Page 168 of Dial F for Finance

I laugh. “Understood. Canning is a shark who hides behind a polite smile,” I tell her, snagging a passing caterer by the elbow to rescue two flutes of champagne. I hand her one. “Don’t try to out-tech him, and don’t bother playing corporate politics. Just show him the math, be brutally honest about the risks, and never apologize for being the smartest person in the room. He respects competence above all else. You’ll have him eating out of the palm of your hand by the end of your first week.”

Hailey grins, taking a sip of her champagne. “Brutal honesty and math. Got it. Sounds like I just need to channel my sister.”

“Exactly.” I tap my glass against hers. “Just channel Jenna.”

Speaking of my wife, I locate her near the kitchen island. She’s a vision in a tailored emerald-green silk blouse and dark denim, her signature burgundy lipstick applied with absolute precision. She’s currently holding a clipboard—because of course she created a run-of-show for a family dinner—but she’s laughing, and it’s a warm, open sound that hits me right in the chest, a gift I will never take for granted.

She’s standing between my verbose, apron-clad father—who is gesturing wildly with a pair of tongs to emphasize the importance of a slow sear—and Ma Pemberton, who is nodding along with a critical eye, guarding her ziti like a mob boss. Jenna catches my eye across the room and flashes me a secret, scorching look that promises very specific, highly inefficient activities once we finally get these people out of our house.

I wink at her, my pulse doing its familiar sideways hammer.

Jenna moved in with me permanently within a week of her returning to Chicago. She gave up her apartment without a flicker of ceremony, on the official grounds that Bucktown has “better light, better company, and a bigger bathtub.” Last weekend she hung her own photos on my walls.

Our walls.

Hailey and Ma on the Queens stoop. The girls crammed into the corner booth at Lockwood. One of me asleep on the thinking couch with grease on my jaw, which I have formally petitioned to have removed and been formally denied. The museum of people I love has a new curator, and she hangs things at her own height now.

Everything else about Chicago remained the same. Bennett put her straight back to work without ceremony—it turns out he never processed the resignation in the first place. Four perfectly formatted sentences sat in his inbox for two weeks because, quote, “I don’t accept documents drafted under duress.” She’s back at her desk running his empire like she never left. Back in the group chats—all of them, including two I wasn’t previously aware existed.

Last Sunday, I finally took the Bonneville out with Jenna on the back. We rode north along the lake until the traffic thinned, her arms locked around my waist and her laughter disappearing into the wind.

When we rolled back into the workshop, she pulled off her helmet with her hair destroyed and her smile entirely unrepentant.

“So,” she said, resting one hand on the restored tank. “What are you going to work on now?”

“Us.”

Something soft moved across her face. “Well, that’s wonderful. Very emotionally mature of you.”

“I’m evolving.”

“However, I may have found a 1951 Vincent Black Shadow for sale. Matching numbers. I’ve already reached out to the seller, but if you’re not interested⁠—”

“Not interested?” I stared at her. “Sweetheart, I was interested at Vincent Black Shadow.”

Her smile turned deeply pleased with itself. “I suspected you might be.”

“I may marry you again.”

“Review the provenance first.”

Of course she’d already requested the provenance.

My world is the right way up again.

The doorbell rings, a sharp chime cutting through Dustin’s booming laughter.

“I’ve got it!” I project, weaving through the obstacle course of my relatives.

I pull the heavy front door open to find Logan and Audrey on the stoop. Logan is already rolling his shoulders in a nervous tic, his eyes darting past me to assess the decibel level of the foyer. Audrey is holding a bottle of wine and beaming.

“Tell me the probability of survival,” Logan says. “Because from the sidewalk, it sounds like an unmitigated riot.”

“It’s a controlled detonation, Professor,” I say, stepping aside to let them in. “And you’re late. My mother has already asked about her invite to your wedding, and Dustin wants to know if you’ll play Mario Kart with him later.”

Logan pushes his glasses up his nose. “Of course I’ll play Mario Kart with him.”

Audrey laughs, stepping into the fray and handing me the wine. “We brought reinforcements.”