My throat tightened.
He reached for me, then stopped with his hand half-raised.
I stepped into him.
Zane's arm came around me.
The first contact stole the air from my lungs. His hand spread between my shoulder blades, warm and broad through my blouse. My cheek pressed against his chest, and I caught the familiar scent of sun, work, cotton, and Zane. Not office toner. Not coffee. Not fear.
For one second, I let myself hold on.
His other hand settled at the back of my head, careful with my hair clip. "You should've told me."
"Yes."
"You're telling me now."
"I am."
His chest moved under my cheek as he breathed. "We deal with Fletcher next."
We.
My fingers curled in his shirt.
"I still have four hours left," I said, because apparently paperwork had staged a coup in my brain.
Zane's hand stilled against my back. Then he gave a short, quiet laugh.
The sound rumbled against my cheek.
"What?" I asked.
"You just told me my brother may have used my land to prop up a development packet, confessed to a parking-lot tire catastrophe, cried in my shed, and now you're worried about your hours."
"When you list it that way, it sounds busy."
"It is busy."
"I don't want you to think I came here to get out of anything."
Zane eased back enough to look at me. His hands stayed at my waist, steady and warm.
"I don't think that."
"I also don't want this to make your work harder here."
"Fletcher already did that."
"But I'm connected to Cascadia."
"You work there. You didn't make the deal."
"I touched the packet."
"You prepared materials assigned to you by your boss."
"Your brother is the broker."
