Chapter 3
Otto
My Lucky Day!
I mentally fist pump the air while my heart does a happy dance at this plot twist. When Dean Hutchinson asked me to be the business school’s rep for the inclusive park fundraiser, I was all “heck yeah!” and now I’m practically doing backflips. I can’t believe my luck that out of the multitude of law school students, I get to work with gorgeous Mia—the woman I totally missed the shot on goal with at Levi’s party. The romance gods have tossed me a second chance and I’m going to grab it with both hands.
“Shall we layout the tasks and make assignments?” Mia asks in a crisp tone, breaking the silence in the room and drawing my eyes to her.
Wowza! Is she ever rocking that suit. It’s even sexier than the one she wore to Levi’s party. She gives off a prim and proper librarian vibe, but the tight-fitting skirt shows off her mile long legs and that blouse gives a tantalizing peek of cleavage every now and then.
She clears her throat. Oops! I’ve been caught staring.
“Tasks and assignments? Sure, lay them on me and I’ll tell you which ones I’m game for.” I cross my arms over my chest and lean back in my chair, waiting for her to respond to my comment, which I meant in jest, but know she’ll take the wrong way.
What about her makes me want to ruffle her prim and proper feathers?
She doesn’t disappoint. “Mr. Stagmeier, I feel that we should negotiate the tasks so that we assign them to the person best skilled to complete them,” she huffs.
Barking out a laugh, I say, “Oh? Rather than arm wrestle for them?”
She scowls while I suppress another laugh. Mia is so predictable.
“Please call me Otto,” I add, but Mia ignores my request. She purses her lips, focuses her eyes intently on her laptop and begins typing furiously.
Time to ruffle more feathers.
I waltz around the table, snagging the chair next to her. Glancing up, her eyes widen when I lean closer to look over her shoulder. She smells so good—a combination of vanilla and citrus floats from her skin— I fight the urge to run my lips up her neck.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I thought we were going to negotiate tasks? Looks like you’re assigning them.” After reading the screen for a few seconds, I shake my head, make a scolding tsk tsk sound, and point to the spreadsheet.
“Explore gala venues and secure one – Mia.”
"Personally taste-test every dessert option twice – Mia."
"Train pigeons to deliver invitations – Otto."
She throws me a quizzical look, then squints at the screen. “Pigeons? Where does it say that?”
“Right here,” I reply, pointing my index finger to a random row in the spreadsheet. “Betwee n ‘ Ensure all flowers are perfectly symmetrical – Mia’ and ‘Polish every fork and spoon until they sparkle – Mia.’”
Our eyes lock and I detect a small twitch of her lips. She has a sense of humor after all! Taking that as a positive sign that she won’t whack me over the head with her laptop, I continue, making up tasks, each one more ridiculous than the previous.
“Oh wait! I forgot these, ‘Count every single thread in the tablecloths – Otto.’ And here’s a good one, ‘Manually fan all the VIPs to keep them cool – Otto.’” Gazing into her beautiful blue eyes, I say in a deadpan tone, “Thanks for assigning me all the important tasks.”
A couple chuckles escape, she rolls her eyes, then grins. “Okay, Mr. Stagmeier, point taken. Shall we look through the real list and make assignments?”
I nod, readjusting my roller chair so I’m no longer encroaching on her personal space. She swivels her laptop so I can see the spreadsheet and she starts to read.
“Explore gala venues, select and secure one. Shall we do that one together?” she offers.
“Sure, as long as you don’t think I’ll be too big of a distraction.”
Tilting her head, she stares at me as if she’s trying to read my mind. “Distraction? How so?”
“Oh, you know. Good looking hockey player with a sense of humor. I might actually make this task...fun,” I say with a flirty wink.
She snorts. “Mr. Stagmeier, your confidence is eclipsed only by your ego.”
My brows draw together. Is that an insult or a compliment? “So, that’s a yes? We’ll select the gala venue together?”
“Yes,” she mutters while updating the spreadsheet.
Huh? That was a little too easy. It feels like she relented on this task so that I won’t fight her on other tasks. Little does she know; I don’t give up that easily.
“Have you thought about what our theme should be?” she asks, glancing up from her laptop.
“As soon as Dean Hutchinson described the event, I started dreaming up themes,” I say.
