Page 42 of Dropping the Ball

Her mouth saysfriend, but she’s guarding her glances. Friends don’t do that. People who don’t want to let on that they’re into you do that.

I can’t push. My instincts say blurting “Hey, I’m into you, let’s go out” will shut her down. I want to make myself a safe place instead.

“You’re welcome again,” I say. “And as your good friend, I’m going to make sure you get fed, so why don’t you eat while I give you the seated tour of the progress?” When she nods, I point out what we’ve done so far, from the bolted perimeter to the supports Eva has welded in to start the canopy.

She asks a few questions as I “guide” us, and when I’m done, I reach for my enchiladas.

“It looks really good,” she says.

“You’re probably wondering why I wanted you to come out here, since I’ve been sending you updates.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“I want to get your feedback on a possible change to the next phase.”

She gives me a neutral look. “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

“First, can I ask how much you guys want to raise with the gala?”

“Two million.”

She doesn’t even blink. I know the Armstrongs are one of the wealthiest families in Austin, but how rich do you have to be for that number to not even faze you?

“That doesn’t stress you out?” I ask.

“We’ve sold all the gala tickets, so the costs are covered—including this installation—and we’re already operating at a profit for the event. But hitting that total amount will depend on how well our guests respond to the silent auction items.”

“What happens if they don’t cough up the donations?”

“Micah, you better not try to do something noble like return your fee for this work.”

I snort. “Not a chance. I never undervalue my work.”

She smiles. “Good. I have a table that proves it. As for the auction and donations, that part mostly depends on me. I’ll make it happen, but yes, it’s stressing me out.”

A big dumb grin takes over my face. I can feel it, and I don’t care.

“What now?” She sounds exasperated.

“You’ve got the weight of two million dollars trying to bury you, raising the funds falls mostly to you, you’re stressed, and yet you’re sitting there, a nacho-eating queen like it’s nothing. Like we’re talking about organizing a barbecue. Wait, no. Not abarbecue. A . . . potluck.” I give her a fake concerned expression. “Do you know what a potluck is?”

“Micah.” She plucks a plain chip from her nachos. “Are you making rich people jokes?”

“A hundred percent.”

“I know what a potluck is. And I even organized a barbecue once.”

“Slumming it, were you?”

“Don’t think we’re going to skip over how my nacho-eating queen act has nothing on your too-cool-to-care act you’ve been putting on since high school.” She leans forward and taps an ivory-painted nail on my side of the table. “We. Will. Get. To. It.”

“Confessing I was the loser poor kid wasn’t enough?” I tease her.

“Felt like an appetizer. But let’s move on to your possible change to the next phase.”

“It doesn’t sound as awesome now that I know the goal is two million, but I thought if we built a bar in here, you could rack up even more cash. The more I think about it, the less—”

“No, tell me. What do you mean by bar? We’re planning to have waiters circulate with wine and champagne.”

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