Chapter 6 #2
My pulse pounds harder with every swipe of his thumb. Beside me, Logan's hand settles on my shoulder. The warmth of his palm seeps through my sweater. When his thumb brushes the tight muscles near my neck, I realize just how tense I've become.
I force myself to take another sip of coffee. It has gone lukewarm. I barely taste it.
Dylan pauses on a photo of a beagle missing half an ear. "What's his story?"
The question catches me off guard. For the first time all evening, he's asking about the animals instead of the numbers.
I smile despite myself. "That's Murphy."
The knot in my stomach loosens slightly. By the time I finish telling the story, Logan's fingers have found their way into my hand beneath the table.
I lace my fingers through his automatically. The contact keeps me from spiraling every time Dylan makes another note.
His pen keeps moving. A quick scratch in the margin of one page. A note at the bottom of the next. Then another as he flips to a new document. Each question sends him back to the paper. And every time his pen touches paper, a small voice in the back of my head whispers the same thing.
There it is.
That's the mistake.
That's where he'll tell you Richard was right.
The thoughts sit in the back of my mind while Dylan reviews the volunteer projections. It lingers while he studies the donation reports. It digs in deeper every time he asks another question.
By the time he finally closes the last file, my nerves are stretched so tight they feel ready to snap. Even Logan stills beside me.
Dylan removes his glasses. Folds them carefully. Sets them on top of the paperwork. Then he looks directly at me. Really looks at me for the first time all evening. And smiles. The expression transforms him.
I've spent the last hour waiting for criticism. Instead, I see approval and respect.
"Josie," he says quietly.
My heart pounds.
"You've done your homework." Dylan rests a hand on the stack nearest him. "No accountant is going to find fault with these projections." His gaze meets mine again. "And no judge is going to look at this and think you're unprepared, unfit or unqualified."
The pressure behind my ribs turns sharp.
For years Richard looked at me and saw a meek housewife.
A woman he thought had barely enough sense to keep his household running, let alone build something of her own.
He never saw the hours of research, the planning, the determination.
He never imagined I was capable of this.
Dylan looked at the numbers.
And apparently liked what he found.
For a few seconds nobody speaks. The grandfather clock ticks in the hallway, and the dishwasher runs in the kitchen. Logan's hand remains wrapped around mine beneath the table, warm and steady, anchoring me in a way I hadn't realized I needed.
Dylan gathers the paperwork into neat stacks, aligning the corners with the kind of precision that suddenly feels very Dylan. Watching him organize everything with such care makes the entire situation seem a little more manageable.
"So," I manage, my voice sounding oddly thick. "That's good news?"
One corner of his mouth lifts. "If this ends up in front of a judge, I'd rather be sitting where you are than where Richard is."
The knot that's been lodged beneath my ribs for weeks loosens slightly. Not completely, but enough. Enough that I can finally take a full breath without feeling like my chest is caving in.
Dylan closes his laptop, and the sharp click seems to signal the end of the meeting.
"I'll email you a few recommendations tomorrow," he says. "Nothing major. Mostly presentation."
My eyebrows rise. "There's more?"
"There's always more."
The answer comes so dry I almost laugh. Almost.
Asher chuckles, and Logan outright grins. Apparently I'm not the only one familiar with Dylan's particular brand of optimism.
A few minutes later, chairs scrape against the floor as everyone begins to stand. Dylan slips his arms back into his suit jacket while Logan walks him toward the front door.
I remain seated for a moment, staring at the stacks of paperwork spread across the table.
They are the same documents that looked so fragile an hour ago, the same documents that felt like they could be picked apart and dismissed at any moment.
Now they somehow seem different. Maybe because somebody finally looked at them. Really looked at them.
The murmur of voices drifts in from the hallway. A door opens, and cool night air brushes briefly through the house before the front door closes again.
Silence settles over the room.
When I finally look up, Logan is leaning against the kitchen doorway with Asher standing beside him. Neither man says anything. They don't need to. The expressions on their faces tell me they've already decided something.
That realization should probably concern me.
Instead, warmth spreads slowly through my chest.
Logan pushes away from the wall and holds out his hand. "Come on."
I glance at it, then at him. "Come on where?"
The grin that appears is pure trouble. "Upstairs."