Chapter 5
Lily
The alarm went off at six Saturday morning, but I was already wired.
I laced up my Nikes, secured my ponytail, and clipped my Walkman to my hip.
“What a Feeling” from Flashdance pumped through my headphones as I hit Mulberry Street, dodging sprinklers and nodding to the early-morning mail carrier.
This was my championship game day. No holding back.
Back at the house, I showered fast, then cranked Salt-N-Pepa in the kitchen.
“Push It” blasted through the speakers—perfect soundtrack for the mission ahead.
My blender whirred pink with strawberries and protein powder while I reviewed my sketches.
When the beat dropped, I spun across the linoleum, wooden spoon microphone in hand, hair still dripping.
I shimmied down the hall and flung open my garment bag with theatrical flair.
Strappy heels: too flimsy. Slingbacks: too schoolmarm. Then, black patent stilettos that clicked like breaking glass. Perfect with the tailored pantsuit and silver camisole underneath—just enough shimmer to signal I meant business.
Accessories mattered. Thin silver choker, diamond studs, chunky watch. The Prada briefcase waiting on the bed was the crown jewel. I snapped it open, tucked in my foam boards, Sharpies, and my sketchpad, then clicked it shut like sealing a deal.
At the dresser mirror, I twisted my platinum hair up, leaving one strategic strand loose.
Red lipstick—not Friday night's gloss, but boardroom war paint—went on in a single swipe. I’d worked hard to create this version of myself, and I wasn’t about to let anyone forget it.
I wanted the board to see that I was serious about my ideas, that I was more than just the city girl they might think I was.
I tossed on my sunglasses and gave myself one last look. MTV flash meets Vogue boardroom. Time to give this town a makeover it didn’t know it needed.
The community center was easy enough to find—everything in Willowbrook was. One main street, a few side roads, and suddenly you’d arrived wherever you were going before you had time to second-guess it.
Through the narrow window of the community center door, I surveyed my battlefield: board members lined behind tables stacked with papers, an empty podium center stage, three easels waiting for my pitch.
For a second, my stomach dipped—the familiar helium-balloon feeling of every new town, every new pitch. What if they didn’t buy it? What if I poured my heart into this project only to be dismissed the way I’d been dismissed a hundred times growing up—temporary, disposable, easy to forget?
I couldn’t handle that kind of rejection. Not again. I’d built my whole life on being flawless, necessary, worth keeping.
If I failed here, it wouldn’t just be about the fair; it would feel like slipping back into the shadows, unseen and unwanted, in a place that still felt foreign enough to swallow me whole.
I forced the thought down, tightened my grip on my briefcase, smoothed my tailored jacket, and gave myself a quick smile in the reflection of the glass door. “You’ve got this, Lily. It’s showtime.” With that thought, I pushed open the door, ready to face whatever came next.
The room fell silent. Flannel shirts and sensible shoes stared at my stilettos and red lips. The contrast wasn’t subtle, and I didn’t mind. I’d always believed a little shock value worked in my favor.
Carol sat in the second row, white curls catching the light. Her encouraging nod—pure retired schoolteacher—eased my shoulders instantly. In the back, Kayla grinned like I was her favorite celebrity while Jason humored her with a lazy wave.
The rest of the room was pure small-town America—farmers in work clothes, high school sweethearts grown older together, a mother with a restless toddler.
But mixed in with the curiosity were a few tight smiles, folded arms, and sidelong glances that said loud and clear: who does this city girl think she is?
All eyes tracked my city heels across the floor.
And then I spotted him at the board table.
The guy whose truck I’d backed into the other morning. My stomach dropped, heat rushing straight to my cheeks.
He looked even hotter today—no ball cap, just light brown hair pushed back in that effortless way that suggested he’d run a hand through it once, and it had fallen perfectly into place.
He wore a crisp white button-down rolled at the sleeves, the kind of shirt that did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders or the clean lines of his chest. And without the flannel and morning sun, his eyes were even sharper—clear, steady, piercing in a way that felt unfair.
The podium suddenly felt like a barrier I had to break through, and I wondered how I was supposed to focus on my pitch with that watching me from across the room.
