Chapter 6
Josie
By the time dinner is over, my cheeks actually hurt from smiling.
I lean back in my chair and stare down at my plate, trying to remember the last time I've eaten a meal without checking my phone, thinking about bills, or mentally working through tomorrow's problems.
I come up empty.
The kitchen wrapped around me in a way I hadn't expected.
Logan's low voice blended with the clink of dishes and rush of water from the dishwasher, while Asher's laughter drifted across the table and settled somewhere deep in my chest. No one was asking anything from me.
No one needed a decision, a solution, or a sacrifice.
For the first time all day, I wasn't bracing for the next problem.
I was simply sitting there, warm and full, letting myself belong to the moment.
At some point during dinner, Logan's hand landed on the back of my chair and never really left. Every now and then his fingers brushed my shoulder as he reached for something. Across the table, Asher kept noticing things before I did.
My water glass never stayed empty for long and neither did my plate.
"Try this."
"Have some more."
"You barely touched that."
I should have been annoyed. Instead, I found myself taking another bite just to see the pleased look that crossed Logan's face.
That realization is alarming enough on its own.
For years I've carried everything alone.
Not because I had to, but because there was never anyone beside me willing to share the weight.
While my marriage slowly hollowed out around me, I made plans in silence.
Studied. Saved. Prepared for a future I wasn't even sure I'd be brave enough to claim.
If something needed figuring out, I figured it out myself.
Tonight nobody lets me. When I stand and start gathering plates, Logan takes them right out of my hands. "Sit."
"I can help."
"I know." He flashed me that dashing smile, and the plate disappears before I can argue.
A second later Asher steals the serving bowl I want to lift. Neither man asks. Neither apologizes. They simply take over.
Oddly enough, it feels nice. Really nice.
I wrap my hands around a mug of coffee and watch them move around the kitchen together.
A woman could get used to this.
A prickle starts at the base of my spine and skitters upward. I shift in my chair, suddenly aware of my skin, of the restless itch crawling across my shoulders. The feeling is familiar enough to make my stomach tighten.
Been there.
Done that.
Once, I'd let myself lean on someone. Let myself believe comfort was something that could last. The memory leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Never again. Never putting my fate in another man’s hands. Or men’s.
That road ends with heartbreak.
I know exactly how easily comfort can become dependence. How quickly dependence becomes trust. And how badly trust hurts when somebody decides you're no longer worth the effort.
The warning settles into place around my heart. It slides into position like a steel gate dropping across a doorway.
Asher glances toward the clock. "Dylan should be here soon."
The warmth inside my chest cools slightly.
Business.
Right.
That's why I'm here.
As if the universe is determined not to let me sit with those thoughts for too long, the doorbell rings.
Logan looks up first. "That's him."
The words pull me out of myself. I straighten slightly in my chair and wrap both hands around my coffee mug. The ceramic is comforting warm against my palms, but for some reason, my stomach tightens.
Not the nervous flutter Logan and Asher inspire. This feels different. More like the sensation of sitting across from a bank manager when you're waiting to hear whether you've been approved or denied.
Asher notices. Of course he notices. One corner of his mouth lifts before he pushes away from the counter and heads toward the front door.
A moment later, footsteps echo through the hallway.
Then Dylan walks into the kitchen.
The room doesn't exactly fall silent. Logan is still talking. The dishwasher is still running. The grandfather clock in the hall continues its steady ticking. Yet something shifts all the same.
Dylan doesn't fill a room the way Logan does. Logan arrives like sunlight through an open window, bringing warmth and energy with him. People smile when Logan enters.
Dylan arrives carrying purpose.
He greets the others, shakes my hand, and gets straight to business. Within minutes his suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair. His tie follows shortly afterward. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt with quick, efficient movements before opening his laptop.
Most people would look more approachable dressed that way.
Dylan somehow manages the opposite.
The kitchen still smells faintly of roasted chicken, garlic, and fresh bread.
Coffee lingers in the air between us. The domestic warmth of the evening remains wrapped around the room, but Dylan sits in the middle of it untouched, as though he exists in a world governed by deadlines, contracts, and spreadsheets.
