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‘Avoidance where I can, but at work it is a little easier. I know what I’m doing and I’m the boss.’ The last words were stated in a deep drawl, but she didn’t smile, clearly recognising the bravado as fake.
‘You know what you’re doing here, as well. You know it better than anyone. What it feels like and what may help others. I know the facts and the figures—I researched those and the numbers matter—but I don’t know what it feels like inside. To be that child, that young adult, that adult with dyslexia. You do. That’s what you can bring to your audience and they will listen because you care, not because you da boss.’
The small smile she gave, the warmth of her voice, the sheer belief in her eyes touched him. Even if it was a touch misplaced. Because his speech focused on facts and figures; he had no intention of making it personal.
But before he could explain that she reached into her small beaded evening bag. ‘You could try this, as well.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a herbal remedy for anxiety—it helps calm you down. It’s new, completely full of natural good things. Just a couple of drops work wonders. Really. I used it tonight and I’m sure it helps.’
‘I need all the help I can get.’ Taking the bottle, he took a couple of drops, handed it back.
She placed her hand on his arm. ‘You hide it really well,’ she said. ‘I would never have imagined you were capable of even the tiniest amount of nerves and neither will anyone else.’
‘It’s more than a tiny amount.’ The all-too-familiar flotilla of butterflies looped the loop in his gut. No amount of logic could quell them. ‘I’m terrified. Bricking it. Scared. Here. Feel my heart rate.’
Taking her hand, he put it over his chest. Bad move. Because as she looked up at him the moment caught light, shimmered around them, and his w
hole being was preternaturally aware of the feather-light touch of her fingers that seemed to burn through the silk softness of his shirt. Now his heart rate ratcheted up, and this time it was nothing to do with nerves.
‘Maybe I can help.’
Her voice was a near whisper as she stood on tiptoe and placed her other hand on his chest to steady herself before pressing her lips against his.
The lightest of butterfly kisses skimmed his lips and he closed his eyes and pulled her closer, his hands at her waist. Just as the sound of a throat being cleared caused Gabby to leap backwards so fast she nearly fell over.
Gemma grinned at him. ‘Sorry to interrupt, little bro, but it’s auction time.’
Zander rolled his eyes at his sister. ‘We’re on our way.’ He waited pointedly until she’d vanished and then looked down at Gabby. ‘You OK?’
‘Embarrassed—but yes, I’m OK.’ Her gaze met his full-on. ‘Right now you need to go and knock them dead. I know you can.’
‘Thank you.’
On some level alarm bells clamoured in his head—the idea that events were running away out of his control made his unease torrent. By his reckoning that was kiss number three—and, oddly, it had been more potent even than the two before.
But Gabby was right—he would consider those ramifications later. Now he had a job to do. A speech to make and an auction to run.
They made their way back to their table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gemma in conference with their mother, saw their quick speculative looks across at them. On the plus side, at least that kiss should have solidified the illusion that he and Gabby were in a relationship.
Hoping Gabby was correct in her analysis that not a single one of the guests would have so much as an inkling of the nervous energy that coursed through his veins, Zander went and stood on the podium, smiled and began.
He kept his speech measured, his words evenly paced as he focused on the content he had memorised and practised until he was word-perfect. He ensured his words matched the prepared presentation, carefully colour-coded so his brain could decipher and interpret the words his audience could read with ease. He went through the facts and figures, the case studies, hoping his voice was infused with the passion he felt for this subject, and then he did an audience participation exercise in which he handed out notes written in Chinese and asked people to try to read them.
As he came to an end, Gabby’s voice echoed in his head.
I don’t know what it feels like inside. To be that child, that young adult, that adult with dyslexia. You do. That’s what you can bring to your audience and they will listen.
Before he knew it, unrehearsed words began to form in his brain and spill from his mouth.
‘Before I wind up, I’d like to make this a little more personal. I have dyslexia myself, and I wasn’t diagnosed until my late teens.’
The change in the audience was electric—a low hum that generated a charged silence. Suppressing the urge to gulp, he let the words continue.
‘I know exactly what it is like to feel stupid, to feel humiliated, to feel small and awful inside. I was lucky. I got a diagnosis and my family helped me to cope with it. A lot of children don’t have that. Equally, though, if I had been diagnosed earlier, it would have made my childhood a much happier, easier place to be. I want other children out there to be given a chance. So dig deep into your wallets—because it’s time for the auction!’
* * *
