Page 129 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I take it with both hands. “Thank you.”
He glances around the room. “Is this what controlled panic looks like?”
“Very controlled,” I say, smiling faintly. “So far no one’s cried in a storage closet. That I know of.”
His gaze softens. “You okay?”
“I will be. Just need to get through the next… seven hours.”
“You’ll crush it.”
I nod, because I want to believe that. Because having him here makes it easier to believe that.
He leans in, voice low. “When do I get to kiss you in front of rich people?”
At exactly five o’clock, the ballroom doors open and the first wave of VIP guests begins to arrive: board members, corporate sponsors, foundation reps in sleek dresses and pressed suits. Smiles, handshakes, air kisses. A thousand tiny social cues I’ve practiced but never quite mastered.
Jenna hovers near the entrance with her clipboard and wine charm smile, while Jackson lingers by the auction tables, perfectly in his element. Quiet, grounded, unbothered by the crowd but undeniably present. Every time I glance over, someone’s recognizing him and stopping to talk to him.
I drift between groups, answering questions about the literacy programs, offering snippets about Open Pages’ newest initiatives, thanking people for coming like it’s easy. Like my heart’s not racing underneath this dress.
The clock ticks toward 5:45, and before long, Jenna gives me a nod from across the room.
It’s time.
My stomach flips, but I don’t let it show. I hand my coffee off to a passing staff member, smooth my palms discreetly down the skirt of my gown, and step onto the small stage at the front of the room.
The lighting shifts slightly. It’s just enough to signal attention without blinding me. Conversations dim. Chairs turn. I catch a few familiar faces near the front: our lead sponsor, the head of the literacy council, and Jackson, standing just beside the auction tables, his hands casually in his pockets as he watches me.
A hush falls.
I take a breath and begin.
“Good evening. I’m Ava Monroe, founder and director of Open Pages.”
At first, my voice sounds stronger than I feel, but once I find my rhythm, the nerves melt into focus. I speak about the organization’s mission. How literacy builds more than just reading skills, how it opens doors, changes futures, roots communities. I thank donors and partners. I talk about the little girl I met last fall who hugged her first book like it was treasure.
I don’t look at my notes once.
“Thank you for believing in us, and for believing in the power of stories.”
The applause is instant.
Warm. Real.
I step down from the stage to a flood of congratulations: board members shaking my hand, guests saying things like “moving” and “inspiring.”
Someone calls it “elegant and heartfelt,” and Jenna squeezes my hand so tight it hurts.
“You nailed it,” she whispers. “Seriously. You were glowing up there.”
I laugh under my breath, flushed and relieved. “I thought I was going to throw up on the first sentence.”
“Well, you didn’t.” She grins. “You owned it.”
Across the room, I catch Jackson’s eye again. He doesn’t rush over, doesn’t make a scene. He just holds my gaze and gives me a subtle nod. Quiet, proud.
And somehow, that lands deeper than anything else.
