Chapter 11 Holly
Holly
My stomach performs its hourly check-in—a slow roll that starts behind my ribs and ends somewhere near my knees. It's learned this routine over the past week: anticipation, dread, and something else I refuse to name that happens when I think about Evan in a tux.
The Grand Ballroom stretches before me, almost ready.
Warm light catches the camellias in each centerpiece (Catherine's favorite, according to the florist's notes from three years ago), the video wall cycles through beneficiary stories in elegant loops, the scholarship display waits to track real-time donations.
I should be checking the bar setup. Instead, I'm at the welcome table, folding programs. The paper is heavy, cream-colored, expensive. My hands need something to do or they'll shake.
“Those look good.”
I look up. Evan's here—two and a half hours early, wearing jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His forearms are on full display as he picks up a program from the flat stack—tan muscle and a fine dusting of blond hair.
I look away, count to three, focus on my own folding before I do something stupid like reach out and trace the muscle definition with my finger.
“You don't have to—”
“I know, I want to.” He matches my rhythm without looking at the example. Fold. Crease. Stack. Repeat. “What else needs doing?”
“Nothing. Everything's on schedule.”
“Holly.”
The way his voice deepens when says my name—he’s learning all my tells.
“The place cards for table seven are in the wrong order. Mrs. Whitmore requested to be seated away from the kitchen door because of her hearing aid, but the cards have her right next to it.”
He's already crossing to table seven. I follow. We work in silence, him reading names, me placing cards. Richard Whitmore, Patricia Whitmore, Jennifer Ashford, David Brandt.
“I should go get ready,” he says, checking his watch. “So should you.”
“I will. Just need to—”
“Holly. You’re ready. It's everything you envisioned.”
Then he's gone, and ninety minutes until guests arrive.
The next hour passes in a blur of small adjustments and smaller crises. The bartender can't find the specialty bourbon someone donated. Found it. A board member's wife needs a vegetarian meal we didn't know about. The kitchen adapts.
The doors open. Guests begin arriving.
I'm checking the video wall when I catch sight of Evan across the room in his tux. Less Fred Astaire tonight, more James Bond—everything fitted like it was painted on. He's talking to a board member, but he must sense me looking because he glances up, catches my eye.
He gives me a tiny smirk and I nearly lose my balance.
I make my way toward the entrance, where an elegant selfie wall covered in white poinsettias and fairy lights is drawing a steady stream of guests. A young woman with long brunette curls is encouraging people to pose, her phone in one hand as she demonstrates the best angle.
“Jocelyn's doing fantastic,” I say when Evan joins me. “Look at that engagement.”
“She is.” He watches his goddaughter coach a shy donor into a photo. “I was skeptical about bringing her on. Brian's daughter, family connection—what if it went badly?”
“But?”
“But Brian insisted she knew social media. Apparently she has over 150,000 followers on something called BookTok?”
“Book recommendations on TikTok. It’s huge,” I said. “I planned an author event last spring, and her BookTok following sold out three hundred seats in two hours.”
He looks at me like I'm speaking another language. “You know about BookTok?”
“It's part of my job to know where people pay attention.”
“Right.” He's studying Jocelyn now, who's got a cluster of younger donors laughing as they take group selfies.
“You know,” I say, “Evergreen Books is having a bunch of events this Saturday as part of the holiday festival. Holiday romances, local authors, that kind of thing. You should mention it to her—might be fun content for her BookTok.”
“Fun content.” He repeats it like he's learning a new phrase. “Is that what we're calling it?”
“That's the lingo.”
“You're very thoughtful. I'll mention it—I'm sure she'd love to come.”
Thirty minutes in, I'm near the board table when someone mentions expanding internationally.
“We've considered it,” a board member says, “but the overhead would be astronomical. Better to focus resources locally.”
From a few seats over, Evan catches my eye. He raises one eyebrow, so subtle no one else would notice. We both know that board member just returned from buying his third yacht. Talk about astronomical overhead, his expression says.
I have to bite my cheek not to laugh.
Later, Margaret Carrington—a donor I've never met but who has strong opinions—corners me near the donation display. “I don't understand why we need all these videos and personal stories. Can't people just write checks?”
Before I can answer, Evan appears.
“Margaret, I see you’ve met Holly. She's the visionary behind tonight's approach.” He catches my eye—you’ve got this—then turns back to Margaret. “Holly, Margaret has questions about the beneficiary integration. I told her you're the expert.”
