As she finished, he gave a slow nod. “I like the idea.” Somewhere along the road of life he’d learned to lead with a positive if you were about to be critical.

She saw straight through his attempt to soften her up for the concerns to come, however.

“I hear a but in there.” She linked her fingers into a tight knot, and her chin tipped up a hair. “If you’re thinking this is beyond the organizational abilities of an airhead like me, I do have—”

“Whoa.” He held up a hand. “Wrong conclusion. I do have a few misgivings, but not about your aptitude for coordinating this. I know you used to get involved in charitable events on behalf of your dad. But the scope of this one would be a challenge even for a longtime resident who knows the terrain and the players—and you’re already stretched thin. Putting this together would be very taxing.”

She offered him the facsimile of a smile. “Taxing is working two full-time jobs as a restaurant server and hefting heavy trays for hours. Taxing is discovering your husband’s been cheating on you and finding yourself penniless. Taxing is learning to stand on your own two feet after a lifetime of being coddled. Compared to all that, working at Eye of the Beholder is a piece of cake—and watching Hannah is a joy. As for being new in town—Marci assures me scads of people will volunteer to help with the project. It won’t be a one-person operation.”

He stifled a groan.

In one fell swoop, she’d demolished his reservations.

“I can’t dispute any of that.” But the idea of watching her wear herself out twisted his gut—not that he could admit that concern to her.

“Good.” She clutched the papers tighter against her. “Then we can move on to the convincing argument I mentioned.”

He braced. After hearing her spiel, it wasn’t hard to predict what was coming.

He was about to be recruited as a presenter for one of the masterclass sessions.

She confirmed that before he could marshal his defenses.

“I’m sure, after listening to me describe the festival, you know I’d like to tap you as one of our experts.”

He stifled a groan.

Why hadn’t he listened to his inner voice and followed the fast-exit plan tonight? Let her leave rather than detain her? After eight hours on patrol, he wasn’t up for a debate.

And that’s where this was heading. Because difficult as it was to admit for a man who liked to present an in-control, in-charge image to the world, the prospect of getting up in front of an audience to talk about his writing scared the daylights out of him.

He flicked a piece of lint off his uniform slacks.