Michael's ears went pink. He looked back down at his notebook, but I caught the smile he was trying to hide.
“As I was saying. If you implement weekly inventory counts, cross-referenced with your supply orders, you'll catch discrepancies before they become problems. Here.” He slid the notebook across the desk. “I made you a template.”
I picked it up, studied the neat columns and careful labels. “You made me a template.”
“You keep repeating things I say.”
“I'm processing.”
“You're stalling.”
I set the notebook down, met his eyes. “I'm grateful. That's what I am. This is...” I gestured at the organized files, the clear system, the evidence of hours of work he'd done for no reason other than wanting to help. “This is more than I asked for.”
“You asked for someone to handle your books. I'm handling them.” Michael's voice was light, but something in his expression said he understood exactly how much this meant. “Besides, it gives me something to do. It turns out that I can teach an old Alpha new tricks.”
“Old?”
“Experienced. Distinguished. Seasoned like fine lumber.”
“Did you just compare me to wood?”
“Quality wood. The expensive kind.” He was laughing now, quiet and warm, and the sound of it did something dangerous to my chest. “Oak, maybe. Something sturdy.”
“I can't tell if I'm being insulted or complimented.”
“Both. It's a gift.”
I shook my head, but I was still smiling. Couldn't seem to stop. “You're ridiculous.”
“And you're avoiding the inventory conversation. Come on.” He stood, gathered some of the papers. “Let's walk the floor. Iwant to see how the current system works so I can figure out where it's falling apart.”
“It's not falling apart.”
“Daniel. You have lumber from three different orders mixed together in the same staging area with no labels. It's not falling apart because it was never together in the first place.”
He was right. I knew he was right. But admitting it meant admitting that I'd been letting things slip, that the business I'd built with Claire had been slowly sliding into disorder while I focused on pack threats and Alpha responsibilities and everything except the mundane work of keeping a mill running.
“Fine,” I said. “Show me what I'm doing wrong.”
Michael's expression softened. “You're not doing anything wrong. You're just doing too many things at once.” He moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the frame.
I followed him onto the mill floor.
Michael stoppedevery few minutes to ask questions that I didn't have answers to. Where did the supplier invoices get filed? How often did we reconcile inventory with shipping manifests? What was the process for tracking orders from intake to delivery?
The answer to most of his questions was “Jake handles it” or “we figure it out as we go.”
Michael made notes. Lots of notes. His handwriting was small and precise, filling pages with observations and suggestions while I trailed behind him feeling increasingly useless.
“You know,” he said, pausing near the finishing stations, “for a man who doesn't understand his own business, you've done remarkably well.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It's supposed to make you realize that instinct counts for something.” He tucked his notebook into his back pocket, turned to face me. “You know your workers. You know your product. You know what matters even if you can't put it in a spreadsheet. That's not nothing, Daniel.”
“It's not enough either.”
“No. But that's why you have me now.” His smile was quiet, certain. “We make a good team. You handle the people, I handle the numbers. Between the two of us, we might actually keep this place running.”
