Evelyn Hartwood swept onto the small stage, microphone in hand. Twenty years of working rooms like this, and I'd never felt this exposed. This wasn't a business presentation. This was personal.
The crowd quieted.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you all for joining us tonight to close out Lovesbury's first annual Valentine's Festival!"
Applause and cheers filled the room.
"Before we enjoy this wonderful dinner, I want to share the results of our fundraising efforts. As you know, all proceeds from Friday's bachelor auction, plus this weekend's vendor sales, raffles, and activities, have been going toward our veterans' center."
She paused for dramatic effect. The woman knew how to work an audience—I'd give her that.
"I am thrilled to announce that together, we have raised four thousand, two hundred dollars!"
The ballroom broke into applause, louder than any before. I caught sight of several older men near the bar—military bearing evident in their posture despite civilian suits—openly moved. One wiped his eyes. The fundraiser mattered, not just for the roof, but for giving these men a gathering place. A home.
"The roof will be repaired, the heating system upgraded, and we'll have funds remaining for new furniture in the community room!"
More cheers. Ruby's hand tightened in mine.
"Now! Our buffet dinner is ready. Please, help yourselves! And during dinner service, we'll be recognizing each of our wonderful bachelor couples!"
The guests began moving toward the buffet tables.
"Come on," I said quietly to Ruby. "Let's get some food."
We filled plates—prime rib, roasted vegetables, twice-baked potatoes, standard catering fare—and found a table near the windows. Ruby picked at her food, her chef's eye cataloging every choice.
"What are you thinking?" I asked, watching her push a carrot around her plate.
"That this is good," she said carefully. "But the vegetables are overcooked. They should have color, texture—these are mushy."
"What would you do differently?"
Her face transformed. "Better cuts of meat. That sauce is masking flavor instead of enhancing it. I'd do a red wine reduction with actual depth, maybe rosemary from the resort gardens." She gestured at her plate. "And the plating... in three months, these same ingredients would look like art."
"In three months, you'll be making them look like art," I said.
Her smile was radiant.
Evelyn began calling up couples, each getting brief recognition and applause. Ruby barely touched her food after that, too nervous. I watched her twist her napkin, bounce her knee under the table.
"Hey," I said quietly, covering her hand. "We've got this. Together."
"Together," she echoed.
Evelyn worked through several more couples. Then her voice rang out: "And now, our Bachelor Number Two—The Sizzling Silver Fox himself, Gil Pruitt, and his winning bidder, Ruby Flynn!"
Cheers and whistles rang out—louder than for any couple before.
Ruby stood, pulling me up with her. We made our way to the stage, her head high, her hand firm in mine.
Evelyn's smile was satisfied. "Now THIS pairing has been particularly interesting to watch unfold."
Laughter rippled around us. Ruby smiled, at ease.
I took the microphone from Evelyn. Scanned the gathering and spotted him—Danny Flynn in the back, his face emotional and eyes bright. Our gazes met. He gave me a single nod.
Ruby lifted her free hand in a small wave. He pressed his hand to his heart.
