"Paper gets lost, Cole. Or chewed by bears." I smile to soften the comment, but his expression remains serious.
"Some things need to stay offline," he says, an edge to his voice I haven't heard before.
I glance at him, curious about this unexpected resistance. "Are you worried about data security? Because there are ways to—"
"It's not that." He sets down his fork. "Some aspects of the business need to remain flexible, less... documented."
"You mean the cash withdrawals." It's not a question.
Our eyes meet across the island, a silent standoff. I've hit a nerve, touched on something important. Perhaps the center of whatever secret he's keeping. Does he owe money to someone?
"Ruby," he says finally, his voice low and serious, "I need you to trust that I have good reasons. Can you do that? Just for now?"
I should press harder. As an accountant, as a professional, I should insist on transparency. But something in his clearly vulnerable eyes stops me.
"Okay," I concede. "But the IRS won't take 'trust me' for an answer. We still need those expenditure reports."
Relief crosses his features. "I'll write them up today."
After breakfast, we settle into work again, the rhythm of the previous day resuming. Cole brings me files as needed, answers questions about vendors and projects, occasionally disappearing outside for phone calls or to check his email. The day passes in a productive blur, broken only by a quick lunch and coffee refills.
By late afternoon, my eyes are burning from staring at spreadsheets, but satisfaction outweighs fatigue. We've organized nearly all the critical documentation, created a coherent filing system, and prepared responses to likely audit questions. Barring any major surprises, Blackwood Construction should emerge from tomorrow's audit unscathed.
I stretch, rolling my shoulders to release tension, and look up to find Cole watching me from the doorway.
"You look pleased with yourself," he observes.
"I am. We're in good shape for tomorrow." I close my laptop. "Your business records are finally as solid as your buildings."
"Thanks to you." He steps into the room, hands in his pockets. "I think we've earned a break. Want to see something?"
Curiosity piques through my fatigue. "What kind of something?"
"Sunset from my favorite spot. It's a short walk from here."
The invitation feels significant somehow, like he's offering to share something personal. "I'd like that."
Cole's smile—a rare, full smile that transforms his usually serious face—makes my heart skip. "Grab a jacket. Gets cold quick when the sun drops."
I follow him outside, zipping up the light jacket I brought from Atlanta. Cole leads me along a narrow trail behind the cabin, moving with the confidence of someone who knows these woods intimately. I stay close behind him, mindful of roots and rocks that could trip unwary feet.
"Watch your step here," he says, offering his hand to help me across a small stream. His palm is warm and calloused against mine, the touch sending a flutter through my stomach that I attribute to the uneven footing.
The trail climbs steadily for about ten minutes before opening suddenly onto a rocky outcropping. The view is otherworldly. Mountains rolling away in waves of blue and purple, the valley below us painted in the golden light of the setting sun. Cedar Falls is visible in the distance, a small collection of buildings nestled between hills.
"Oh," I breathe, moving to the edge of the rock. "It's beautiful."
Cole stands beside me, his gaze on the horizon. "Worth the climb?"
"Absolutely." I turn in a slow circle, taking in the panoramic vista. "You must come here often."
"When I need perspective." He sits on a flat boulder, patting the space beside him. "When the business gets overwhelming or I need to remember why I stay."
I join him, the warmth radiating from his body in the cooling air. "Do you ever think about leaving? Moving somewhere less isolated?"
He considers this, eyes on the distant mountains. "Sometimes. But this land is in my blood. My family has been here for generations."
"That kind of rootedness must be nice," I say, watching golden light spill across the valley. "I've moved six times in the last ten years."
