Chapter 3 #2
Nate’s face changed instantly. Hope, bright and almost startled. “What?”
“At the mill.” My throat tightened around the words. “Bookkeeping. Financial stuff.”
Nate grinned like I’d handed him a win. “Dad, that’s—yes. That’s yes.”
“I haven’t said yes.”
His smile faltered. “Why not?”
Because if I said yes, I’d have to show up. I’d have to exist again. I’d have to stop hiding in a house full of memories and pretend I didn’t feel like a man carved out and left hollow.
I forced air into my lungs. “Because it’s complicated.”
Nate stepped closer and put a hand on my shoulder. The grip was warm. Solid. Stronger than it had any right to be.
“Everything’s complicated now,” he said quietly. “That doesn’t mean you get to disappear.”
I stared at him, at the stubborn love in his eyes, at the gold that flickered when he felt too much. My kid. My brave, terrified kid, becoming something new and still finding a way to hold onto what mattered.
“Go,” Nate said. “Talk to him. Look at the books. Give yourself permission to try.”
I let the words sit. Let them settle like something I’d been waiting to hear.
Finally, I nodded. “Okay.”
Nate’s face lit up, relief pouring through him so fast it almost broke my heart. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said again, firmer this time. “I’ll go today.”
He exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. Then, because he was Nate, he had to ruin the moment with humor. “Good. Because if you say no, I’m going to start leaving pamphlets around your house.”
“Pamphlets about what?”
“Grief. Community. Healthy coping mechanisms.” He made a face. “Maybe a yoga class. Something humiliating.”
I laughed, surprised by how much I needed the sound. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would,” he said, dead serious, then he grinned. “I’m a wolf now. I have no morals.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It is for me.”
I lifted the pads again. “One more round.”
Nate’s grin sharpened. “Thought you’d never ask.”
He climbed back into the ring and rolled his shoulders like he was shaking off the weight of the conversation. Like he’d done what he came here to do: make sure I was still in the world with him.
“Remember,” I warned, raising the pads. “Control.”
Nate’s eyes flashed gold. “Yes, Dad.”
He hit me hard enough to make my arms sting and my teeth rattle.
It hurt.
It was perfect.
It was exactly what I needed.
The Callahan Lumber Mill sat on the eastern edge of Hollow Pines like something organic, like it had grown from the forest itself rather than being built against it.
Weathered wood and corrugated metal, sawdust thick in the air, the smell of fresh-cut pine so strong it made my eyes water from the parking lot.
I'd driven past it a hundred times since moving to Hollow Pines. Never actually stopped.
Today, I parked next to Daniel's truck and sat there for a minute, hands on the wheel, trying to remember why I'd thought this was a good idea. Taking a job from the Alpha of a werewolf pack. Inserting myself deeper into a world I'd never asked to be part of.
But Nate was right. I needed something to do. Needed something to fill the hours that stretched endless and empty between waking and sleeping.
And maybe, if I was being honest with myself, I needed to see Daniel again.
The thought made me uncomfortable in ways I didn't want to examine.
I got out of the truck.
The mill floor was chaos and rhythm all at once. Saws screaming through wood, machinery grinding, workers shouting to be heard over the noise. Everyone moved with practiced ease that came from doing the same thing day after day until it became muscle memory.
Daniel stood near the main saw, talking to an older worker with gray hair and hands that looked like they'd been shaped by decades of hard labor. His back was to me, but I could see the way he held himself. Relaxed in a way I hadn't seen before. At home.
He turned before I could announce myself. Caught my eye across the mill floor, and something in his expression shifted. Warmed.
My pulse kicked up. I ignored it.
“Michael.” He crossed the distance in a few long strides, wiping his hands on a rag that was already filthy. “Didn't know if you'd actually come.”
“Said I'd look at the books. I'm a man of my word.”
“Fair enough.” He tossed the rag onto a nearby workbench. “Tour first, or straight to the paperwork?”
“Tour. I want to understand how this place runs before I start poking at the numbers.”
Daniel's eyebrows rose slightly. Surprised, maybe. Or pleased. “Most accountants just want spreadsheets.”
“I'm not most accountants.”
“No.” His voice dropped, went warmer in a way that made something flutter in my chest. “You're not.”
The tour took almost an hour.
Daniel walked me through every section of the operation.
