Page 79 of Just The Way You Aren't

Not the least of which being how genuinely invested he is in the Silver Hearts fundraiser. He’s been determined to help despite his own packed schedule. It's dangerous how good he looks sitting on my office floor, organizing sponsorship packets while insisting I take a break.

God, I'm falling for him so hard. The realization really hit me a few nights ago when he fixed our office label printer—the one that's been jamming for months. Damien had this look of intense concentration, tongue between his teeth, and when the machine finally worked he grinned at me like he'd just closed a multibillion-dollar deal. Who gets butterflies from office equipment repair? Apparently, me.

Yup. There’s no point in trying to deny it. I’m falling in love with Damien Langley.

Already there, if I’m being honest with myself.

By the time I reach the office, three more crises have materialized. The auction items from the Berkshire artists arestuck in transit due to a truck breakdown. The photographer fractured his hand at a bar last night. And someone from The Plaza is calling about our permits.

"Deep breaths," Abby says, handing me coffee. "We can fix this."

"Right. Fix this. Absolutely." I take a sip and immediately burn my tongue. "Ow! Why is everything going wrong?"

Abby winces. "Mercury in retrograde? Murphy's Law? Though I prefer to think of it as the universe testing us."

"Well, the universe needs to find a new hobby." I grab my phone as it rings again. "Silver Hearts, Willow speaking."

"Ms. Harper? This is Janet from Artistic Arrangements. I'm afraid there's been an accident with your centerpiece delivery."

This cannot be happening. My heart sinks. Those centerpieces feature handmade items from our seniors—Mrs. Inoue’s origami cranes, Mr. Rodriguez's miniature paintings, Betty's crocheted flowers. I pinch the bridge of my nose and try not to cry. "What kind of accident are we talking about?"

"The delivery truck hit a pothole. Several boxes were damaged. We're trying to salvage what we can, but?—"

"I'll be right there." I hang up and look at Abby. "I need you to handle Mrs. Hollingsworth. Tell her we'll put the dessert table between her and Harold. Create a buffer zone."

"On it." Abby's already dialing. "What about the photographer?"

"I'll... figure something out." My phone buzzes with another text. Right. The Plaza needs to see our permits. Because of course they do.

As I drive to the florist, my mind drifts to Damien again. More and more, I find my attention turning to him when I need calm or a sense of reassurance that everything will beokay. Somehow, he’s become my emotional anchor, my safe harbor. Damien Langley, the uptight grump with the perma-scowl and the schedule so rigid it may as well have been carved in stone.

Except, that’s who he used to be. It’s not who I see when I look at him now.

And the way he looks at me…

The way his gaze holds me, the way I felt when he was watching me in that boutique earlier this week, like I was the only woman in the world. I’ve never had a man look at me that way before. As if I matter to him—truly matter. As if I mean something to him.

Am I only imagining it? Am I just feeling something I wish could be true?

The midnight blue dress Damien bought me hangs in my closet, taunting me all week with questions I’m afraid to have answered. Tonight's the fundraiser. After that, our arrangement officially ends. His PR problem has been smoothed over with Guardian Productions and the public in general. His obligation to Silver Hearts—and me—ends tonight.

What if Damien goes back to his regular life and forgets all about crazy Willow Harper and her chaotic world of rescue pets and broken senior center toilets? That was the deal, after all. Everything else between us—none of that was supposed to happen.

Now I’ve gone and fallen in love with him when I may never see him again after tonight.

No. Stop that.One crisis at a time. I have bigger things to worry about right now than the likelihood of my broken heart.

Unfortunately, the centerpiece situation is worse than I imagined. Half the arrangements are crushed, delicateorigami cranes crumpled beyond recognition. Mrs. Inoue spent weeks on those cranes.

"We can remake some of them," Janet offers weakly. "But there's not enough time to replace everything."

I kneel beside the salvageable pieces, carefully extracting a miraculously intact miniature painting. "We'll make it work. Mix the damaged pieces with fresh flowers. Call it... deconstructed art."

"Is that a thing?"

"It is now." I manage a laugh only because I’m on the verge of crying. I start sorting through the wreckage. "Do you have baby's breath? We’re going to need lots of it. We'll create cloud-like settings for the surviving pieces."

My phone rings again. This time it's Samuel from The Plaza. "Ms. Harper, we need to discuss your silent auction setup. The fire marshal has concerns about the display placement."

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