He walks over slowly and squats until he’s eye level with her.She beams and grabs at his finger when he offers it.Grayce laughs, bouncing on unsteady legs.
“Strong like her dad,” Atlas murmurs, his expression softening in a way that hurts me to look at.“You know, your dad once tried to carry me piggyback through the neighborhood when we were ten.Didn’t make it a block before we both wiped out in the street.Skinned knees, road rash, the works.He still swore he was strong enough.Guess you got that from him.”
Grayce chatters back at Atlas, like she understands every word of his story, and my chest squeezes.God, what she’s lost.
Whatwe’velost.
I clear my throat, needing to break the spell.“Have you made a decision?”
Atlas glances over his shoulder at me.The softness vanishes as he rises.“No.”
“Well, when will you?”My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I don’t regret it.
“Soon,” he says.“I need to do something first.Plane leaves in four hours.”
He’s leaving?“Where are you going?”
“I need to talk to a friend for some perspective,” he says, noncommittal.“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
I sink into the chair, dragging a stack of papers onto my lap.“Fine.Do what you need to do.I’ve got plenty here to keep me busy.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No.”My tone is clipped.“Gray was very organized.I can handle it.”
He hovers anyway, awkward and too large for the space.Irritation prickles under my skin.“You want to be useful?”I mutter without looking at him.“Help me with the obituary.”
“The obituary?”he asks quietly.
“Yeah, it’s this written remembrance…”
“I know what it is,” he snaps, cutting off my snark.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, Gray’s words rattling in my head to be nice, I take a long breath.Opening my eyes, I look at Atlas with as much polite control as I can muster.“I would appreciate your help.You know things about his early years that I don’t.”
Fuck, it pains me to admit that I need anything from him.That I don’t know everything about Gray the way he did about me.
“Okay,” he says gently, perhaps sensing how brittle I’m feeling.“I’m happy to help.”
I log onto Gray’s computer and Atlas moves behind me, close enough I can smell his body wash.My fingers hover over the keyboard.
“So, what do we say?”I ask.
Atlas leans in a little, arms crossed.“Start with the basics.Gray Donovan, twenty-seven years old, beloved father…”
My throat tightens, but I type the opening lines before adding, “Survived by his daughter, Grayce…”
“And his closest friends,” Atlas adds.“He’d want that in there.We were his family.”
I nod, typing in both our names, giving Atlas top billing.“Worked as a CPA.Loved hockey, fishing—”
“Video games,” Atlas cuts in with a faint smile.
I turn, brows raised.“Seriously?”
He shrugs.“We’d stay up half the night onCall of Duty.He was a beast.”
That surprises a laugh out of me, quiet but real.“I had no idea.I always thought he was reading or watching ESPN when he had free time.”
