Chapter 12: The Ask

Greer's POV

I picked up the binder and closed it.

"Those are my initials," I said. "I signed the totals on every budget page for eight quarters, and I never opened the attachments."

Tate's eyebrows rose a quarter inch.

"That was my father's rule," I said. "The COO's attachments go to the COO. He thought it would keep us honest."

"It's a lovely rule," Tate said.

Rafe had not moved.

I did not look at him.

I could feel him looking at me, and I did not know what his face was doing, and for the first time since Saturday I was afraid of what it would be.

"Rafe," I said. "Would you go and get coffee? The place on Fulton opens at seven."

"Greer."

"Term three says you don't go after him alone. It doesn't say I can't have a drink with my husband."

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then he went out through the front door, and I heard it close, and I heard his footsteps going down the walk.

I took the binder to the shelf by the window and set it down.

My phone was already leaning against the spines of my father's books, with its camera facing the desk.

It had been recording for six minutes.

"There's a bottle of Dad's rye in the cabinet," I said. "Will you pour us each one?"

"At seven in the morning?"

"It's been that kind of week."

He laughed and got up.

He poured two glasses with his back to the shelf, and I watched his hands.

They were steady.

He sat down on the corner of the desk and held one out to me.

"To sensible women," he said.

"To being sensible."

We drank.

It burned all the way down, and it tasted like my father's study, and I made myself swallow.

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