Page 49 of Dropping the Ball

“Then definitely,” he continues. “You have to set the tone correctly the first year.”

I must still look grumpy about it because he adds, “Be the auntie Harper Ivy Mae needs you to be.”

“Harper needs me to be a full-size-candy-bar auntie?”

He nods, his face solemn.

“Then I’ll be a full-size-candy-bar auntie.” Another thought occurs to me, and I don’t want to bring it up, but I need to be the good boss Madison expects me to be. I swallow a nervous tickle in my throat and say, “So we’re clear, this is a hangout, right? Not a date?”

Micah . . . smirks? Is that asmirk? I want to snatch back the question, or reword it, but it’s too late.

“I’m shocked you would even ask, Katie,” he says. “Are you saying you want it to be a date?”

“No! I’m just—need it to—boundaries and . . .” I trail off when Micah’s smirk doesn’t budge. I take a steadying breath. “Never mind. It’s not a date. See you on Saturday.”

“It’s a date,” he says. I glare at him, and he adds, “Meaning like you would say to anyone about a firm plan that is not a date. That kind of a date.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I settle on a brisk nod and a “See you then” as I turn to leave. It’s only as the warehouse door closes behind me that I remember I didn’t ask Micah any of the questions I’d meant to about his progress, questions to show I’m monitoring the project closely.

Dang. There is no way I’m going back in to ask him now. I saw most of what I needed to with my own eyes, and I can email him any other questions I have later. There. Solved it.

When I realize I’m humming “All of Me” as I start my car—and probably will for the rest of the day—I don’t know how to solve that. But I tune the radio to an oldies station and let it try.

Send help.

Chapter Seventeen

Micah

The cooler weather holdsthrough the weekend, and when I pull into Katie’s driveway on Saturday, even though it’s still light out, there is a nip in the air, and I suspect many of the kids out tonight will be complaining about the jackets their parents make them wear.

I’m ready for my not-a-date with Kaitlyn, and when I ring her doorbell a minute later, she opens it and her jaw drops.

“Micah?”

“Were you expecting someone else on your doorstep with twenty pounds of candy?” I growl in my best Batman impersonation.

“What is that voice? Are you sick?”

“You’re hopeless,” I say in my normal voice. “That’s how Batman talks. Please tell me you at least recognize the costume.”

“I don’t live under a rock,” she says. “I recognize the costume. I just didn’t know that Batman suffered from chronic emphysema.”

“Where’s your costume?” I ask.

She looks down at her outfit. “No costume. I decided to go festive instead.”

I push my mask back on my head. “How is that festive?” She’s wearing a pink sweater that hugs her body before ending in long sleeves that fall to her fingertips in a bell shape. It’s the kind of cut and fit that screams designer. Probably costs more than my truck payment. She’s paired it with black pants. “Not that you don’t look nice,” I add when she frowns.

“It’s orange and black. Pumpkin colors.”

“You think your sweater is orange?” I’m happy to check it out again, but it’s not any more orange than the first time I looked.

“I don’tthinkit is. It’s orange. That’s why I bought it.”

I point to the pink sky behind me, the crest of the setting sun barely visible behind the house across the street. “Your sweater is the same color as the sky over there. What color would you call that?”

“Orange.”

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