Page 33 of Just The Way You Aren't

And right now, he’s all mine.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Willow. You can get tangled up in your feelings for him after you do what you came here to do. Raise awareness for Silver Hearts and get some of these rich people to write some big checks for the organization.

“You’ve gone somewhere,” Damien states as the third song in a row picks up. He shows no intention of leaving the dance floor and I try not to read into that too much. “Don’toverthink it tonight, Willow. Your speech is going to be great.”

“Yes. My speech.” I force a small smile. “How’d you know?”

His shoulder lifts in a slight shrug as we turn in a slow circle together. The faces of the onlooking crowd are blurry in my peripheral, blending with the hazy lights of chandeliers and candles. I could get lost here forever.

“You have that look in your eyes when you’re focused,” he says. “Trust me. You’ve got this. You have nothing to worry about.”

Sure, I do. But my main worry isn’t the speech. It’s this moment eventually coming to an end. I crave his touch and his presence, and every second feels achingly fleeting. The way I feel in his arms, like I belong here and like he wants me here too, is unlocking something inside me that’s been simmering since we met. If we just have a little more time together, I know it will catch fire.

But we aren’t given the luxury of more time.

A silver-haired man with a pleasant expression taps Damien on the shoulder. “Sorry to intrude, but it’s time, Ms. Harper.”

“Time?” I say, blinking my way out of my reverie.

The man grins. “For your talk. We would like all the speakers to join us on stage for the opening announcements and proceedings.”

I swallow and just barely manage to break eye contact with Damien. “I guess this is it.”

“I’ll walk you there,” he says. “Don’t worry. You’ve got this.”

As we make our way toward the front of the ballroom, he holds his arm lightly around my waist then escorts me up the few short steps to the stage.

Once he’s back down in the crowd, I find a seat on thestage next to the other speakers. There aren’t many of us, only three, including the silver-haired man who is clearly the host of the evening. He assumes his position at the podium to welcome everyone to the gala and thank them for coming before he moves through general housekeeping, laying out how the events of the evening will transpire, including meals and drinks, as well as the lineup of guest speakers. Naturally, I’m last, which gives me ample time to fidget with my hands in my lap while my palms grow increasingly sweatier.

My name echoes in my ears and I realize I’ve just been invited up to the lectern. My heart hammers in my ears, each drum a reminder of the importance of this going well. With luck, I make it to the podium in my heels and never falter.

I clear my throat and look out at the crowd. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen…”

The words dry up on my tongue. I can hear my carefully crafted remarks in my head. I’ve gone over them a hundred times, memorizing every word. But I can’t say them now.

I stand there, feeling the awkward silence stretch out around me.

Movement in the sea of well-dressed important people catches my eye. My attention snaps toward it and I see that Damien has risen to his feet. My thundering pulse suddenly slows and my vision tunnels onto him as he looks at me across the huge room.

CHAPTER 12

WILLOW

Damien gives me an encouraging nod and easy smile, but I’m not nervous anymore. Well, maybe a little bit. But more than that, I’ve suddenly realized my prepared speech isn’t what I want to say at all. It’s stuffy and generic. It’s the sort of thing these wealthy people hear all the time when people are asking for money for this organization or that one.

I squeeze the edges of the lectern, then take one step back.

Damien’s eyes widen and I can tell he’s prepared to leap over all the other attendees and catch me. I’m hoping I won’t need him to, but I’m grateful for the support.

Keeping one hand on the lectern to steady myself, I slowly step out in front of it. The ballroom is all hushed, everyone staring at me as though I’ve lost my marbles.

“Sorry,” I say with a wide smile. “Heels aren’t really my thing.”

A low chuckle goes through the crowd and Damien takes that as his cue to come up beside me and support me—hemoves like a cat through the crowd, all grace and purpose, before taking the stairs two at a time to join me on the stage and hold me against his side.

Keep it together girl.

“Thanks,” I tell him. Then I raise my voice, facing the donors of the Alzheimer’s Search for the Cure charity event. “Today, I sat with a woman who is on oxygen and homebound because her insurance hasn’t authorized a portable oxygen concentrator for her yet. She’s been waiting for months. Just three blocks away, the man she loves lives in a similar situation. Every day, when I pass, he asks me to say ‘hi’ to her for him. And every day, when I get to her house, he calls so they can watch Family Feud together over FaceTime. I want so badly to give them both enough oxygen tubing so it can stretch to a park where they could sit together and hold hands. But I can’t do that because I also need new bingo cards for the senior dementia day program we host as a respite for caregivers out in the community. And I need to make sure there are enough mashed potatoes to cover all our meals.”

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