It was such an unexpected greeting that it pulled a small smile out of him. “I look forward to you trying.”
And then there was no one left to greet but Faith. Her hands were tucked into the back pockets of her jeans as she listened to one of the reporters chattering away, but when Dale called her over, the animation on her face faded to artificial politeness. She definitely didn’t look like someone who’d come on his cock in a dusty storage room twenty feet away from where white-collar Beaucoeur was sipping old-fashioneds.
“Leo, this is Faith Fox,” Dale said. “Faith, this is—”
“Oh, Leo and I go way back.” She lifted her chin in greeting, her demeanor cool compared to the smiles she’d shared with the rest of the room. Leo felt that chill to his marrow.
“Way back,” he repeated stiffly. Fucking Faith in a closet was supposed to be something anonymous, something cheap. Something to clear his head and let him move on so they could work together.
It hadn’t worked.
Dale’s eyes zipped between the two of them—Leo’s gaze hard and Faith’s politely neutral—before he clapped his hands once. “Okay, let’s… get this started.” Raising his voice, he said, “If the press would take their seats?”
With a murmur, the half dozen members of the media settled themselves into the front row while the grant recipients sat on the chairs arranged behind the podium where he’d be speaking.
His guts churned as he approached the lectern and fished his note cards out of his pocket, dropping them on the surface and gripping the wooden sides. The action jostled the Digham logo placard attached to the front, which wobbled but held on. He heard one of the reporters exhale a relieved breath.
Going well so far, obviously.
“Thank you all for coming today.” He knew he was scowling, knew his greeting sounded like a bark rather than a welcome, but hell, he was doing the best he could in front of even this small crowd. “I’m Leo Morales, and I’m Digham Foundation’s new strategic grant manager. I’d like to introduce you to two new foundation grant programs, as well as the first round of recipients.”
He gestured vaguely at the row of people behind him, feeling like the world’s least enthusiastic game show host, before he shuffled to his next note card. This one was more a crutch than a necessity.
“The community-development grant program is designed to invest Digham money back into the Beaucoeur area, where I grew up. The people of Beaucoeur have been the lifeblood of Big Dig since its founding in”—the first trickle of sweat appeared on his neck as he struggled to make sense of the year written on the card in front of him—“since it was founded.”
He glanced up to see all those eyes in the audience fixed on him, along with the red lights of the TV cameras. Clearing his throat, he shuffled to the next card.
“The foundation’s advisory board has selected the recipients behind me for the inaugural grant that they believed to be the best community ambassadors for this mission.”
As he spoke, he began to relax. He’d reviewed each of the applications, and he was comfortable talking about the merits of the recipients. One by one, he introduced the organizers in charge of the three funded programs, and they took turns stepping to the podium to give a short rundown of how they’d be using the money. Things were going smoothly, far more smoothly than he feared.
And then it was time to introduce Faith.
Before he began, he made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder. Faith was wearing her principal’s-office smile as she sat with her ankles primly crossed under her chair, and he had another flash of unreality that he was involved in this. That he’d involved her in this. As his gaze lingered, she flicked her eyes away from him as if he was the least interesting person in the room. And maybe to her he was.
He glanced down at the cards and saw that he was gripping them tightly enough to crush the edges. He smoothed them flat and began speaking.
“The, uh, the next program is a passion project of mine.” Shit, why did he use the wordpassion? It was the last thing he needed to be thinking about when it came to Faith.
Focus, fucker.
“I’m happy to say the Digham Foundation will partner with Beaucoeur BUILD to make the Dig Greener initiative a reality, and Faith Fox is here today to give an overview of the new programs her organization will be able to offer.” He swallowed hard. He’d said it out loud, in front of cameras and everything. No going back now. They were in this together.
His pulse started to beat in his ears as he glanced at the next card. It was full of numbers, which immediately turned into a jumble of meaningless shapes. What the hell had he been thinking, including this in his talking points?
“Beaucoeur’s, um, the city’s environmental footprint isn’t a small thing. The area produces carbon…”
He lifted the card up, hoping that bringing it closer would help him decipher what he’d painstakingly written out that morning.
“In terms of tons of carbon dioxide, Beaucoeur produces…”
The heavy black writing blurred into incomprehensible squiggle, and when he leaned forward to look more closely, he was so focused on the numbers marching across the paper that the center of his forehead smacked into the microphone with an aggressively audiblethunk.
The reporters in the audience chuckled softly, and this time he outright crushed the cards in his fist. But indecipherable notes would just make things worse, so he forced his fingers to relax. Unfortunately he overcorrected, and the cards fluttered to the floor.
“Maldita sea la madre que te pario,” he muttered. The curse landed directly in the microphone. Even if the reporters didn’t understand the Spanish, his meaning was clear enough, and the polite chuckles turned into out-and-out laughs.
Embarrassment burned as he stooped to collect his fucking notes. He’d known he was risking it by including as many specific numbers as he had, but he’d wanted to do a thorough job, to make a case for the threat of climate change and the importance of education and activism. Instead, he’d succeeded in sweating and stammering and concussing himself with the microphone. Maybe if he just stayed crouched behind the podium, the room would clear out and he’d never have to face those reporters with their cameras again. Good plan.