I could feel the weight of his stare as if it were something tangible pulling me closer.
Fine. Two could play that game. I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my jacket once more, and let a smile curve across my mouth—the one I saved for high-stakes clients and rooms that needed winning over.
But as I held his gaze, a spark flickered between us, electrifying the air.
He could glower all he wanted. I had a show to run, and I wasn’t about to flinch, even if the intensity of his stare threatened to unravel me.
I reached the podium, set my briefcase down, flipped it open, and slid out the first foam board, propping it on the easel.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Lily Harper, and I want to ask you something: What does the Willowbrook County Fair mean to you?
To me, it’s not just an event; it’s the heartbeat of your community—full of heart and rich in history.
But lately, it’s lost its momentum, and that’s a problem we can’t ignore. ”
A ripple went through the room. I caught Lynn’s approving nod, Kayla leaning forward in her seat, Jason elbowing her with a grin. Across the table, one of the older board members, whose name tag read ‘J. Jenkins’, tilted his head like I’d just told him his barn was condemned.
“Here’s the truth: attendance has been dropping for five straight years. Last year’s fair brought in around thirty thousand dollars. The target is eighty. That gap isn’t just a number—it’s the difference between keeping vital programs alive or letting them shrink.”
Mr. Jenkins muttered something under his breath; Lynn shot him a look that could’ve hushed a classroom.
I lifted the second board, my logo blazing in neon—a guitar threaded with a crescent moon.
“So, what do we do? We rebrand.” I paused, letting the word settle before I leaned in.
“Daytime at the fair stays the same. The tractors in the lot, the pie contests, the 4-H kids who’ve worked all year for that ribbon, the booths selling quilts, honey, kettle corn—those are untouchable.
That’s the heartbeat of Willowbrook. That’s what everyone here knows and loves. ”
I let my hand move to the next foam board, sliding it onto the easel with a sharp click.
“But nights? That’s where we transform. Picture it: the fairgrounds lit up like a concert venue.
A stage at the center, sound carrying across the fields.
Local bands opening, high school kids getting their moment.
Then, regional acts that pull in a crowd from the next county over.
Maybe even a name big enough to make the drive from Columbus worth it.
People come for the music, and while they’re here, they ride the rides, they buy the food, they fill the donation jars. We turn every dollar into three.”
Whispers rippled through the room. Kayla's excited "oh wow" clashed with an older gentleman's skeptical mutter and a stern woman's dismissive "We've always done it this way."
My favorite gas station critic, Ethan—according to his nametag—sat back, arms folded, jaw tight, like the word neon personally offended him. A rush of warmth swept over me, igniting an unexpected thrill that I quickly squashed down. Focus, Lily.
I let the smile sharpen just a notch. “Here’s the math.
At twenty dollars a ticket, three nights of shows with a thousand people each night nets sixty thousand.
Add booth revenue—conservative estimate, another twenty thousand.
Merchandise? Glow sticks, t-shirts, branded cups—we’re talking five to ten on top of that.
And sponsors? Snapple, Coke, local banks—they love events that look young and electric.
I’ve already got a short list of contacts I can call tomorrow. ”
I tapped the corner of the board. “That’s how we hit eighty thousand. Not wishful thinking, but a real strategy. This isn’t about turning your fair into something it’s not. It’s about turning what it already is into something people drive miles to be part of.”
A couple of board members leaned forward, interest sparking. One of the women in the front row actually smiled. Jenkins shook his head, lips pressed into a line. Ethan didn’t blink.
“This isn’t a dream. This is what I do. I’ve rebranded museum openings, street festivals, even a three-day New York food fair that went from half-empty to standing room only. And every time, I walked away with results.”
I pulled up the last board: a mock-up poster, bold and bright, tagline splashed across the top.
“Summerfest: Where Music Meets Summer. The fair everyone remembers, but amplified. Because we’re not just throwing a party.
We’re funding foster care programs, after-school tutoring, senior services, and other community projects.
This isn’t about glitter for glitter’s sake.
It’s about using the spotlight to make sure no one in Willowbrook gets left in the dark. ”