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Isaiah grew quiet. Darren dared a longer look at him, and it was to find the guy gently frowning. Maybe he wondered why Darren didn’t just write a check?
Well, he would.
But the event also raised awareness, which his mom said was the key for successful annual fundraisers. Key for making change.
Isaiah lifted his gaze from Darren’s notes, catching him looking.
“Looks like an impressive list you have there.” That frown deepened.
“Ideas for the fall fundraiser.”
He slid a couple of sheets across the table. Isaiah stared at it for a few beats. “I . . . um . . .”
“What?”
“This is all your idea.”
“Okay?”
“It’s just . . . the judges will consider this in their assessment.” Isaiah flicked open to his half page of notes, stirring in his seat. “You’ll get all the points.”
Darren drove a hand through his hair. “I get where you’re coming from, but I can’t just toss this away.” It was months of work, contacting local groups and feeling them out for their interest in taking part, cultivating relationships with key players who could bring in a lot of money. “Tweak it, play around with it, sure, but unless you have a more solid plan—”
“No, but—”
“Then can we use this one?”
Isaiah cast another look at the sheets. “Where on earth will you find a banjo player?”
Heat whipped up Darren’s neck. “You have a problem with banjo music?”
Isaiah opened his mouth and shut it again. “No, it’s . . . fine. I like the music angle. I can catch up by organizing the musicians.” He picked up a pen and crossed through banjo. Wrote piano. “Why do you look like I killed your puppy? I’m begrudgingly accepting your idea, here.”
Begrudging was right. “What’s wrong with having a banjoist?”
“Next you’ll be suggesting we all dress up as Mummers for the fundraiser.”
Darren folded his arms against the hit that came with Isaiah’s laugh. He barely held back from calling the guy an asshole. “I play banjo,” he said quietly. “And saxophone and guitar.”
“You play banjo?”
“Yes. It’s my favorite of the three.” Darren leaned forward. “And I happen to love the Mummers’ parade in Philadelphia. Watching them strut down Broad Street in costumes was what first got me into playing banjo.” He pulled back his list and wrote in large enough letters for Isaiah to see: Wear bright costumes.
“You’re shitting me.”
“When I was eight, I went with my father. We bought hot chocolate and pretzels from a street vendor and those foot and hand warmers from some guy walking through the crowd. I was so sure I’d become a Mummer one day.”
It was still something on his bucket list to play with them one time, but he wasn’t going to tell Isaiah that.
Isaiah leaned back in his chair and eyed him. His annoyance melted. Something . . . appreciative shone in his gaze, and Darren was back to thinking of Isaiah arching in his chair. Of his phone warming in Isaiah’s pocket . . .
“I’m sorry I laughed.”
“I’m sorry I almost called you an asshole.”
Isaiah rocked a grin. “At least you didn’t almost call me ghetto trash.”
Darren’s smile faded. “What? I’ve never called anyone that. Did someone tell you I said that?”
“Not you. Just this guy called me that when he got mad.”
“Then he’s an asshole.”
Isaiah chortled.
Who would call Isaiah . . . how dare they?
Darren exhaled his anger. They weren’t meant to get to ask personal questions, and Darren swallowed his. “Can we start this meeting over?”
Isaiah stole back Darren’s notes with a cheeky wink. “How small is this room, huh? We’re practically sitting on each other.”
Darren busted out a laugh. Not what he meant by starting over. But God, the guy was as quick-witted as he was quick-tempered.
He picked up his pen, darting his gaze to Isaiah. “The room is small. But maybe I don’t mind.”
Isaiah
Was Darren flirting?
The blush sure indicated so.
Though, it was possible he simply meant to be nice. A gesture of reconciliation, perhaps.
Probably that.
Best if it was.
Isaiah buried his head and tried to distract himself with work. But the weight of Darren’s phone in his pocket had a dozen questions spinning in his mind.
Whose call was he so anxious about?
“Isaiah?”
Isaiah snapped out of his thoughts and sank into questions he could answer.
For over an hour, they hashed out details for a holiday jazz event. Isaiah’s music school connections allowed him to take Darren’s idea and fine-tune it. The idea appealed to him. He definitely knew enough musicians to fill out the roster.
He had to admit, Darren had done a great job working out the little bits that would make the event run smoothly. Sure, he didn’t have the same feel for the performance side, but the planning, marketing, and financial stuff he’d really nailed.
“Banjo?” Isaiah said, sneaking another look at him.
He was met with a playful scowl. “I’m not bad. Maybe not in your league, but I can hold my own.”
