“Oh, thank you.” She steadies the diaper cake, which is listing dangerously to one side. “This thing weighs approximately one thousand pounds.”
“It's the diapers on the bottom tier—they're not distributed evenly. Here—” I shift a few diapers, and the whole thing stabilizes. “There.”
“You're saving my life. I'm Taylor,” she says.
“Holly.”
We both turn our attention back to the table, assessing our handiwork. The diaper cake stands triumphantly upright.
I survey the rest of the room.
“If I can make a suggestion,” I say, “if you move this table closer to the wall, you'll have better flow for the food line.”
She scans the length of the table, which is covered with finger sandwiches, petit fours, and an actual cake, not one made of diapers. “You're a genius.”
We rearrange a few more things—the gift table moved away from blocking the door, the balloons shifted out of the sight line to the guest of honor's chair. The room transforms from chaotic to cohesive in about three minutes.
“Are you a party planner?” Taylor asks.
“Sort of—events. I'm here for a meeting with Mr. Bellamy.”
She leans forward, my new friend, letting me in on a secret. “Look, he seems intimidating at first, but it's all an act. I'm convinced he was a golden retriever in a former life. Be yourself, and you'll be fine.”
I thank her and head back to the main lobby area, the knot in my stomach relaxing. Golden retriever. I can work with a golden retriever.
Down the hall, a door squeaks open. A tall figure fills the doorway, backlit by the wall of windows behind him.
Light brown hair. Blue eyes. Perfectly tailored suit.
“Oh. You,” I say.
“Oh. You,” he says at the same time.
This is going to be a disaster.
Evan
“Oh. You,” we both say.
For three long seconds, neither of us moves. Peppermint Mocha Girl is standing in my conference room doorway with a tablet under her arm and that same defensive tilt to her chin from the coffee shop.
She recovers first, crosses to the table and sets down her tablet. “Holly Bennett.”
“Evan Bellamy.” I gesture to the chair across from me. “Please.”
She sits. We are both trying to figure out how to proceed. She opens her tablet, adjusts her chair once, then looks up at me as if I hadn’t told her to enjoy her diabetes less than an hour ago.
“I've been planning events for five years now,” she begins. “Started with smaller community fundraisers, but over the past two years I've moved into larger-scale galas and?—”
“Hold on,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you my background?” she says it as if it should be obvious.
“Why would I need your background?”
Her fingers pause on the tablet. A small crease forms between her eyebrows. “Because ... this is a pitch meeting?”
I reach for the folder my assistant left on my desk this morning. Flip it open, scan the first page. Contract. Already drafted. Signature lines waiting at the bottom.
