Page 77 of Dropping the Ball

I pull out a simple blue-gray Natori shift in my closet. It’s the color of my eyes, and I always feel confident when I wear it. It’s sleeveless with a V-neck. It’s less structured than what I usually wear, made of silk that skims my hips, and the hem floats right above my knee. It looks perfectly professional with a blazer, but when the jacket comes off, the cut emphasizes my favorite features: my strong arms and strong legs.

I want that message coming across to Drake tonight. Strength, strength, strength.

I choose four-inch stiletto heels with a pointy toe. They mean business. It’s the perfect balance.

No sooner do I change dresses than my phone goes off. If this is Drake canceling . . .

Stuff for the vases done. Pic doesn’t really capture it. Have time to swing by?

Tomorrow is better. Would that work?

Not here again until Monday.

I can’t say no when he did all this as a massive favor. I glance at the time. The warehouse is by the freeway. If I head over now, I can make it to meet Drake at the hotel bar with a decent cushion, especially if I valet to save time.

Be there in twenty.

I grab a handbag that will fit my iPad so I can show Drake what the Marigold Institute does, slick on a power lipstick—a NARS red—and head out for some light project supervision followed by world domination.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Kaitlyn

Only Micah’s truck isin the warehouse parking lot when I pull in, and it gives me a moment of pause. He isn’t trying one of his non-date dates, is he?

I remember how closed off he’d been at his house last week. Definitely not a fake date.

I climb out of my car and walk in. Micah is sitting at the table by the door, sketching something, and he looks up as the door snicks open.

“Hey.” He sets down his pencil and stands. “You look nice.”

I glance down. “I have a meeting. I look more official with my blazer. I left it in the car.” I’d thought it would be warm in the warehouse, but it’s nearly as cool as the early evening air, which is hovering down near sixty.

“Do you want to grab it?”

“It’s okay. I can’t stay long.”

“Right.” His smile doesn’t change. “Let’s go look.”

I set my bag down and reach for a hard hat, negative four million percent thrilled about messing up my hair.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Since no one is working on anything right now, nothing can fall on you.”

I thunk it back on the table and fall in step with Micah as he walks to the stage zone. Again, there’s a feeling of teleporting to a different place when we cross beneath the marigolds.

“We’re still right on schedule,” Micah says. “The extra time on these studs came out of the planned overage, so we’re also still on budget.”

“That’s great.” It’s inadequate and formal. I want to ask him how he feels about the progress, if it’s matching what he pictured. I’d caught a glimpse of his sketch on the table. It looked architectural. Was he doing work for the firm while he waited for me? Is it hard balancing all this with his work for the firm?

I keep the questions to myself. I need boundaries, and I have a time constraint. I can’t get lost in Micah. A conversation with him, I mean.

He stops and points. “That’s the gist.”

He—or someone—has taken a rectangular cardboard box and cut it down to roughly the height of the Juarez vase. He’s also spraypainted it red like the vase and stuck in the mock rebar to give a sense of the scale and scope.

“Is this piece called ‘Industrial Arts and Crafts’?”

He smiles. “It’s called ‘I worked through my lunch break to figure this out, but it should work.’”

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