Page 5 of Finding Mr. July

I n a wild scramble, the other four rush off the stage and into the crowd. I have no idea why they’re running. It doesn’t strike me like that type of assignment.

A fundraiser. I can do that.

I blink at the lights beating down on me as my brain sparks with flashes of ideas.

“Holly?” Manny asks next to me. “Did you have something you wanted to say?” His kind brown eyes rest on me.

The noise around me comes back in full force. “Um, what?”

“Did you have a question or…” He gestures to the room. A suggestion that I also get going.

I force a smile, trying to make it natural. Way to make a bad impression. I should have run off to tackle the task with the others. “Got to think before you act,” I say, like I’m some kind of low-budget Yoda. To make things worse, I tap a finger against my temple.

There’s a pause, and then Manny smiles. “You’re right. And you’re going to do great.”

Phew.

“Thank you,” I say. Then, finally, I get off the stage.

“So?” Rachel asks when I join her on the floor. “Totally doable, right? Any immediate thoughts?”

My palms are clammy. Maybe I’m not as chill about this as I’d like. “Several. But first I want to see if I can find Jacques and get him on our team.” Someone like him, with a good eye and client focus, will elevate whatever I settle on doing for this project.

“I like the way you think.”

I spot the preppy UX designer lounging in a booth by the windows.

The only thing that betrays he’s a few drinks in is the fact that he’s pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up onto his head.

Other than that, he’s as sartorially put together as he is in the office.

He’s talking to someone I can’t see because of a tall plant, his hands gesturing in wide circles, and I have time to think that that’s exactly the kind of energy I need for this task.

Then I round the plant, and my step falters. Jacques is talking to Letitia.

She spots me and puts up a hand to silence Jacques. “Hey, what’s up?”

I can’t think of a good lie, so I go with the truth. “I was going to ask Jacques to team up, but I see you beat me to it. Good for you.”

“Nice to be in demand.” Jacques leans back and grins. There’s a small gap between his two front teeth, adding to his boyish appearance.

“Do you already know what you’re doing?” I ask Letitia.

A secretive smile. “I have a few ideas.”

“Nice.” I nod and then look to my left and right. “Then I suppose I should…” I let my sentence trail off and merge backward into the crowd. I think I saw DaVon by the bar.

But DaVon has already committed his services to Eric. Pippa, who does social media graphics, has teamed up with Ashley, and Callum is deep in conversation with the creative writer on the team. That one is no surprise. He and Biggie are basically the same person, and their families know each other.

I return to Rachel, dragging my feet and with welling panic pulling my esophagus tight. I can’t believe the creatives I might have worked with are already spoken for. How is it possible that I’m already behind? Get it together, Holly!

When I share this development with Rachel, I make sure to downplay any concerns and infuse my voice with faux confidence. Faking it till you make it is an underestimated method for success.

“I’m not worried,” I say, twisting the stem of my empty wineglass on the table. “We can do this anyway, right? I’m not the most artistic person, but you can handle yourself.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Of course. But… I’ll still have my job to do. The mentors are mainly supposed to lend moral support.” She glances past me toward the bar. “There is one other person you might ask.”

I follow her line of vision. Jonathan is talking to the bartender now. It makes him come alive a tad. He’s sitting up straighter, almost smiling.

The spark of optimism that just flared fades instantly. “No way.”

“Why not? You are one of the few people in the office he’s talked to. That basically makes you besties.”

“If by ‘bestie’ you mean ‘person you plan on avoiding forever,’ then sure.”

“No matter what fundraiser you come up with, you’ll need someone to help with promo and graphics.”

I don’t know about that. I have social media—maybe I can figure the creative bit out on my own.

Rachel raises an eyebrow. “This won’t be like posting to Insta. And you don’t even understand the filters there.”

Gah. She knows me too well. I hate it when she’s right. “But I don’t want to work with him.” An unbecoming whine edges its way into my voice.

“I know.” Rachel finishes her drink. “But maybe you got off on the wrong foot. Look, the bartender just got busy—this is your chance. You must have schmoozed a thousand difficult people in your previous job. I believe in you.”

I glance over my shoulder. Jonathan cradles what looks like a glass of water with one hand, the other hand rubbing his cheek as if easing a tense jaw.

“Hardly a thousand,” I say. But again, she’s right.

I used to pride myself on not shying away from difficult clientele.

With wits, charm, and projected self-assurance, you can crack the hardest nuts.

Why would Jonathan Summers be any different?

“You want to win, right?” Rachel asks. “Can’t hurt to ask.”

I do. More than anything. I let out a sharp breath. “Fine.”

“That’s my girl. I’ll be over by the finger foods if you need me. Break a leg.” She gives me a double thumbs-up and leaves.

I spin around. Straighten my dress. I need to win.

“Hi there.” I sit down in the chair next to Jonathan and rest my elbows on the bar counter.

“Hello.”

I forgot how unexpected his voice is. Not that it doesn’t suit him—it’s more the fact that he has a voice at all. And a pleasant one at that.

“Having fun?” My voice is too chipper. I can tell by the weight of his eyelids that he thinks so, too. But behind them is a hint of something I haven’t seen before. Something lifelike. Maybe the drink he had earlier picked at the padlock of his shutters.

“It’s all right,” he says after a beat.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t realize you’d be looking.”

My eyes widen. What? “I meant…” I’m not sure how to finish my sentence.

He puts up a hand as if to spare me the effort. “I know Manny likes everyone to show up to these things. He’s a good friend.”

“Oh. You know each other outside of work?”

Jonathan nods. Drinks.

I wave the bartender over. I need something to hold, and I have a feeling Jonathan will be more amenable to my ask if he gets something stronger in front of him than water.

I order a gin and tonic. Then I turn to Jonathan. “You?”