He doesn't leave. Doesn't hover. Just stays close while I explain donor psychology. When Margaret starts to interrupt, he shifts slightly—nothing aggressive, just enough to remind her I'm still speaking.
She's been going on for ten minutes when Evan smoothly interjects, “Margaret, I believe Richard was looking for you by the bar. Something about your symphony season tickets?”
With that, Margaret is gone, and I exhale for what feels like the first time.
“You were brilliant,” Evan murmurs.
“You rescued me.”
“Please. You had her eating out of your hand.”
“She was trying to eat ME.”
“I just expedited the exit.” He reaches past me for a champagne glass. My shoulder brushes his chest and I lose the rest of my sentence.
“I was—what was I saying?”
His mouth quirks up. “Something about being eaten.”
“Right. That. I should check on—something.”
“The donation display is right there,” he supplies helpfully, nodding toward it.
“That. Yes.”
Before I can escape, a hand catches my arm.
“Holly, dear! Evan, darling! How wonderful to find you both together.”
Mabel Bellamy—sharp eyes, burgundy silk, the kind of presence that makes mayors nervous.
“Aunt Mabel,” Evan says. “You made it.” “I never miss my godson’s events.” She surveys the room with satisfaction, then turns to me. “Holly, everything is magnificent. I'm so pleased you worked out.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bellamy. I'm grateful the board took a chance on me with such a tight timeline.”
“A chance? Oh dear, didn't anyone mention? I've had my eye on you since my friend's Yappy Hour event last spring. When the foundation needed someone for the gala, I called Richard and told him exactly who to hire. The board always listens to me. One of the perks of being the founder's sister.”
I feel Evan shift beside me. “You told Richard to hire her?”
“Let's call it a strong recommendation.” Mabel's smile is pure innocence. “The board chose her unanimously based on her portfolio. I just ... ensured they saw it.”
“You orchestrated this,” I say.
“From the beginning,” Evan adds.
Mabel looks between us, delighted. “And look how perfectly it worked out. You two make quite the team.” She pats Evan's cheek. “Your speech is soon, darling. Try not to be boring.”
She glides away toward the head table. Evan and I stand there, processing.
“She played us,” I say.
“She absolutely played us,” Evan agrees.
“I earned this job. My pitch, my ideas—”
“You did. The board loves your work.”
“So she just created the opportunity.”
“And we chose what to do with it.”
I'm adjusting the microphone for Evan's speech when Britney waves from across the room. She's wearing the deep purple cocktail dress we picked out together last week, touching her necklace in quick, nervous taps like she's making sure it's still there.
I cross to her quickly.
“Monday's the big day,” I say, squeezing her hand. “First day of nursing residency.”
“I'm terrified I'll forget everything. What if I blank on basic medical terminology? What if they realize I don't belong there?”
“You want to know about my first big gala?” I lean in to whisper. “I called the donor by his dog's name. For the entire evening. His name was Robert. The dog was Mr. Wellington.”
Britney laughs—a real laugh, not the polite one she's been using all evening.
“You didn't.”
“I did. Mixed him up with his dog. And you know what? He donated anyway. Because I was good at my job, even if I was mortal enough to confuse him with his Pomeranian.” I meet her eyes. “You're going to be brilliant. And on the days you're not brilliant, you'll be learning. That's the whole point.”
“The imposter syndrome is real though.”
“So real. But here's the thing—we both belong here. You in that hospital. Me in this ballroom. Even when our brains try to convince us otherwise.”
She straightens her shoulders. “Mr. Bellamy wants to introduce me to people.”
“Only if you're comfortable. No pressure—”
“No, I want to. I want to do this.”
Catherine materializes and steps toward us.
“I wanted to take a moment and say hello,” she says to Britney, taking her hand. “My husband William would have been so proud to meet you.”
The unexpected warmth in Catherine’s voice takes Britney a moment to process. She just squeezes Catherine’s hand back.
EVAN
The board president signals that it's time for my speech.
“Ready?” Holly asks, appearing at my side.
“Always,” I say, echoing her earlier response.
She reaches up to adjust my tie even though it doesn't need adjusting. Her fingers brush my collar and my pulse stutters like I'm sixteen again.
“Go be impressive,” she says.
I step up to the microphone. The only sound is someone setting down their champagne flute.
“Good evening. Thank you all for being here.”