“Not yet,” he replies, his eyes twinkling. He gestures toward the chair opposite my desk, waits for my nod, and settles in asif he has all the time in the world. He unslings his satchel, sets it gently on the chair beside him, and pulls out a thick manila envelope stamped withBrowne, Browne, and Associates.Montana Estate Law.
Something prickles at the base of my neck. A memory I vaguely remember.
“You knew Penny Thomas,” he says. It wasn’t a question.
I hesitate. “Yes. I’ve run into her a handful of times. Social events here in Denver. She had… a flair.”
That’s putting it mildly. The woman once served purple deviled eggs at a benefit dinner and made me hold a papier-mâché parrot while she told a story about nearly adopting a circus troupe. Half the guests thought she was joking. I wasn’t so sure.
Mr. Browne slides the envelope across my desk. “She remembered you.”
I study it but don’t reach for it yet. “I’m a forensic accountant. I don’t do estate law.”
“No. But your talents go beyond accounting, and you do order. Penny was very fond of order, in her own… creative way.”
Something softens in my chest. Fond. That was the word. I hadn’t known her well, but she had this uncanny ability to pull you into her orbit and make you feel like your strengths weren’t quirks but superpowers.
I clear my throat, breaking the moment. “What’s this about?”
He leans forward, fingers laced over his knee. “Penny left very specific instructions in her will. Her niece Milly is to inherit the ranch in Everwood, Montana, provided she lives there for one calendar year. But Penny named you, Mr. Adams, as co-executor. Or, in her words”—he smiles faintly—“the Numbers Man. Also known as her secret weapon.” Mr. Browne smirks. “Before you say no, your boss has already agreed to your extended leave of absence. It’s not just a suggestion,” he added,like he’d read the question before I’d asked it. “The will requires residency and oversight. You’re there to document compliance, keep the estate clean, and make sure no one… helps themselves while she’s settling in.”
Secret weapon, prearranged leave, residency? My first thought was logistical. My second was inconveniently human: living that close to Milly Thomas, if she was anything like her aunt, sounded like putting a match in a paper bag and calling it ‘contained.’
“I’m not a bodyguard anymore,” I say flatly. “I track expenses. I close books.”
“Exactly why she named you,” Browne says, a smile tugging faintly at his mouth. “Milly has heart. She has vision. She is wildly uncontained, much like Penny. What she lacks is your kind of balance.” I raise my eyebrows, as if he’d heard my thoughts.
I turn the envelope in my hands, my thumb resting on the seal. Thick paper and a wax seal. My world—until now—has always been numbers I can balance, problems with clean solutions. This feels different. Like if I accept the job, my life is about to get a whole lot messier.
Browne leans back, giving me space but watching closely. “She left you a letter,” he says. “I thought it best you read it yourself.”
He slides a folded page across the desk. The handwriting is instantly familiar, looping in dramatic flourishes, purple ink nonetheless. Penny never used black or blue when she could make a point in technicolor.
Austin,it begins.
Keep Milly safe. And make sure she doesn’t run into trouble. You’re my secret weapon—keep her steady when her world goes sideways. She’s going to need you more than she wants toadmit,and more than you think. Trust me on this one. I’ve had adventures you don’t read in history books.
My mouth quirks despite myself. Even from the grave, Penny has flair. It’s ridiculous. It’s totally Penny.
You may think you’re done protecting people. You may think numbers are safer. But people need both. Milly will need both.
I stare at the words a little longer, as if some part of her voice might echo through the page.
I fold the letter carefully, press the crease flat, and set it down with deliberate precision. “She asked too much.”
Browne doesn’t flinch. “Maybe. Or maybe she knew you’d say that—and that you’d do it anyway.”
Duty whispers in my mind and heart. Duty isn’t something you just throw away because you weren’t wearing camouflage. I survived Navy SEAL training, yes. I’ve lived through worse things than Denver traffic and tax season, yes. But I can’t shake the outcome of my last mission. The one that changed my life forever. The mission that still gives me nightmares and left me with the guilt of the haunting souls that didn’t make it. My commander and boss still insist there was no other outcome, but the math never added up for me. Numbers I can live with. Consequences for myself, fine. But someone else’s life? Not again.
“I don’t do protection anymore,” I say quietly. “Not the kind that costs someone their life if I miss a detail. Spreadsheets don’t bleed, Mr. Browne.”
Browne lets the silence stretch before he speaks. “That’s exactly why she named you,” he says finally, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Milly has only ever relied on one person, and now that her mother passed, she has no one. She’s going to need a friend.”
I rub a hand across my jaw, already feeling the grit of sand I haven’t touched in years, the weight of expectations I thought I’d put down. My desk, my office, the succulent leaning toward the sun—it all looks suddenly fragile.
“What happens if I refuse?”
Browne doesn’t hesitate. “Then the estate passes to Harold Thomas.”
