“A moment that costs eight thousand dollars and leaves a puddle.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I can negotiate it down to six thousand.”
“Or we could spend six thousand dollars on something that doesn't melt.”
He flips through my proposal. “The beneficiary video wall. That stays. The scholarship fund visualization. That matters. Ice swans?” He looks up, and those blue eyes are sharper than I expected. “That's performing generosity instead of being generous.”
I want to argue. The ice sculpture would be beautiful—a tree with doves, symbolic and elegant. But he's not wrong. Eight thousand dollars is two months of after-school programming.
“Fine. No ice sculpture.” I make a note on my tablet.
“What's next?” he asks.
“The holiday tree,” I say, bracing myself.
“Do we need one?”
He says it with the same skepticism he uses to challenge quarterly projections. I'm learning this tone—it's his opening position, not his final offer.
“It's December. It's a holiday gala.”
“It's a fundraising event that happens to fall in December.” He leans back in his chair. “I'm not against joy, Holly. I'm against the theater of joy when it's hollow.”
The way he says my name—casual, like we've been working together for months instead of days—makes me fumble with my stylus.
“People expect certain things at a winter gala,” I manage. “The tree, the lights, the seasonal touches. Those expectations aren't inherently bad.”
“They're not inherently good either.” But he's already moving on, flipping to the next page. “Tell me about the caterer.”
I dive into my research—the chef's background, their commitment to local sourcing, the tasting menu I've arranged for next week. Evan listens without interrupting, taking notes in precise handwriting that somehow matches his personality. Controlled and exact.
When I finish, he nods once. “Schedule the tasting. Invite the board's event committee. Their input matters.”
Not ‘my input matters,’ but their input. He's already decided I'm capable and moved on to the next checkpoint.
“Done,” I say. “Anything else?”
He glances at his watch—expensive, understated, probably something vintage and Swiss. “I have a call in ten minutes. Send me the updated budget by the end of the day?”
“Already in your inbox.”
“But I only just asked you to remove the ice sculpture.”
“I updated it while you were talking. Reallocated those funds to the scholarship visualization display—the interactive screens where donors can see real-time impact data. That was under-funded anyway.”
He stares at me for a beat too long. I can't read his expression.
“That's smart,” he says. “Very smart.”
I gather my things, trying not to feel absurdly pleased by his approval.
* * *
By our third meeting, I've learned his rhythms. On Mondays he's sharp, direct, all business. On Fridays he's still sharp, but tired—tie loosened by 4 PM, forgetting to be quite so controlled.
He emails at strange hours—2 AM questions about beneficiary spotlights, 6 AM follow-ups on donor outreach. I start matching his schedule without meaning to. My phone stays on my nightstand now, volume up, not because I need to answer immediately. I just like knowing when his thoughts turn to the gala.
Our next meeting is with the florist, who arrives with her portfolio and attitude. She's presenting centerpiece options—lush, expensive, stunning.
