“I lied earlier.”
“I know.”
His eyes met mine. “It happened with Anna. It happened fast and brutal and I wasn't ready. So I thought if I just didn't let anyone close again, it couldn't happen.”
“That's not living,” I said quietly. “That's just surviving.”
“I know. I'm starting to realize that.” He was quiet for a moment. “Thank you. For showing up. For not letting me push you away.”
“You're not very good at pushing.”
“I'm excellent at pushing. You're just stubborn.”
“Pot, kettle.”
Michael laughed again, and I realized I could get used to that sound. Could get addicted to it, if I wasn't careful.
“I should let you get some rest,” I said, standing. “You look like you might actually be able to sleep for more than two hours tonight.”
“I feel like I might.” Michael stood too, started gathering the empty containers. “Thanks for... all of this. The food. The help. The aggressive concern for my wellbeing.”
“Aggressive concern is my specialty.”
“I noticed.” He stacked the containers by the sink, movements slow but steadier than they'd been hours ago. “What am I supposed to do with all these leftovers? There's enough pie here to feed a small army.”
“Eat them. That's generally how leftovers work.”
“Helpful.”
I should leave. Should let him rest, give us both space to process whatever this was becoming. But my wolf had other ideas, and before I could stop myself, the words were out.
“The mill needs an accountant.”
Michael turned, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”
“Callahan Lumber. We've needed someone to handle the books for months. Our last accountant retired to Florida, and I've been doing it myself, which means it's a disaster.” I kept my voice steady, like this was a perfectly normal business proposition and not an excuse I was building brick by brick. “Flexible hours. Decent pay. Mostly paperwork and keeping me from making financial decisions I'll regret.”
Michael stared at me. “You're offering me a job.”
“I'm telling you there's a position open. What you do with that information is up to you.”
“At the lumber mill. Where everyone is a wolf.”
“Where most of the workers are pack, yes.”
“And you want me there. A human. Handling pack business.”
“I want someone competent handling the books so I can stop pretending I understand profit margins and tax codes.” I held his gaze. “The fact that you're human doesn't factor into it.”
That was mostly true. Mostly.
Michael was quiet for a long moment. His fingers drummed against the counter, restless, thinking. I could practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes, weighing the offer against his pride, his grief, his stubborn need to do everything alone.
“I don't need charity, Daniel.”
“It's not charity. It's a job offer. You're a trained financial analyst with skills I need and, I'm guessing, time you need to fill with something other than beer and drywall.”
“That's...” He shook his head, but there was something almost amused in his expression. “You're not subtle, you know that?”
