Page 89 of Dropping the Ball

I keep my own silence, forcing myself to focus on all my non-gala work. The add-on unit I’m working on for a Round Rockhome. A fireplace mantel I want to build out of tile recovered from the Western restaurant renovation. A chair I need to repair in my dining room.

An hour later, we’re still sitting in silence when Ty’s voice breaks it, calling my name in the distance.

Thirty minutes later, the Austin Fire Department has liberated us, and when we finally make it to our cars, Kaitlyn and I haven’t spoken.

“Bye, Kaitlyn. Sorry about the elevator thing.”

She gives me a single nod and drives away without another word.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Kaitlyn

Against all odds, whenI get home at almost 9:00 and call Drake to explain getting trapped in an elevator, he laughs and agrees to another meeting.

“Come by the Ford dealership first thing in the morning,” he says. “After that, I take off for Thanksgiving with my parents in Vail.”

“I’ll bring apology pastries,” I promise before we hang up.

I’m too keyed up to study, so I try to relax before bed by watchingReal Housewivesfor an hour. Madison has the worst taste in television, and like any addict, she has dragged me into the mind rot with her. But even the loud spray tans of New Jersey can’t keep my mind from flashing back to the night with Micah.

Every look. Every touch. Every time I caught the scent of citrus and evergreen.

The judgment on his face when I said I wouldn’t tell my family.

We’ve only had a couple of years of figuring out how to show up for each other for real. Should I be able to trust my ownfamily not to be disappointed in me over the auction? Yes. But they should be able to trust me to deliver on my part of this job.

I pass a restless night, sleeping in uneasy fits between racing thoughts about the way I spoke to Micah in the elevator and what I’ll say to Drake in the morning.

When I arrive at the dealership ten minutes early with coffee and pastries, I’ve hidden the stress and sleeplessness beneath perfectly applied makeup, a Chanel pink-and-gray plaid dress, and Oxfords with a three-inch heel. It says professional, feminine, and expensive. It saysGive me what I’m asking for.

The receptionist sends me up to the second floor. I take the stairs.

Drake Braverman looks at ease behind his enormous walnut desk when I pause in his doorway. He comes around to greet me, a smile on his face.

I brace for the hello hug he offers. He keeps it friendly and short before escorting me to a chair and retaking his seat.

“Bold of you to drive up in an Audi we didn’t sell you,” he says, leaning back and smoothing his tie.

“You know what I drive?”

“One of my guys called up when you parked,” he says. “Have to know what you’re in so we can figure out what to convince you to get next.”

I smile at him. “What are you going to try to convince me to get?”

“Pfft. Nothing. That’s a beautiful car. Drive it until it doesn’t speak to your soul anymore.”

That makes me laugh. “It really does speak to my soul. I bought it this summer as a present to myself for finishing law school.”

“Hey, congrats,” he says. “I’d say it’s a big deal, but I bet you did it without breaking a sweat.”

“It’s a huge deal, and I’ll take all the credit, thank you.” That makes him laugh. “I’m glad you want to talk cars, because that’s what brings me in.”

“Right. You have a foundation, you said?”

“Yes. Madison has been interested in issues of fair trade and impact entrepreneurship for several years. Two years ago, she finished her MBA by starting a company in Bangladesh that does microfinancing. It will be profitable by the end of next year.”

“Impressive,” he says. “Good for her.”

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