"I’m not a desk jockey, Logan," Oliver growls. "I fix things. I don’t push paper."
"You’re the only one up there who can read without moving his lips," Logan shoots back. "Just look at the digital file I sent over. Verify the stock against the order."
Oliver sighs, the sound of a man defeated by bureaucracy. He taps the screen of a ruggedized tablet sitting on the desk, his brow furrowing as he stares at the spreadsheet. He looks like he’d rather fight a bear.
I step closer, curiosity getting the better of me. "What’s wrong?"
He glances at me, then tilts the screen so I can see. "Club business. Legit side. We run the Outfitters store in town.Supplier messed up the order, and the inventory system is..." He struggles for a word.
"A disaster," I supply, looking at the chaotic columns of numbers.
"Yeah. That."
I lean over the desk, my shoulder brushing his arm. My eyes scan the data. A mess, sure, but a familiar one. I spent four years working inventory for a logistics company in the city before I inherited the cabin. Soul-sucking work, but I was good at it. I see patterns where other people see noise.
"This is more than a supplier error," I say, tapping the screen. "Look. The SKU codes are misaligned. They’re billing you for the rope by the foot, but receiving it by the spool. And here—" I point to another column. "You’re double-ordering safety gear because the re-order trigger is set too high. You’re hemorrhaging money on storage fees for stock you don't need."
Silence.
I look up to find Oliver staring at me. He ignores the tablet now. He looks at me with a mix of surprise and something dangerously close to admiration.
"You speak fluent nerd?" he asks.
I roll my eyes. "I speak fluent 'I don't like wasting money.' Fix the SKU here, adjust the par levels, and tell the supplier to eat the shipping cost on the carabiners because it’s their error code on the invoice. See? It says 'Sub-Type B' right there. Their internal code for bulk, not retail."
Oliver stares at the screen, then back at me. A slow grin spreads across his face. He presses the transmit button on the radio.
"Logan."
"Yeah?"
"I’m sending a revised list. The supplier owes us a refund on shipping, and we’re cancelling the backorder on the safety gear."
"Since when do you know what a backorder is?" Logan asks, sounding suspicious.
Oliver’s eyes lock on mine. They are moss-green, intense, filled with a sudden, sharp clarity. "I didn't. Avery did."
"The girl?" Logan’s voice changes. Interest peaks. "The stray?"
"Not a stray," Oliver corrects, his voice dropping an octave. "She’s with me."
He cuts the connection before Logan can respond. Silence rushes back in, but it feels different now. Charged.
"You’re good at that," Oliver says, nodding at the tablet.
"I needed a job that paid the rent," I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "It’s boring."
"It’s necessary," he counters. He moves closer, trapping me between his body and the desk. He smells like coffee and dominance. "The club... we’re good at protecting the mountain. We’re good at the physical side. But the business? It’s growing faster than we can manage. We need someone who can see the cracks before they break."
My heart skips a beat. "Are you offering me a job?"
"I’m offering you a place," he corrects. His hands come up to rest on my waist, heavy and grounding. "You said you needed to fixthings. You said you needed to be useful. You can run the supply side. Organize the shop. Keep Logan off my back."
"You want me to work for the MC?"
"I want you to stay," he says simply. "I want you to have a reason to be here, besides just me. I know you, Avery. You’re independent. You won’t just sit around and let me keep you. You need your own ground."
He understands me. The realization hits harder than the physical attraction ever did. He looked past the fear and the clumsiness to see the need for purpose.
