Page 113 of Dropping the Ball

“Yes.”

“Then come eat, woman. And never apologize for yoga pants.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.

“I like that you think my yoga pants are sexy, but please never waggle your eyebrows at me again. It’s giving creepy old guy at the country club.”

I can’t even be bothered to pull out a chair, so I climb atop the starling table, sit cross-legged, and dive into the pad thai he hands me.

“I thought we were going to eat on your sofa and let the TV rot our brains,” he says.

“Not yet.” I snap up a shrimp with my chopsticks. “Protein first. Then talk.”

He joins me on the table and we eat in comfortable quiet for a few minutes. When the last shrimp is gone, I feel rested and fed enough to talk.

“You’re done with the biggest part of your job,” I say. “How does that feel?”

“Good,” he says. “The firm will slow down now until after the New Year too, which is good because I need to be at Remix more.”

“’Tis the season,” I say.

“’Tis the season,” he agrees. “But you don’t get any kind of break at all. How are you holding up?”

“In the next two weeks, minus Christmas Day, I have meetings with the event planners, the caterers, the media company doing the hype videos for the auction items, the florist, the photographer, the . . .” I trail off. “I can’t even remember now without my planner.”

“Madison owes you big-time.”

“She so does.”

“Do you think she would give you Harper?”

I consider this. “It’s worth asking.”

The ease of being in my own house with Micah has worked its magic on my tired body. “No studying tonight. We’re going to watch a movie and not talk about work, unless it’s to tell each other how amazing we are at our jobs.”

“I back this plan.”

“I was thinking we could watch a classic.”

“It’s a Wonderful Life?” he guesses.

I roll my eyes. “Friday the 13th, of course.”

He sets his chopsticks down and gives me a look. “You can just say you want to make out, you know.”

That is how he ends up with noodles in his hair.

We end up watching aHappy Daysmarathon instead. Or maybe Micah does. He wakes me up around midnight to tell mehe’s taking off before he’s too tired to drive. I walk him to the door, extract a deep and bone-melting kiss as punishment for leaving, and don’t even bother dragging myself upstairs to bed. I collapse back on the sofa and sleep until Daisy sits on my chest at kibble o’clock. Her stomach tells perfect time.

Maybe it’s the change of location to the sofa, but I wake up brimming with energy and an excellent idea.

Play hooky at the store and come over here instead.

Have to take care of a few things, but I could be there by lunch?

Deal. But the second you come through the door, work does not exist. Or bar exams. Or galas.

Deal

I set my phone down and jump up to put my plan into motion.

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