Page 67 of That Next Moment

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to keep my excitement at bay. This is what I loved about my job at Jackson and Rye. I managed accounts left and right. I knew their every move when it came to their money. I loved being the one in charge of it. Numbers and I meshed, and we meshed well.

I chuckled. “You want an embezzling accountant going through your books?”

Tilting his head and pointing a finger at me, Elliot began, “First of all, you’re not an embezzling accountant. You just got stuck in a sticky situation, and second”—he dropped his hand—“yes. I’d rather trust you than some hot shot out of college.”

“He used to be that hot shot out of college,” Milo shouted from the living room, the battle between the heroes and big bad guy just starting to happen.

“I did,” I agreed.

“Weren’t we all?” Elliot shrugged. “So, will you take a look?”

I raked my teeth across my bottom lip and nodded. “Yeah, I’d love to, actually. Can I keep this, try to make heads or tails of it?”

“Please.” He pushed the binder closer to me. “Tomorrow? Say eleven?”

I closed the binder and took another drink from my beer. “Sounds like a plan.”

I was taught to dress the part. Even though it was just Elliot, and it was just to take a quick look, I dressed as if I was going to meet a new client for the first time. My nice shoes, gray slacks, belt, and white button-down shirt, complete with a tie. I took a photo from the bathroom mirror and sent it to Ophelia.

Clay: Channeling my J and R days. How do I look?

Ophelia: Pretty damn amazing. Good luck.

I gave myself one more look over before heading out to the bus stop, gliding my fingers along Tessa as I walked past her. One day, maybe. Until then, the bus would do. Thankfully, it was a nice day outside, and the ride to Elliot’s office wasn’t that long. It helped that I had Ophelia’s constant texting in my pocket. I would smile with each new joke, each new draft of a sketch that she would send, and when she finally sent me a photo of her and a cup of coffee, I knew I was a goner.

There had to be a way to keep her in my life this time around.

I didn’t want to lose her again.

Locking my phone, I slipped it into my pocket and made sure I had Elliot’s large binder under my arm. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my task at hand: numbers. Specifically, Elliot’s numbers. I was able to piece together some of the papers he had given me, some invoices that still needed to be paid and vendor information, but it was still no good without his accounts.

Elliot’s company took up an entire three-story building. Glass walls and white trim made the building stand out against the stone walls that lined the street. Walking in, I saw two large conference rooms, both with large TVs but empty. The receptionist was sitting patiently at her computer and behind her was the open floor plan of multiple desks scattered around. A few of the desks were empty. Others had what I assumed was an employee and client sitting with them.

“Hello, I’m Clay Nolan.” I walked up to the receptionist, standing as tall as I could. “I’m here to meet with—”

“Elliot, right? He’s been waiting for you. I’ll go grab him,” she said with a smile.

I narrowed my eyes and took another look. I thought Elliot was a contractor, but this is not what I was picturing. Before I could find any kind of sign, Elliot’s voice appeared.

“Hey, man. This way.” Elliot led me past the desks and into his office, which had glass walls and was ridiculously clean.

“I didn’t know you were an architect.”

Elliot sat behind his desk, dressed similarly to me. It was as if he had two personalities. Stage and business. Even though he was dressed for business, I could see the stage wanting to burst free. He loosened his tie and grumbled. “My dad was an architect, and this was his firm. I went into business, per his request, and we’ve grown. Bottom floor is me and my team of architects. My dad loved the open floor plan. Second floor is design. They all tend to spend most of their time up there. It’s more ‘homey.’ Third floor is where we present to our clients. We have multiple meeting rooms and display cases up there. We get a lot of foot traffic, believe it or not. We deal with contractors and vendors from”—he waved his hand around—“everywhere, and he left it all to me.”

“He passed?” I asked, trying to sound remorseful, take the seat across from him and placing the binder on the desk.

“No, but he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s three years ago, and he went downhill fast. I worked with him for the first two years, but a year ago, he left everything to me.” He gave me a cheesy smile and spread his arms.

“And apparently, he left you a mess?”

He groaned and bent over, his forehead hitting the desk. “Unfortunately,” he grumbled, rising his head from the desk.

“How bad are we talking? I went through these.” I tapped the binder. “You have some open invoices.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about those getting paid. We are making good money, but I need it organized. That’s where you come in.”

“I can definitely help you get it in line, and then when you’re ready to hire an accountant I can show him what we’ve done and —”