ladies first.”

I walk past him, wishing there was a reason to brush against him, glad there’s enough room that I don’t have one.Boundaries.

The elevatorissmall, though, since it’s only used for loft accessibility, not freight. It’s half the size of a regular elevator and shrinks more when Micah steps in and presses the button to take us up. He’s not even close enough for me to sense his body heat, but he’s still filling every inch of this elevator, his sneaky citrus and evergreen scent tickling my nose.

“So what’s this idea?” I ask.

“Wait a few more seconds, Katie. You can do it. I have faith in you.”

“It’s your ten minutes we’re burning, but fine.”

The elevator bumps to a stop and we cross the landing it shares with the stairs to the loft.

“What am I looking for?” I ask, scanning the warehouse. It’s interesting to see the sculpture from this aerial view, but I could have done that another day.

“Gala means red carpet,” Micah says.

“Right. Already rented.”

“It will come in through there.” He points to the roll-up door closest to the foot entrance for trucks to park during loading and unloading.

“Right. Floral arch?” Twenty thousand red Kashmiri gada, to be exact. It’s a lush variety of marigold, and since it felt only right that we use the beloved Bangladeshi flower, it also made sense to have them made of silk by Bangladeshi workers so they could benefit. We could keep the flowers sustainable by reusing them in future galas.

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