“Hold up. Cass?” Perry says when I’m nearly at the mouth of the hallway. He crosses the space between us in five long strides and pauses in front of me. My mouth turns dry as I stare into his sparkling green eyes.
Exhaling, he rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Bye.” I practically bolt out of Perry’s apartment and don’t slow down until I reach the narrow alley outside. Leaning against the brick wall of the building next door, I flatten my palm against the center of my chest as I stare at the darkening sky. Over the next four weeks, I’ll be in constant contact with both Devin and Perry to help them plan the festival that could save Blooms & Baubles. And I can’t let Smith & Boone know what I’m doing in the process.
So these fluttery feelings in my stomach, which I certainly don’t want or need, will have to take a back seat. There’s too much at stake and too much to do in too short a time to start catching even the slightest hint of feelings for anyone, let alone the most inconvenient person in the world.
It’s way past time I stop dreaming of relationships and romance and focus on the one thing I can control: my choices. Shoving off the wall, I open the gate and march toward Devin’s car, which is still idling where he parked it half an hour ago.
Time to tell him he can make it right with Perry after all.
Then tomorrow, the planning begins in earnest.
The box of discovery materials from the Ervin case glares at me like an evil eye from the corner of my desk. Damn the defendant for providing hard copies of their records instead of digital. It’s going to take me at least twice as long to process these.
It’s been a week since Andréa switched Mercedes and me back to our original groups, and three weeks since I started helping Perry plan his two-day Flower & Beer Festival to save Blooms & Baubles, and I have a literal mountain of work to tackle. But my personal email beckons me, along with the seemingly endless tasks that still need to be accomplished before the festival launches next Saturday: one short week from tomorrow. What’s a summer associate slash event planner supposed to do?
The fact that we’ve even come this far is a miracle. Over twenty artisans and other local makers have purchased booths for the event, plus we have musical entertainment lined up for each day. Marcus’s bar—Zelma’s Taphouse—is serving as the official food vendor, three microbreweries have signed on to sell beer and offer tastings, and over a thousand people have indicated their interest in attending our event on Facebook.
But some critical pieces are still missing. Like media coverage… and the event permit itself.
I check my phone for the dozenth time this morning. No new emails.
“Come on, Val, don’t fail me now,” I mutter under my breath.
I’d called Val nearly three weeks ago, the Monday after Perry, Devin, Brie, Marcus, and I spent the weekend power-brainstorming for the Flower & Beer Festival. Within three days of proposing the idea, we had a detailed plan complete with task lists and timelines. My first action? Help Perry complete the application paperwork and reach out to my old friend from law school—who just so happens to run Cleveland’s Permits and Zoning Department—to see what she could do to expedite his application. She was only too happy to help, so it was very lucky I ran into her on the Fourth of July.
But city government runs slowly even with connections at the top, so I’ve been sweating ever since. Without the permit to close down a block of West Twenty-Eighth Street for our weekend event, we won’t have anywhere to host the festival, and all our efforts will have been for nothing.
Sighing, I reach for the box and pull it toward me. Time to catch up on my real work. I haven’t been slacking, exactly, but I haven’t been pulling ten-or twelve-hour days like I used to either. Andréa hasn’t said anything, but I’m pretty sure she’s noticed my hours have shrunk to a more manageable nine to five… even while my workload hasn’t.
But at least I’ve been happy. The past few weeks helping Perry and Devin plan this festival have been the best of my entire summer. I have something to look forward to every day that doesn’t involve work, and I feel like I’m making a real difference to someone—other than our corporate clients, who, let’s face, already have deep pockets and enough vacation homes to make Leonardo DiCaprio jealous.
My phone dings just as I lift out the first stack of papers, and I nearly knock the box off my desk in my rush to check the notification. My heart lodges in my throat. I have one new email: it’s from Val. I hold my breath and quickly read her message.