Page 52 of The Charlie Method

Agatha looks at me again.

I shrug. “There’s only a certain amount of money in the house bank account. I can’t just miraculously make money appear. So if you’re not taking from the other budgets, your only other option is to ask someone to chip in their own funds.”

“Let me talk to my mother,” Agatha says. “We’ll put a pin in the centerpieces for now and revisit next meeting. Maybe one of the alums will want to kick in some extra for the gala budget—”

A loud buzzing from Blake’s vicinity interrupts her.

Agatha gives her a withering look. “Silent mode.”

“Sorry,” Blake murmurs. She frowns at her phone before putting it on silent.

As the agenda switches to the gala menu and everyone starts arguing whether it’s a smart idea for one of the courses to be a spicy dish, I notice Blake constantly looking at her phone.

“Everything okay?” I whisper to her.

“Just my stalker” is what it sounds like she mumbles.

I don’t have time to question her because a screaming match has now broken out.

“No one is saying spicy food is bad, Dana! I love spice! All I’m saying,” Noelle continues in exasperation, “is that we’re dealing with a guest list full of old ladies, and not all of them might be able to handle spice. Old people can’t digest properly.”

“Ugh, that’s a fair point,” Dana relents.

“Great. Then let’s stick to fucking chicken marsala.”

“Fine.” Dana glances at her laptop. “Let’s talk about dessert.”

Blake clears her throat before Dana can continue. “I’m just going to step out for a second, if that’s all ri—”

“No,” Agatha snaps.

“Yeah, Logan,” Faith rebukes her. “Nobody leaves a meeting prior to dismissal unless it’s in a body bag.”

I almost choke on my laughter.

Agatha glares at Faith. “Just shut up, Faith. We don’t always need to hear your smart mouth.”

Fortunately, the rest of the meeting goes off without another hitch, and I’m breathing a sigh of relief after Agatha dismisses us. Blake seems eager to leave too, though the agitation she’s transmitting tells me she’s stressing about a lot more than Agatha.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, practically chasing her out of the dining room.

“I have to go handle something.”

“That sounds fun,” Faith chirps, coming up on Blake’s other side. “What are we handling?”

“Oh God, nothing. Please don’t make me do this in front of an audience.”

Faith and I exchange a look.

Then walk even faster.

The freshman attempts to outrun us to the door, even tries closing it after her, but Faith ran track in high school, and I’m just freakishly fast. We hurry after her onto the porch, skidding to a stop when we spot the strawberry-blond giant on our front lawn.

“Do you ever give up?” Blake demands, stomping down the porch steps toward him.

Isaac Grant shrugs, emphasizing his impossibly broad shoulders. “No. I play football. It’s a game of inches.”

She makes an aggravated noise, planting both hands on her hips. “What does that have to do with me?”

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