Chapter 3 - Holly
Holly
“The ice sculpture.”
Evan’s pen stills mid-note, hovering above his notepad. We're in our first real planning session, and I'm starting to learn his silences. This one means absolutely not.
“It's a winter gala,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Ice sculptures are traditional.”
“Ice sculptures are waste masquerading as elegance. They melt. We photograph them for Instagram, they drip onto the floor for four hours, then they're gone.” He taps his pen against the notepad three times. “What's the point?”
“The point is beauty. Celebration. Creating a moment.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.