“Is that a compliment?”
“It's an observation.” But his voice is softer now. “Also a compliment.”
My face feels hot. I blame the overhead lights.
We're sitting close enough that when he leans forward to point at a table assignment, his sleeve brushes mine. The contact is brief, barely there, but I feel it like a spark.
He's pointing out another table arrangement, talking about donor relationships, and I'm trying to focus on his words instead of the fact that his shoulder is almost touching mine. That I can feel the warmth radiating from him.
I force myself to look at the screen, to nod at the right moments, to make intelligent comments about table assignments.
But I'm acutely aware of how close we're sitting, how his rolled-up sleeves reveal forearms I shouldn't be noticing, how the late afternoon sun catches the side of his face and?—
Wait. Is that stubble? He's always clean-shaven, but right now there's the faintest shadow along his jaw.
I force my eyes back to the screen. This is work. He's a client.
Evan
The PR team has been talking for twenty minutes, and I still don't know what they want.
“Optics,” Samantha—head of our PR team and would-be matchmaker if I ever took her advice in that department—says again, like repetition will make it clearer. “The gala is your signature event. Board members, major donors, press. You need to project?—”
“Competence?” I offer. “Success? Caring about the foundation's work?”
“Stability,” she corrects. “Warmth. The kind of man people want to give money to.”
I cross my arms. “And bringing a date accomplishes this how?”
“It softens you.” She pulls up slides on the screen—photos from last year's gala. Me in a tux, shaking hands, performing the role I learned from my father. Efficient, professional, untouchable. It works for fundraising. It's terrible for everything else.
“You're brilliant at what you do, Evan. But you read as ... unapproachable. A partner makes you seem more relatable. More human.”
“I am human.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. I've heard variations since prep school. “Evan doesn't connect with his peers.” “Has Evan considered smiling?” What they don't understand is that I learned early—smiling too much, caring too much, showing excitement about anything—made me a target. Safer to be unreadable.
Now Devin from the PR team weighs in. “Your mother’s been calling. About the Pembroke girl?”
“Ainsley,” Samantha supplies helpfully. “Perfect match on paper. Both families in finance, similar social circles?—”
“I'm not interested.”
“You don't have to marry her,” Devin says. “Just bring her to a few events. Let people see you with someone appropriate.”
That word again. Appropriate.
My phone dings. Taylor’s name flashes on the screen with a message: Your mother is here.
Perfect timing.
“We're done,” I say, standing. “I'll handle the optics my own way.”
Samantha exchanges a look with Devin. They don't believe me. I don't blame them.
* * *
