Page 58 of Down Knot Out
“I—” My throat constricts, and I clear it before trying again. “This is Chloe Richardson. I received a letter regarding matters of inheritance?”
A pause, followed by the click of computer keys. “Ms. Richardson. Yes, we’ve been expecting your call.”
She says my name like she’s acknowledging a problematic case file that landed on her desk during rotation. Expected. Like a pawn in a game I didn’t know I was still playing. A chill rolls down my spine, and Dominic pulls me closer, offering his silent strength.
“I need to schedule a meeting,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.
More typing filters through the speaker. “Mr. Sinclair has an opening today at two o’clock. Would that suit you?”
Today? My fingers tighten around the phone. The speed of the offer catches me off guard, as if they’ve been holding time open, anticipating this very moment.
“Today?” I repeat, checking with Dominic, who nods.
“Yes, Mr. Sinclair requested we accommodate you at your earliest convenience should you call.” The receptionist’s tone carries a hint of curiosity beneath the professional veneer.
Of course, he did. “Two o’clock is fine.”
“Excellent. The meeting will be at our downtown offices. Fifteenth floor. Should I text you the address?”
“Yes, please.” The conversation continues with logistical details that I absorb through a fog of disbelief.
By the time I hang up, sunlight spills through the window, and the sound of Emily moving around the house drifts down the hall.
I drop the phone onto my lap, and nervous energy runs through my body. My fingers find the shamrock necklace at my throat, tracing the birthstones.
Dominic catches my hand, stilling my fidgeting. “Are you okay?”
No. Nothing is okay. In a few hours, I’ll be sitting across from the family who turned their backs on me, who sat at a distance while I struggled to survive.
But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I turn myhand in his and thread our fingers together. The warmth of his palm on mine disperses some of the coldness that’s seeped into my bones.
“I will be.” I brush my lips over his knuckles. “Thank you for going with me.”
“Of course.” He kisses my temple. “Why don’t you shower while I go check on what Emily’s up to and offer to help with breakfast.”
“Maybe just watch from the sidelines,” I tease. “I want it to be edible.”
“Oh?” He tickles my sides. “What are you saying about my kitchen skills?”
“Nothing!” Giggling, I roll away from him and tumble off the end of the bed before heading for the bathroom.
I pause in the doorway of Emily’s kitchen, taking in the domestic scene.
Emily stands at the stove, her broad back to us, spatula scraping a cast iron pan as she flips an omelet with a practiced precision I’ve only seen before in Holden. She wears faded flannel pajama pants and a thermal shirt with the sleeves pushed up, revealing forearms corded with muscle, herattire softer than her work clothes, but still practical.
Dominic sits at a small table set in an alcove, a mug clasped between his palms, steam curling up to caress the underside of his stubbled jaw.
“There she is,” he says as I enter.
I slip into the chair beside him, my damp hair dripping cool spots onto my T-shirt. “That better be decaf you’re drinking.”
He hums noncommittally and takes another sip from his mug.
I turn toward Emily. “Thanks for the clean clothes.”
When I came out of the shower, I had found the outfit from yesterday sitting on the edge of the bed, folded and still warm from the dryer.
“Couldn’t send you back out in dirty clothes.” The skillet hisses as she slides the omelet onto a waiting plate, the edges golden-brown and crispy.
