"You smell like it." He says this so matter-of-factly that I almost laugh.
"Occupational hazard. Numbers and caffeine go hand in hand."
I glance at my watch—8:15 PM. The drive from Atlanta took longer than expected, especially with the storm slowing me down on these mountain roads. But I can still get a few hours of work in tonight.
"I'd like to get started as soon as possible," I say. "Jim mentioned the audit is Monday morning?"
"Nine AM. The IRS doesn't waste time."
"Neither do I." I slip off my ruined heels. "Mind if I change first? Professional as wet business attire is, I work better dry."
He gestures down the hallway. "First door on the right."
The bathroom continues the cabin's aesthetic—natural stone sink, wooden accents, but modern fixtures. I peel off my drenched blazer and blouse, grateful I packed my emergency kit in my laptop bag. I quickly towel my hair, apply some dry shampoo, and change into leggings and an oversized sweater. My work-from-home uniform when I'm pulling all-nighters.
When I emerge, Cole is in the kitchen, his broad back to me as he reaches into a cabinet. The sweater he's wearing stretches across his shoulders, hinting at the muscular frame beneath.
"I made coffee," he says without turning around, like he somehow knew I was standing there. "Show me how you take it."
I step into the kitchen, and at 5'4", I'm used to being shorter than most people, but Cole Blackwood makes me feel downright tiny.
"Black is fine," I say, reaching for the mug he offers. "So," I say, taking a sip of the surprisingly good coffee, "where's the financial disaster zone?"
"This way."
He leads me down the hallway to a room that looks like a paper bomb exploded. Stacks of invoices, receipts stuffed into boxes, folders with papers spilling out. It's a chaotic monument to five years of procrastination.
"Jim usually comes quarterly to sort through everything," Cole explains, rubbing the back of his neck. "He understands my... system."
I survey the room, already mentally categorizing and prioritizing. "Which is?"
"If it's important, it's in here somewhere."
I can't help but smile. "Well, that's a start. Mind if I set up at the desk?"
Cole nods and clears some space, moving stacks with precision despite his large hands. I notice calluses, a few scars—hands that have built things, fixed things. Now I need to fix his paperwork before the IRS tears his business apart.
"I'll need to ask you questions as I go," I say, setting up my laptop. "About expenses, income sources, deductions."
"I'll be around." He shifts his weight, looking uncomfortable in the small room. "Need anything else right now?"
"Just space and time." I open my financial software. "And maybe more coffee in a few hours."
He nods and turns to leave, then hesitates at the doorway. "Thank you. For coming on such short notice."
The sincerity in his voice surprises me. This gruff mountain of a man doesn't seem the type to express gratitude easily.
"Just doing my job, Mr. Blackwood."
"Cole," he corrects. "Mr. Blackwood was my father."
"Cole, then."
Another crack of thunder shakes the cabin, and the lights flicker ominously. Cole looks up at the ceiling.
"Power goes out sometimes during storms," he says. "Generator kicks in automatically."
"Good to know." I turn to my laptop, already pulling up spreadsheets. "I'll try to be efficient with the electricity."