One of her perfectly manicured eyebrows arches upward. “And? Do you care to share what you’ve dreamt up?”
Her haughty tone suggests that anything I propose will be overruled, so I toss out some clunkers. “How about a pajama party or a silly socks soiree?”
“To raise a million dollars?” she squeaks.
I tap my chin. “Oh right, silly me. Rich people want to wear fancy clothes, eat expensive food, and dance all night.”
She sighs. “Mr. Stagmeier, don’t you think the theme should reflect the cause?”
Her persistent use of my formal address evokes a frown. “Why do you continue to call me Mr. Stagmeier? How about using Otto?”
“Otto it is,” she says with a shrug.
That was too easy, I expected more of a fuss. Another magnanimous acquiescence on her part, all to try and knock me off my game.
“Okay, back to discussing the theme. Yes, I agree, the theme should reflect the cause,” I say.
“Inclusion Gala?” Mia suggests.
“Too boring. How about Celebration of Abilities?” I toss out.
Her nose wrinkles. “Too vague. Would you know you were attending a fundraiser for a park?”
“Probably not,” I admit with a touch of chagrin.
We stare at each other for several beats, neither one of us makes another suggestion, so it’s obvious we’ve come to a stalemate over the theme. I need to get my creative juices flowing, but Mia’s uptight attitude seems to drain the creativity right out of my body.
“We can come back to the theme later. Let’s continue assigning tasks,” she suggests, breaking eye contact.
For the next excruciating thirty minutes, Mia and I spar over who gets assigned each task. I wrestle a few away from her—designing the gala flyers and invitations is mine, along with using social media, email campaigns, and local radio station advertising to market the event.
“I don’t do social media,” Mia declares with a huff.
She also gives me some more mundane stuff like procuring the photographer and ensuring we have the necessary audio/visual equipment at the venue. I stifle a yawn.
“How are we actually going to raise the funds?” I ask.
“The attendees pay for a ticket to attend, of course,” Mia replies smoothly.
“Not so fast,” I say, holding up a restraining hand. “We need to consider how much to charge per ticket and how many attendees must attend to get to one million.” I swipe my phone out of my pocket and bring up the calculator. “Let’s say we charge $350 per ticket.”
“That seems a bit pricey. We better have a fabulous meal,” Mia chimes in.
“Bear with me,” I say as I key in the calculation. “At $350 per ticket, we’ll have to sell more than 2,800 tickets to raise one million dollars.”
“Sounds daunting,” Mia admits, with a frown. “So, we’ll need a supplemental form of fundraising. How about a silent auction? We can get donations of specialty, one-of-a-kind items.”
“Like a Golden Stars jersey?” I quip. “Especially one with Stagmeier on the back. That should bring in a cool quarter million.”
Rolling her eyes, Mia says, “Does your ego have no bounds?”
This woman needs to lighten up.
Letting her insult slide off my back, I say, “Let’s make it a contest. For the next week, we’ll both solicit unique items to be donated for the silent auction. Fill-in your items on the spreadsheet so we don’t duplicate. And I’ll do the same. Whoever procures the item that raises the most money wins.”
“Is everything a competition to you?” she asks as she types the idea into the task list.
“ Duh . That’s why I play hockey.”
I expect her to say something derogatory about the game, but she doesn’t.
“Very well. We’ll make it a contest. But I plan to win,” she says with a determined glint in her eye.
Winning her over is also a contest that I hope to win, but I keep silent about that.
“Game on,” I say. The gauntlet is thrown. After I extend my hand, we shake, and a zap of attraction runs up my arm. Her expression remains neutral, so I wonder if this chemistry I’m feeling is one-sided.
“I’ll share the spreadsheet and we’ll reconvene next week to review progress,” she says as she snaps her laptop shut.
“When are we going to visit venues?” I ask.
A guilty look crosses her face as she bites her lower lip and glares at me.
“Let’s see, you were going to do an end run and select the venue by yourself, weren’t you?”
“When are you available for this venue selection trip?” she counters without blinking an eye.
Suppressing a snort, I say, “I’ll share my calendar and you can select a time that is convenient for you.” With that parting shot, I stand and saunter out of the room.
“Fine!” she yells at my retreating back.
Even though I enjoy sparring with the persnickety law student, it is exhausting. I need to go home and regroup. Maybe take a nap or eat a pizza.