Page 155 of Rhodes

“Yeah?”

“If it would help, I could meet you. Dale probably could too.”

“It would help. I’d rather make sure what I’m promising actually works at Oak Moss before I commit you to it.”

“Okay.”

We settle on Friday morning. I text her the address for the port office once we hang up.

Tallulah is already there when I walk into the logistics office near the port, sitting at the end of a conference table with a coffee in front of her and a man, who I can assume is Dale, beside her. She looks up when I come in and smiles.

Her hair's down and styled instead of up in a bun, and there's a whole version of her sitting at that table I never got to have. One I’ll never get to have again.

“Look at you,” she says. “Very official.”

I glance down at my navy blazer. “You’re the one who asked for professional help.”

“I did, you're right.”

I take longer than I should getting into the chair across from her. I’m fumbling like a baby deer, and I think she giggles under her breath, but I refuse to look at her for confirmation.

Dale stands and shakes my hand as we make introductions. The rest is business.

We go through the supplier quantities, pickup dates, consolidation point, and what kind of trucks can actually make it down the access road at Oak Moss without Dale having an aneurysm. Tallulah asks good questions and shuts down one suggestion before I have to because it would interfere with work already scheduled on the bank.

By the time we walk outside, the whole thing is close enough to done that all I need are final rates and signed confirmations.

Tallulah stops beside me on the sidewalk. “That was considerably less painful than I expected.”

“I’m offended.”

“I meant freight logistics.” She smiles.

Dale says he has to get back to Oak Moss and heads toward his truck, leaving us standing there with traffic moving past the port entrance.

Tallulah lifts her coffee. “You have anywhere you need to be right now?”

“Not for an hour.”

“There’s a coffee place around the corner. This is terrible.”

I look at the cup already in her hand.

“Port offices are notorious for bad coffee. Yeah, let's grab a proper cup and run through this.”

We take a table near the window. For the first few minutes, we talk strictly about the shipment. Not numbers this time, just what happens next and how much shell they have already placed.

Then the conversation slips sideways without either of us trying.

She tells me about school and the apartment with Jo. I tell her enough about Nero that she finally understands Cain is not sitting behind a desk in Singapore barking orders at me.

“So you actually like it.”

“I do.”

“That still surprises me.”

“Why?”