“I’ll start with indexing and organizing,” I say, turning back to him. “Everything gets logged first, by year, type, business, and relevance. That way nothing gets lost or duplicated. Once it’s categorized, I’ll move on to the microfiche transfer. That preserves the originals without handling them too much.”
He watches me closely, not interrupting.
“After that,” I continue, “I’ll create a digital backup system.”
Onyx nods slowly. “I’ll help you as much as I can along the way. How long do you think this job will take?”
“Months, at least,” I say honestly. “There’s no rushing this if you want it done right. But once it’s organized, maintenance will be minimal. Updates won’t be nearly as time-consuming.”
“That’s what I suspected,” he says. “If I know my ma, she will want the job done right, rather than fast.”
I watch his expression as he looks back at the boxes. There’s no irritation in his expression and more importantly, no sense that I’m stepping on his toes by taking this job. If anything, he looks relieved that this responsibility is finally being handled properly.
He asks a few questions after that. Practical ones about access levels, storage requirements and who needs to sign off on what. They’re the questions of someone who understands the importance of preserving these documents, not someone guarding territory. I answer each of his questions honestly and without hesitation.
“That sounds solid,” he says when I finish. “I appreciate you walking me through it.”
The shift is subtle but noticeable. The tension that followed us out of the bar eases into something quieter, more respectful and focused. We’re not talking about the asshole who broke into my house or about Onyx being my protector. We’re talking about work, something we both value and understand.
I pull another folder from the box and flip it open, scanning the first page. The handwriting is tight and slanted, the ink faded in places. “I’m going to need a minute to adjust to some of this,”I say without thinking. “Whoever wrote this must have hated margins.”
Onyx leans in just enough to see what I’m looking at. “That’s my dad’s handwriting,” he says. “He wrote fast and expected everyone else to keep up.”
I glance up at him, surprised, then back down at the page. “That explains a lot.”
He lets out a quiet breath that sounds like a little involuntary laugh. It’s brief, but it eases us more into the moment. I slide the folder back into place and check another file. The date makes my eyebrows lift.
“There are a lot of really old documents here,” I say. “This goes back to before I was born.”
“Before I was born too,” he responds. “Some of the old boxes got mixed in with the new. Some of it hasn’t been looked at in twenty years or more.”
When I turn slightly to grab another box, I notice how close he’s standing. He’s not crowding me exactly, but he’s definitely in my personal space. When I shift my weight, he adjusts automatically, giving me a little more space without moving away. My skin prickles with awareness because I can feel the warmth of his body. That, coupled with his quiet attention makes this situation feel more intimate. Surprisingly, I find myself relaxing into it with him.
I like that he trusts me to handle the work without explaining it twice. He doesn’t look at me like I might break if the wrong thing happens. After everything I’ve been through, that matters more than I want to admit.
The morning slips by faster than I expect. Once I fall into the rhythm of sorting and logging the records, time narrows to paper and dates and the steady scratch of notes. Onyx works, facing me from his own desk, occasionally stepping out to handle something and returning without comment.
Chapter 10
Emily
Ikeep my shoulder to the grind. This is the kind of work that teaches patience. The moment my stomach growls, Onyx speaks up.
“Are you ready for lunch?” he asks, glancing at the clock on the wall. “We can grab lunch in the clubhouse. I saw Jasper’s old lady had the club girls making homemade lasagna earlier.”
I nod, rubbing my eyes and stretching my shoulders. “That actually sounds amazing.”
I follow him into the bar area, the smell of food hits immediately. The tables are filling up, brothers are already filling their plates. A few women move behind the bar and between the kitchen and the tables, carrying trays and talking over one another. I recognize some of them from earlier. They’re club girls.
Onyx gets pulled aside before he can even fill his plate. Someone catches his attention with a low voice and a hand on his arm. He gives me a brief look and murmurs, “I’ll be right back.” Before I can answer, he turns away.
I hover for a second, unsure what to do. Then I walk over to the buffet, fill my plate and take an open seat at one of the tables. No one says anything as I settle in, but I feel their eyes on me anyway. The noise level rises, as everyone starts talking as they eat.
That’s when a woman walks across from the far side of the room and leans in.
“I heard you’re the office help,” she says in a snide tone.
I turn to get a better look at her long, perfectly styled hair and realize she’s wearing evening clothing during the day, including platform spiked heels. Her smile is fake and her make-up is nothing short of elaborate. She grins. “I didn’t know Queenie was hiring secretaries again.”
