Page 93 of This Life of Mine

His mouth quirks. “Of course?”

“You have that look,” I say. “The one that says spreadsheets don’t scare you, and you probably had a color-coded plan for your life by the time you were twenty.”

He chuckles. “Something like that.”

“And you?” he asks, glancing at me now.

“Same lane,” I say. “MBA. Finished recently.”

That actually makes him stop what he’s doing. He turns to me fully this time, something like respect sharpening his expression.

“I figured,” he says.

I lift a brow. “Really?”

“The bakery and bookshop,” he replies. “The way it runs. The organization of it. Most people with good ideas burn out before they build something sustainable. An MBA can help with ensuring success.”

The compliment makes me smile.

“What about social media?” I ask. “Do you have any?”

I ask already knowing the answer.

He smiles at me, as if he’s aware of my search.

“I don’t,” he says. “Perhaps LinkedIn for commercial purposes.”

I hesitate, allowing myself to follow the thread that’s been tugging at me since last night. Since the parking lot. Since the way he moved when things went bad.

“So,” I say casually, “what do you actually do for a living?”

He doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t dodge. Only takes a breath and chooses his words with care.

“I’m in forensics,” he says. “I co-own a consulting business with a long time friend, Reese.”

“Forensics,” I repeat. “That’s a jump from business.”

His eyes flick to mine, assessing—not defensive, aware.

“Not too far off.”

“What kind?” I ask gently. “Financial? Digital? Criminal?”

“Mostly financial,” he says. “Tracing missing money. Following patterns that don’t make sense on paper.”

“You said mostly financial…” I prompt.

“Sometimes criminal—missing people,” he adds.

That settles heavier.

“That sounds…” I search for the word. “Intense.”

“It can be,” he admits. “But at its core, it’s about solving problems. Finding the truth when something doesn’t add up. When someone’s lying with numbers instead of words or both.”

I observe him as he speaks—the steadiness in his voice, the precision in his movements, the way nothing about him seems unintended.

“You don’t talk about it like it’s just a job,” I say, adding, “more like a calling.”