Page 101 of Dropping the Ball

“Wingman,” he says. “That means you’re telling them about the auction?”

“I am.”

“You nervous?”

I pluck at my pants, trying to make the crease . . . creasier. “I have a plan, and I’m trying to be optimistic. Iamoptimistic.” But it sounds more like a question.

“What’s my role here? Bodyguard energy? Snoop Dogg at the Olympics hype?”

“You play gifted architect and honored dinner guest, and if my dad tries to intimidate you, give him that blank look like you already forgot he’s talking.”

“I don’t do that,” he says with a trace of amusement.

“It was your defining look in high school.”

“Gifted architect, huh?”

I smile. “I’m not telling you anything new.”

He shrugs. “Nice to hear it. Now, how do you turn the radio on? Majic 95.5 is already doing Christmas songs.”

“Come on. At least wait until tomorrow.”

“Driver’s rules. Radio, Katie.”

I groan but put it on, and we spend the rest of the drive with him humming along softly while I tell him about who he’ll meet at dinner and what to expect.

My parents live in a gated community because of course they do. The guard lets us in and we drive another mile to get to their street. Their house is . . . ridiculous, honestly. It’s fifteen thousand square feet, and it was too much space even when all four of us lived here. Madison and Oliver’s car is already in the driveway, and I’m glad the six-car garage is closed. Micah doesn’t need to know they have a Bentley, a Rolls, and matching Mercedes.

Micah parks and makes no comment about any of it.

“Here we go,” I say. I lead him into the house and follow the sound of conversation to the living room.

“Katie!” Madison cries as I walk in. “And Micah!”

After Dad has handed Micah a drink and introductions have been made, Marta, my parents’ long-time housekeeper, comes in and tells Mom, “Dinner is served.”

We all rise and trail after my parents to the formal dining table set with gleaming crystal and china. We take our places with Micah between me and Madison, and then Marta and her grown daughter begin serving, setting fully plated Thanksgiving meals in front of each of us. Dad offers a Thanksgiving toast, and the feasting begins.

“Who cooks all this?” Micah asks after trying the turkey.

“Mom has it catered. It’s good,” I say. “Maybe not neighborhood potluck good.”

“Nothing ever is,” he says. “This is a different kind of delicious. Thanks for inviting me.”

Inevitably, Madison asks how the gala plans are going.

“I’d like to hear too,” Mom says, ears perking up across the table.

“The venue looks incredible,” I say. “To be expected when you have the most talented architect in town. Madison chose well.”

“Tell us about your work, Micah,” Mom says, the consummate hostess. “What drew you to architecture?”

I breathe a sigh of relief as the conversation moves on. I’ll tackle the auction when everyone is in a post-feast stupor.

Eventually, pie is served, plates are cleared, and Harper begins to fuss in her carrier strapped to Oliver’s chest, signaling it’s time for everyone to move.

Back we go into the living room for after-dinner drinks, and as everyone settles onto furniture and a lull falls over the room, Micah shoots me a curious look.

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