“Fine. Just—” One text back. Sorry, already committed to prepping the bookstore event.
“Minor crisis. Nothing I can't handle.”
Two more responses come in. Both apologetic nos.
I look up at Evan, who's now setting out our lunch with actual plates and silverware.
“The party scene parents in my niece's Nutcracker got food poisoning,” I explain, scrolling through more contacts. “Show's tomorrow. It's Marie's debut as Clara, a very big deal. Especially to an eleven-year-old. I'm trying to find replacements but everyone's either already in the show or would rather die than get on stage.”
“So you need another party parent? What does that entail?”
I glance up. “Basically, walking and standing around, looking like you belong at a fancy party. Holding a fake champagne glass. It's like being at one of your galas except with a Tchaikovsky soundtrack and worse costumes.”
He slides an egg roll in front of me.
“I can do it.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“I can do it. The party scene.”
“You.” I gesture at him—his tailored suit, his CEO aura, his entire existence.
“You want to be in a community theater production of The Nutcracker.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“In Pinewood Falls.”
“Yes.”
I'm trying to process this. Evan Bellamy. Billionaire. Volunteering for a small-town dance recital.
“Are you sure? You literally just walk in circles and try to look engaged while kids dance around you. I promise it's the least glamorous thing you'll ever do.”
“I went to cotillion,” he says. “I know about uptight social dances.”
“Cotillion?” I can't help but laugh, “Of course you did.”
“Wait until you hear about my tap-dancing days.”
I freeze. “I'm sorry, what?”
His mouth quirks up at one corner, amused.
“Your what?”
Evan
“Your what?”
Holly's staring at me like I just announced I can juggle chainsaws. Which, fair. I don't exactly advertise my childhood dance training.
“We're definitely coming back to that,” she says. “But first—did you just offer to be in my niece's Nutcracker?”