Again he pauses. It’s as if he’s unaccustomed to the normal rhythm of a conversation.

“I’ll have the same,” he says finally. “Thanks.”

Something moves in my peripheral view. I glance that way to see Rachel nodding encouragement from the small dance floor. I roll my eyes.

We get our drinks and have a sip. The zesty tang invigorates.

“So, how do you know Manny?” I try to sound casual. Making small talk. I have no agenda here, no sirree.

The ice in his glass clinks together. “We’ve played together a fair bit over the years.”

“Played?” While Manny’s whole being screams physical energy, I can’t picture Jonathan running after any kind of ball if his life depended on it.

“He’s an excellent trumpet player.”

The sports scenario in my head tilts ninety degrees as I try to fit a trumpet into it. “So like… a marching band?”

It’s his turn to look confused. “What? No. Blues.”

The coin drops. “Ah. You play music.”

“The piano.” His fingers do a drumming motion against the bar as he says it.

My mind conjures sultry nightclubs, evocative tunes, dexterous hands…

Hot.

The instinctive thought is there before I can stop it. I have another swig of my G & T to hide a flush, and then I clear my throat. “So you’re in a band together?”

“Occasionally.”

“Which means?”

He tilts his head. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Are you always this economical with your responses?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I can see why you were a lawyer.”

That gives me a momentary pause. “I didn’t realize you knew that.”

He shrugs. “By ‘occasionally,’ I mean that many part-time musicians play where there’s opportunity. At one point, we were on the same quartet for six months, but we’ve also gone a year or more without crossing paths. We’ve always stayed in touch, though, and he got me the job here, so…”

“So, you owe him?”

“No.” He huffs and turns more firmly toward me. “That’s not…”

“Come on,” I tease. “You can’t tell me this is what you would have chosen to do with your evening if it was up to you.”

His gaze skates down to my dress and then off to the side into the crowd. He finishes his drink. “Maybe not. But I’m having a good enough time.”

“Ouch.” I chuckle, ignoring the slight thrill at his brief attention. I need to get out more.

He shakes his head and smirks. “Think you have me figured out, then?”

Nothing could be further from the truth. “You tell me.”

“I think…” He dips his chin down and leans closer. Looks up at me from beneath dark lashes.

His gray irises are like magnets, and though I’m suddenly very aware of our proximity, I don’t retreat. “What?” My voice sounds breathy.

For a long moment, his gaze doesn’t let me go. The lights around us play new shadow games across his face. A cave of secrets beneath his left brow. A hidden trail from his nose to the corner of his mouth. It’s the most interesting face.

Abruptly, he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “I think you want to win this fundraiser, and you’re only talking to me because you need my skills on your team.”

My lungs deflate like a popped balloon. My first instinct is to object, but I’m a little dizzy, and nothing comes out.

“Admit it,” he says.

“I…” I lift my glass. Set it down again. Oh, what the hell. “Fine. I do need a creative on my team, and Rachel suggested I ask you.”

“Because everyone else is spoken for.”

Again, I want to object, but it’s possible he’s got me figured out better than I have him. “You just don’t seem to like me very much,” I blurt. “It has nothing to do with your skills.”

“I don’t know you enough to have formed an opinion.”

“First impressions don’t count?”

He lets his arms relax in his lap and then bends his head as if stretching out his right trapezius. “Maybe we can agree that neither of us was at our best Monday morning.”

I consider this and decide it’s fair. “Then you’ll do it?”

Jonathan’s mouth opens, but before he can respond, the bartender interrupts to ask if we need anything else. We both decline.

“The other interns have full teams already,” I say once we’re alone again. “Please.”

Jonathan sucks in a breath. “No.”

“No?”

“That’s what I said. Not interested. I do my forty hours a week, and that’s it. Got a full slate. In fact, I can think of nothing I want less than adding another group project to my schedule. No thank you.”

I blink at his blatant refusal, heat flaring at my neck. This is not at all going the way I planned. I scramble for another angle. Maybe some light flirting…

He laughs. “And don’t give me that look. I am way too sober for that to work.”

Well, fuck. “Bartender!” I call. “I changed my mind.”

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing your susceptibility issue.” I glance his way before ordering. “Can we get six shots of tequila, please?”

“I’m not doing shots.” He reaches behind him for the lightweight bomber jacket draped over the backrest.

No, no, no. He can’t leave. I put my hand on the soft fabric to stop him. “Are you afraid I’ll drink you under the table?”

“Ha!” It’s a gruff exclamation, but he sits forward again. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

“Oh yeah? Clearly you have no idea what goes on in law school.”

He puts one elbow on the counter, his eyes narrowing. I don’t look away. If I do, he’ll go, and somewhere behind us, Rachel is trusting me to seal this deal.

“That a fact?” he asks. There’s a faint hint of a drawl in his voice when he’s more relaxed like this. Like he’s spent some time in the South. It softens his edges.

The bartender sets six shot glasses, limes, and a saltshaker in front of us.

I push one of the glasses Jonathan’s way.

“Tell you what,” I say, taking hold of my own shot.

“If I cave first, you’re off the hook, but if I can outdrink you, you’ll help me win this contest using whatever magical, design-y skills you have.

And you’ll do it with a smile.” I demonstrate to him what that would look like.

“A drinking contest?” he clarifies, skeptical.

“Unless you’re chicken.” I flap my elbows at my side.

His face cracks open with amusement, transforming his whole person, and my stomach does something I haven’t felt since I was little and got so high on the swing in our tree that I thought I was flying. Now he has lips that might tell jokes and cheeks I’m sure his grandmother used to squeeze.

I barely have time to collect myself before he reaches for a slice of lime and holds it up between us. “Oh, you’re on.”