Log intake, where raw timber arrived from plots the Callahans had owned for generations.
Primary processing, where massive saws reduced logs to rough lumber.
Drying kilns that pulled moisture from the wood over days or weeks.
Finishing stations where boards were planed and graded and sorted for sale.
He knew every worker by name. Asked about families, remembered details I wouldn't have expected an employer to track. Jake's daughter had just started kindergarten. Marcus was training for a marathon. Elena had finally finished her nursing degree and was starting at the clinic next month.
“How do you keep track of all that?” I asked as we climbed the stairs to the office.
“They're my people.” Daniel said it simply, like it was obvious. “Taking care of them is part of the job.”
“The Alpha job or the mill owner job?”
“Both.” He opened the office door, gestured me inside. “They're not as separate as you'd think.”
The office was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like it.
Filing cabinets lined the walls, overflowing with papers that had clearly been stuffed rather than organized.
A desk sat by the window, buried under ledgers and loose invoices and a laptop that looked like it had been abandoned mid-spreadsheet.
Sawdust covered everything in a fine layer, giving the whole space a sense of gentle neglect.
“It's a disaster,” Daniel said, following my gaze. “I know. Our last accountant was either incompetent or stealing from us, possibly both. I've been doing the books myself for three months, which means they're probably worse now than when I started.”
“Probably?”
“Definitely.” He almost smiled. “Numbers aren't my strong suit.”
I walked to the desk, picked up one of the ledgers, flipped through pages of entries that ranged from meticulous to barely legible. “You write like you're angry at the paper.”
“It keeps fighting back.”
An actual laugh surprised out of me. Daniel's eyes crinkled at the corners, and for a moment the weight he carried seemed lighter.
“Okay,” I said. “Let me take these home. Give me a few days to sort through everything, figure out what's actually wrong versus what's just disorganized. Then we can talk about whether this job makes sense.”
“Take whatever you need.” Daniel gestured at the filing cabinets. “I'll get you boxes.”
We spent the next two hours going through records, pulling files, sorting through three years of financial chaos. Daniel stayed close, answering questions when I had them, explaining the mill's operations in more detail when something in the numbers didn't make sense.
His arm brushed mine when we both reached for the same folder.
Electricity. That's what it felt like. A spark that shot from the point of contact straight through my chest, made something twist low in my stomach.
I pulled back. Too fast. Obvious.
Daniel didn't say anything. Just handed me the folder with an expression I couldn't quite read.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Still getting my bearings.”
“Nothing to apologize for.”
But there was something in his voice. Something careful. Controlled. Like he was holding back just as much as I was.
We kept working in silence after that, but I was hyperaware of him. The way he moved through the cramped office space. The rumble of his voice when he talked to workers who stopped by with questions. The flex of his forearms when he hefted boxes of records.
It had been six months since Anna died. Six months of grief and guilt and emptiness.
I hadn't felt anything for anyone in all that time. Had assumed that part of me had died with her, buried alongside everything else I'd lost.
Apparently not.
“I think that's everything,” Daniel said finally, surveying the boxes we'd stacked near the door. “Enough to keep you busy for a while.”
“At least.” I wiped sawdust from my hands, tried to ignore how close he was standing. “I'll call you when I have something to report.”
“Or you could come back.” He said it casually, like it didn't mean anything. “Work in the office here. Might be easier than hauling everything back and forth.”
“Might be.”
“And I could show you more of the operation. The mill's just part of it. We've got tree farms, processing contracts, equipment maintenance...” He trailed off, seemed to catch himself. “But you probably have other things to focus on. The house renovation. Getting settled.”
“I've got time.”
“Then come back.” His voice had dropped, gone soft in a way that made my chest tight. “Tomorrow, if you want. I'll buy you lunch. Show you the tree farms.”
It wasn't a business proposition. We both knew that.
“Daniel...”
“I know.” He held up a hand. “I know this is complicated. I know you're grieving, and I know I'm... whatever I am. But I'd like to spend time with you, Michael. Not as Alpha and human, not as pack business. Just as two people who might be becoming friends.”
Friends. Right.
I looked at him. At the hope he was trying to hide, the way he was bracing himself for rejection, the vulnerability underneath all that strength.
“Next time, I'm buying lunch.” I said.
The smile that crossed his face was worth every complicated feeling churning in my gut.