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.”
