Page 46 of Dropping the Ball

“Word gets out and my cover is blown, then the feds are here, and you’ve ruined the gala.”

I curl my lips in to deny him a smile. “So just construction stuff?”

He nods. “And Slurpees. That sounds good.” He pulls out his phone and speaks as he taps. “Get Slurpees on way back from shed. Get me red.” He glances up. “What flavor do you want?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.” I have major love for Slurpees, but mostly as a memory from Madison’s wedding, not for the brain freeze experience.

He slides his phone into his back pocket, and I notice that while he has no tool belt, he’s in jeans that give his thighs the love and respect quads like that deserve. They’re old Levis, I’m pretty sure, the only denim that looks better the older it gets, and his jeans look very touchable. I mean soft. They look soft.

“Any questions?” he asks. “I know it’s still pretty bare bones.”

I run my eyes over the expanse of the frame. “I’m getting the dimension. Is it my imagination that the warehouse feels bigger with something in it, not smaller?”

He shakes his head. “No. Most rooms are like that until you start adding things and seeing how much really fits inside. Makes you perceive the space differently.”

“A really smart guy told me that’s what an art installation does. Makes you notice your relationship with a space.”

He gives me a small smile. “He didn’t say it that way because he’s not that smart, but you said it perfectly because you are.”

“Thank you.” It’s a compliment I’ve heard a lot coming from him, but it almost makes me blush. I’m ridiculous.

“I had a backup plan if you weren’t catching the vision yet,” he says.

“Oh? Tell me.”

“Multisensory experience. Put on an evening gown, pass you a plate of crab puffs, talk about our golf handicaps and cattle futures.”

“That’s what you think happens at rich people parties?”

His eyes glint. “Tell me it isn’t.”

“Okay, it is. I didn’t bring an evening gown with me. Sorry.”

“I meantIwould put it on. To sell the story.”

That does make me grin. “Please tell me you have a gown here ready to go.”

“Sadly, I lied about that. But I did set up the deejay booth.” He slides his phone out again. “Ready?”

I cock my head at him, curious about where this is going. “Ready.”

The chorus to “Can’t Feel My Face” by The Weeknd pours out, and Micah bites his lip dramatically like he’s doing telenovela sexy face and hits a middle school shuffle. His eyebrows go up, a challenge to dance. Madi would probably already be four steps into some choreography for it, but I only shake my head, smiling. I don’t do silly. I’m missing whatever gene lets you cut loose like that.

Micah presses another button on his phone. “Not going to lie, I had a feeling you wouldn’t go for that.”

“Not going to lie, I’m surprised you did. What happened to Mr. Too Cool for Everything from high school?”

“I left him in high school. That guy did his job until I could get out of there.”

“Did you really hate it?” I ask him.

“Not all of it.” His smile now is slight, but his eyes are steady on mine. “Let’s try this instead.”

The opening notes of “Thinking Out Loud” come out. A slow dance. He holds his hand out. “May I have this dance?”

This is still silly, but my stomach flips anyway, like he’s asking for real. I can’t say no after refusing the fast dance. I accept his hand. “For gala research.”

He pulls me into a classic close hold, the kind that would be appropriate for any two people dancing at a social event. “For gala research.”

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