I watch him review the first stack of documents.
Then the second.
Then a third.
The glow from his screen reflects briefly in his reading glasses before he pushes them higher on his nose. Nothing about him appears rushed, nothing about him appears uncertain, and it scares the crap out of me. Would he find faults in my estimates and find me lacking? Agree with Richard?
The longer he studies my paperwork, the more aware I become of every document spread across the table.
He lifts the first estimate from the pile and scans it. A few seconds later, he sets it aside and pulls another sheet forward. He moves his fingers across the keyboard. Numbers appear in a spreadsheet. He pauses, compares something on the screen to a page in front of him, then types again.
A faint line forms between his brows.
He reaches for a projection, studies it longer than the others, and taps the edge of the paper against the table before setting it down.
My pulse picks up despite myself.
Dylan doesn't seem particularly interested in making conversation. He isn't unfriendly. He simply appears completely absorbed by the task in front of him.
Logan reaches for another cup of coffee. Asher settles into the chair beside me. Neither interrupts. Neither offers commentary. That fact alone does nothing for my confidence.
I glance at Dylan again.
His expression gives me nothing.
I try to read him the way I learned to read Richard—searching for the tiny tells that usually came before the criticism. The tightening around the mouth. The slight crease between the brows. The look that said he'd already decided I'd failed before he opened his mouth.
But Dylan's face remains frustratingly unreadable, with not even the smallest hint of what he's thinking. The man could probably review the financial collapse of a small nation and react exactly the same way.
I lower my gaze to my coffee before he catches me staring.
Does this man ever smile voluntarily?
Dylan reaches for another sheet from the pile, the corner curling slightly as he pulls it free against the tabletop.
The moment I recognize the veterinary budget, my grip tightens around my coffee mug and I lower my eyes to the table, tracing a finger along the rim while a knot forms beneath my ribs.
Of all the documents stacked in front of him, that would be the one he chose.
He studies the page for several seconds before looking up. "How'd you come up with this number?"
The question shouldn't make me nervous. I know exactly where the number came from.
I built the spreadsheet myself. Still, this is the largest budget of them all and the most uncertain.
I straighten and look him square in the eyes.
"I called three rescues about the same size as the one I'm planning.
Two in-state and one in Ohio. Then I compared their annual reports against local veterinary pricing. " I swallow and drop my gaze.
Dylan says nothing.
He simply waits.
The silence stretches long enough that I find myself filling it. "I used the highest estimate instead of the average. Medical costs only go one direction."
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pen. He writes something down.
My pulse kicks up another notch.
Across the table, Asher glances at the page and gives a small nod. The gesture helps more than it should.
Dylan reaches for another document. "What happens if intake exceeds projections?"
This answer comes easier. I've rehearsed this one a hundred times. "Emergency foster network."
"What if the network is full?"
"I suspend new intakes unless the animal is at immediate risk."
"What if donations drop twenty percent?"
"I cut expansion plans and maintain operating reserves."
The questions keep coming, but not in a way that feels hostile. Dylan flips through the paperwork at an unhurried pace, pausing whenever something catches his attention.
"Who built the website?" he asks, tapping a finger against one of the pages.
"I did."
His eyebrows lift slightly. "Yourself?"
I nod. "I used a template and taught myself the rest."
He makes another note before moving on. "How are you planning to recruit volunteers?"
I explain the outreach plan, the partnerships I've been building, and the local events I've attended.
Before I've fully finished, he's already asking about fundraising.
Then come questions about social media engagement, community outreach, and adoption events.
Each answer seems to spark another line of inquiry, and Dylan follows each thread with the same steady focus, never rushing ahead and never lingering longer than necessary.
At some point Dylan asks to see the rescue's Facebook page. I pull out my phone and slide it across the table. The screen suddenly feels far more personal than any spreadsheet. Those numbers aren't projections. They're mine. Every awkward video I've recorded while trying not to sound nervous.
Dylan scrolls.
And scrolls.
And scrolls.
I wish he'd stop.