“These are beautiful,” I say, “but they're blocking sightlines. Guests won't be able to see each other across the table, which defeats the purpose of assigned seating.”
The florist bristles. “These are our signature arrangements.”
“They're too tall,” Evan says, not looking up from his phone. “Holly's right. Low centerpieces or elevated ones with clear stems. Nothing that impedes conversation.”
The florist turns to him, ready to argue with the person who's actually paying her.
“Ms. Bennett is running this event.” Still typing. “Her call.”
My diaphragm stages a revolt, but I keep my face neutral.
After the florist leaves—agreeing to low arrangements with what I suspect is a significant markup for the inconvenience—I catch Evan's eye.
“Thank you for backing me up.”
“I wasn't backing you up. You were right.” He closes his laptop. “You’re here to make these decisions. That’s the job.”
“Most clients second-guess everything.”
“Most clients don't trust their hires.” He stands, reaches for his suit jacket draped over the chair. I try not to notice how tall he is, how he moves like someone who’s never questioned whether he belongs in a space. “When the board hired you, I looked you up. Your events consistently exceed their fundraising goals with style. You made a dog rescue's Yappy Hour actually work. You know what you're doing. I'm not going to waste time pretending otherwise.”
He shrugs into his jacket, and I'm aware now that we're alone in the conference room. That his words are still sitting warm in my chest. That the afternoon light from the windows makes his hair look more ginger than brown.
“Same time Friday?” he asks.
“I'll send the agenda tonight.”
“You always do.”
He's almost to the door when he pauses. “Holly?”
“Yeah?”
“The tree. Get the tree. Just—make it mean something. Not because we're supposed to have one. Because it adds something real.”
Then he's gone, and I'm left wondering how someone who questions every holiday tradition just gave me permission to make the holidays meaningful.
* * *
Three weeks in, and we're reviewing the seating chart on my tablet between us. His tie is already loosened, jacket abandoned.
“You put Senator Bradford next to Dr. Okafor.”
“They both sit on the Medical Research Foundation board. Common ground.”
“Smart.” He keeps scrolling. “And you separated the Vanderbilts from the Harpers.”
“They're on opposite sides of a biotech acquisition. Keeping them at different table clusters avoids awkward conversation.”
“How did you know that?”
“I read the business section.” I shrug.
“You're very good at this.”
“You've said that before.”
“I mean it more now.” He zooms back out, reviewing the full floor plan. “You see the relationships, not just the logistics. That's rare.”
