Evan
Sleep well.
I hold the phone against my chest for a moment before responding.
You too.
Holly
My stomach performs its hourly check-in—a slow roll that starts behind my ribs and ends somewhere near my knees. It's learned this routine over the past week: anticipation, dread, and something else I refuse to name that happens when I think about Evan in a tux.
The Grand Ballroom stretches before me, almost ready. Warm light catches the camellias in each centerpiece (Catherine's favorite, according to the florist's notes from three years ago), the video wall cycles through beneficiary stories in elegant loops, the scholarship display waits to track real-time donations.
I should be checking the bar setup. Instead, I'm at the welcome table, folding programs. The paper is heavy, cream-colored, expensive. My hands need something to do or they'll shake.
“Those look good.”
I look up. Evan's here—two and a half hours early, wearing jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms are on full display as he picks up a program from the flat stack—tan muscle and a fine dusting of blond hair. I look away, count to three, focus on my own folding before I do something stupid like reach out and trace the muscle definition with my finger.
“You don't have to?—”
“I know, I want to.” He matches my rhythm without looking at the example. Fold. Crease. Stack. Repeat. “What else needs doing?”
“Nothing. Everything's on schedule.”
“Holly.”
The way his voice deepens when says my name—he’s learning all my tells.
“The place cards for table seven are in the wrong order. Mrs. Whitmore requested to be seated away from the kitchen door because of her hearing aid, but the cards have her right next to it.”
He's already crossing to table seven. I follow. We work in silence, him reading names, me placing cards. Richard Whitmore, Patricia Whitmore, Jennifer Ashford, David Brandt.
“I should go get ready,” he says, checking his watch. “So should you.”
“I will. Just need to?—”
“Holly. You’re ready. It's everything you envisioned.”
Then he's gone, and ninety minutes until guests arrive.
* * *
The next hour passes in a blur of small adjustments and smaller crises. The bartender can't find the specialty bourbon someone donated. Found it. A board member's wife needs a vegetarian meal we didn't know about. The kitchen adapts.
The doors open. Guests begin arriving.
I'm checking the video wall when I catch sight of Evan across the room in his tux. Less Fred Astaire tonight, more James Bond—everything fitted like it was painted on. He's talking to a board member, but he must sense me looking because he glances up, catches my eye.
He gives me a tiny smirk and I nearly lose my balance.
* * *
I make my way toward the entrance, where an elegant selfie wall covered in white poinsettias and fairy lights is drawing a steady stream of guests. A young woman with long brunette curls is encouraging people to pose, her phone in one hand as she demonstrates the best angle.
“Jocelyn's doing fantastic,” I say when Evan joins me. “Look at that engagement.”
“She is.” He watches his goddaughter coach a shy donor into a photo. “I was skeptical about bringing her on. Brian's daughter, family connection—what if it went badly?”
