What comes out instead is, “That's brilliant.”
Her face relaxes—relief, I think. “You think so?”
“I know so.” Did my voice just pitch up? I take a breath. “This is exactly what we need.”
“Good.” She exhales, and I catch another glimpse of the nerves she's been trying to hide. “I've been researching even more of your beneficiaries, and with your team's help, I'd like to reach out to some.”
Of course she has. She's not just competent—she's thorough. She cares about getting this right.
I stand, extend my hand across the table. “Welcome to the team, Ms. Bennett.”
She stands too, shakes my hand. Her grip is firm, confident. “Holly.”
“Holly,” I repeat. Her hand is warm in mine, and I'm suddenly aware we've been shaking hands for too long. I let go and step back. “We should schedule weekly check-ins. Mondays work?”
“Mondays are perfect.”
“Nine AM?”
“I'll be here.”
Professional. Businesslike. Everything this should be.
She gathers her tablet, picks up the contract folder, and tucks it under her arm. Heads for the door.
She's almost out when I say, “The coffee thing. Earlier.”
She turns back, one hand on the doorframe.
“I was out of line,” I say. Why am I saying this? “Drink whatever you want.”
She looks at me with amusement. And is that an actual twinkle in her eye? “I know,” she says. “I was going to anyway.”
Then she's gone, and the conference room smells like peppermint and chocolate. I'm suddenly feeling very warm.
I return to my desk, pull up my calendar. Monday at nine. Five weeks to pull off a gala that could define the foundation's next decade.
Five weeks working closely with someone whose eyes actually twinkle and who just pitched me the best event concept I've heard in five years.
Taylor pokes her head in. “She seems great!”
“She knows what she's doing,” I say, not looking up from my screen.
“Just that?”
“That's all that matters.” Right?
Holly
“The ice sculpture.”
Evan’s pen stills mid-note, hovering above his notepad. We're in our first real planning session, and I'm starting to learn his silences. This one means absolutely not.
“It's a winter gala,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Ice sculptures are traditional.”
“Ice sculptures are waste masquerading as elegance. They melt. We photograph them for Instagram, they drip onto the floor for four hours, then they're gone.” He taps his pen against the notepad three times. “What's the point?”
“The point is beauty. Celebration. Creating a moment.”
