Page 1 of Dropping the Ball

Chapter One

Kaitlyn

I am staring atthe pecs that broke my nose eight years ago.

Micah Croft’s pecs.

Micah Freaking Croft.

It was inevitable that I would have ended up face-to-face with Micah Croft at some point. Austin is big, but it’s notthatbig.

I had no idea it would be for work, no idea that he was the architect Madison had referred to a couple of times. That it was his store she meant we would visit. That he’s the brains and vision behind her grand gala plans.

Why would I? We hadn’t gotten into venue specifics yet, and whenever my sister mentioned the name “Micah” in tones ranging from excited to awestruck, it never crossed my mind that she meant the only person I’ve ever truly loathed.

He was the last person I would have expected to literally run into when Madison dragged me to Austin’s Design District to look for ideas to “upgrade” my house.

How can this be happening? How can I be standing in a hipster heaven of repurposed furniture, face to pec withhim?

I have theories, but truly, there’s only one answer.

The universe hates me.

It is a hate so vigorous and specific that part of me respects it.

I draw a calming breath and step back, schooling my face into bland detachment as I drag my gaze up to meet the stare of Micah Croft.

Half of his mouth curves into a lazy smile. “If it isn’t Kaitlyn Armstrong in the flesh.”

Micah Croft makes the word “flesh” sound dirty, like I’m not standing in his merchant space wearing business slacks and my first turtleneck of September.

I would pay anything to rewind time by an hour, back to the point where Madison suggested we pop in at Remix Aesthetic to window-shop. Back to the point where I could have said no. I’d-rather-streak-the-next-board-meeting no. Pluck-me-bald no.

Would it cost me a pound of flesh? A year of my life? My ridiculous trust fund?

I’d give it all for that rewind feature.

Anything not to be standing here, right now, in front of Micah Croft.

Chapter Two

Kaitlyn

An hour ago . . .

Actually, no. To understand the problem, I have to go back at least a week. Or eight years, depending.

A week ago . . .

Daisy Buchanan kneads my pregnant sister’s belly, and Madison lets her.

“Down, Daisy,” I tell my gray-striped cat. It’s a fitting name for a cat rescued from a club called Gatsby’s. She’s taken over Madison’s lap while my sister sits on my linen sofa, one of the few pieces of furniture I’ve ordered. Daisy pays me no mind. “Madison, push her off. You’re the boss.”

“She’s not bothering me.” Madison looks right past Daisy, as if my cat isn’t three inches from her face.

“I’m not worried about Daisy bothering you. I’m worried about her bothering . . .” I frown at Madison. “Does that baby have a name yet?”

She lifts her hand, a lazy gesture, as if naming her child is a minor matter. “I still have four weeks. You can call her Harper today, if you want.”

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