got.”
“Thank you.” She led him over to the table where her carefully organized stacks of Mrs. Kennedy’s notes lay, yellow sticky notes hanging off their edges where she’d written questions or notes to herself. Tate settled his lanky frame into one of the ladder-backed chairs and pulled the first stack toward him. “That, as far as I can tell, might be contact information for the people involved,” she said.
Tate chuckled. “That would be my guess, too.”
“But it doesn’t match up to her list of vendors or volunteers, and that list doesn’t match up to last year’s site map”—she handed the map over when he held outa hand—“that shows where everything was set up. So I can’t tell who’s even supposed to be there.”
“Can you call Mrs. K and ask her?”
“I could , I guess, but until I have a better grasp on what I’ve got here, I don’t know what to ask.” Plus, that would be admitting defeat before she even got started. She still had a little pride she wanted to hold on to. So far, Helena and Tate were the only people who knew how clueless she was, and she’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.
Tate nodded. “Let’s start with the site map, then. I can help you reconstruct the list of who was there last year.” He met her eyes. His were blue— really blue, she noticed, before she forced herself not to. Tate didn’t seem to notice her noticing at all, thank goodness. “I will say that I’m sure everything’s in good shape,” he assured her. “We’re less than five weeks out, so most of this is probably in place already.”
“That’s my hope.”
“Mrs. K has done this so many times, it’s probably all organized perfectly—only all the details are in her head.”
“Which doesn’t help me much,” she grumbled. But she was relieved to hear that nonetheless.
Tate pointed to a big area on the map. “So that’s the petting zoo there. Cliff Hannigan brings the animals in.”
“I’ve seen that name somewhere,” she said, flipping open one of Mrs. K’s notebooks as Tate made notes on one of the sheets. He was left-handed, she noticed, and moved his coffee cup out of the way. “He judges the dog show, too, right?”
“Yep. But that’s not you.”
“It’s not?”
“No. That’s Sunday after the parade.”
“Yay.” She drew a line through that item on her list. “One less thing to worry about.”
Tate nodded but didn’t look up, busy as he was labeling the map and annotating her list, occasionally pulling out his phone to look up a phone number or e-mail address and add it.
His confidence and no-nonsense, get-it-done attitude was a balm to her nerves, and she recanted her earlier assumption that he’d grate on her. She’d never spent much time with him alone before now, and she liked the efficient and organized way he worked. There was no unnecessary small talk, either, which made this easier for her.
She sat back sipping her drink and watched him for a minute. He had good posture, she noticed; although he leaned forward over the table as he worked, he wasn’t hunched up, and his shoulders—broad like a swimmer’s—were held straight, the green stripes of his shirt running almost perfectly parallel across his chest without a wrinkle. Dark hair fell over his forehead when he leaned over to look at something, softening the angular line of his jaw and prominent cheekbones.
There was that tingle again, but it was easier to mute today. She was making progress already.
She searched through her mental gossip file. Many a young lady had a crush on Dr. Tate Harris, and while he had a couple of exes, there didn’t seem to be any drama there. The only woman he was ever linked to was Helena, and that, she knew, was platonic. From a purely objective standpoint, Tate Harris was quite the catch. Why, then, was he still single?
Suddenly, those blue eyes were staring at her. “What?”
She cleared her throat. “What what?”
“You’re staring
“Thank you.” She led him over to the table where her carefully organized stacks of Mrs. Kennedy’s notes lay, yellow sticky notes hanging off their edges where she’d written questions or notes to herself. Tate settled his lanky frame into one of the ladder-backed chairs and pulled the first stack toward him. “That, as far as I can tell, might be contact information for the people involved,” she said.
Tate chuckled. “That would be my guess, too.”
“But it doesn’t match up to her list of vendors or volunteers, and that list doesn’t match up to last year’s site map”—she handed the map over when he held outa hand—“that shows where everything was set up. So I can’t tell who’s even supposed to be there.”
“Can you call Mrs. K and ask her?”
“I could , I guess, but until I have a better grasp on what I’ve got here, I don’t know what to ask.” Plus, that would be admitting defeat before she even got started. She still had a little pride she wanted to hold on to. So far, Helena and Tate were the only people who knew how clueless she was, and she’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.
Tate nodded. “Let’s start with the site map, then. I can help you reconstruct the list of who was there last year.” He met her eyes. His were blue— really blue, she noticed, before she forced herself not to. Tate didn’t seem to notice her noticing at all, thank goodness. “I will say that I’m sure everything’s in good shape,” he assured her. “We’re less than five weeks out, so most of this is probably in place already.”
“That’s my hope.”
“Mrs. K has done this so many times, it’s probably all organized perfectly—only all the details are in her head.”
“Which doesn’t help me much,” she grumbled. But she was relieved to hear that nonetheless.
Tate pointed to a big area on the map. “So that’s the petting zoo there. Cliff Hannigan brings the animals in.”
“I’ve seen that name somewhere,” she said, flipping open one of Mrs. K’s notebooks as Tate made notes on one of the sheets. He was left-handed, she noticed, and moved his coffee cup out of the way. “He judges the dog show, too, right?”
“Yep. But that’s not you.”
“It’s not?”
“No. That’s Sunday after the parade.”
“Yay.” She drew a line through that item on her list. “One less thing to worry about.”
Tate nodded but didn’t look up, busy as he was labeling the map and annotating her list, occasionally pulling out his phone to look up a phone number or e-mail address and add it.
His confidence and no-nonsense, get-it-done attitude was a balm to her nerves, and she recanted her earlier assumption that he’d grate on her. She’d never spent much time with him alone before now, and she liked the efficient and organized way he worked. There was no unnecessary small talk, either, which made this easier for her.
She sat back sipping her drink and watched him for a minute. He had good posture, she noticed; although he leaned forward over the table as he worked, he wasn’t hunched up, and his shoulders—broad like a swimmer’s—were held straight, the green stripes of his shirt running almost perfectly parallel across his chest without a wrinkle. Dark hair fell over his forehead when he leaned over to look at something, softening the angular line of his jaw and prominent cheekbones.
There was that tingle again, but it was easier to mute today. She was making progress already.
She searched through her mental gossip file. Many a young lady had a crush on Dr. Tate Harris, and while he had a couple of exes, there didn’t seem to be any drama there. The only woman he was ever linked to was Helena, and that, she knew, was platonic. From a purely objective standpoint, Tate Harris was quite the catch. Why, then, was he still single?
Suddenly, those blue eyes were staring at her. “What?”
She cleared her throat. “What what?”
“You’re staring
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