Page 68 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

He pauses the meeting and the screen goes black.

“Dawson,” Quinn says. “This is as good a deal as we’re going to get.”

I push back from my chair. It’s too early for a drink, so I pop a soda from the mini fridge and take a sip. “Three percent that pond will fail.”

He crosses his arms and leans against the desk. “Three percent never bothered you before. What is going on?”

I sip from my soda and stride to the big window. Across the McKenzie’s braided channel, the forested foothills rise to layers of mountains. Thin clouds have snagged on the peaks like cotton batting, their shadows blending with the landscape.

“Something doesn’t feel right.”

Quinn joins me at the window, his face tense. “We’re there, brother. This is the end. We agree to this and Brielle will sign.”

Emotions I can’t contain prick my throat and sting my nose. I’m so ready to finish this chapter of my life. To step out of the trench I’ve been stuck in since my father died. To start my life the way I’ve always wanted to.

“I keep thinking about that day on the river with Lexie.”

Quinn clasps my shoulder, his face set in a grimace. “I know this is hard.”

“If something went wrong at the mine, I would never forgive myself.”

“You heard them,” Quinn replies, his grip on my shoulder a reminder that he’s on my side. That we’re a team. He wants this for me. He’s been there for me. We survived Hawthorne. Losing Odessa. Inheriting a billion-dollar company on the brink of bankruptcy and building back up. We’ve done it all together, in lock step.

“They’ve mitigated every hazard to the best of their abilities,” he adds. “And we’ve brokered deals with higher risk factors. Not one of them has failed.”

He’s right. This is as good a deal as we could hope for. What’s wrong with me?

“Let’s at least have Bealer send everything over,” Quinn says, crossing his arms.

“We can go over it with a fine-tooth comb. If there are any red flags, then we refuse it. But if it’s solid, we sign.”

My stomach twists into knots, but I give my best friend a nod. “Set it up.”

He releases a hard sigh, his fierce eyes brimming with emotion. “Okay.”

We spendthe next two hours flipping pages, making notes, reading. At some point, Quinn finishes and pads from the room, his stomach rumbling.

Outside, the light slowly fades and the air turns hazy with a fine mist. When I’ve reached the final page of the proposal, I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and add ice, then take Bealer’s proposal to the leather couch. I slide off my shoes and prop up my feet.

Despite the drizzle, the bird feeder hanging off the deck is crowded with small black-capped birds. They peck at the seeds and ruffle their tiny wings and chitter to each other. Occasionally one of them will chase another off, like this feeder is a limited resource.

I grab the bag of birdseed from under the liquor cabinet sink and step barefoot onto the deck. A gust of cool air rises up from the river, wet and earthy. The birds scatter. Mist dampens my face and arms while I fill the container, but it’s refreshing. Grounding. Back inside, I shake out my hair and dry my face with a towel from the bathroom.

When I return to the couch, my phone is buzzing with a video call.

My shoulders tense. “Brielle,” I answer.

“Dawson,” she replies, her tone brisk. She’s dressed in a thick white spa robe with her head wrapped in a towel. Her face is covered in a product that looks like sour cream. She must see my damp hair because she frowns.

“I was just feeding the birds.”

Her look turns sour. “Update me on our project while I mist.”

After tucking away the birdseed, I return to the couch and sip from my drink while I settle in. It’s like fire in my throat, but I welcome the heat.

Brielle reclines on a narrow, white bed and places a thin slice of cucumber over each eye, then disappears in a cloud of steam.

“Where are you?” I ask.

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