“I found the expansion file.”
“In my office?”
“In our safe.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You went through my paperwork?”
“No.”
I put the coffee down.
“I opened my safe and found my warehouse listed as collateral.”
Laura crossed her arms.
“We were going to discuss it.”
“When?”
“When everything was finalized.”
“That sounds backward.”
“You've always supported Laurel Row.”
“I have.”
“So what is this?”
“What is what?”
“This performance.”
She gestured between us.
“The ring. Walking out. Digging through paperwork.”
“I didn't dig.”
“Greg.”
“You put a loan package with my name in a safe we both use.”
“You were going to sign.”
There it was.
Not:
I hoped you would.
Not:
I wanted to ask.
You were going to sign.
I looked at her.
“How did you know?”
She blinked.
“What?”
“How did you know I was going to sign?”
“Because you always do.”
The sentence landed harder than the toast.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was true.
For eighteen years, I had trained everybody around me to believe that if a problem eventually arrived at Gregory Hayes's feet, Gregory Hayes would absorb it.
Laura saw something in my face and softened.
“Greg, come on. This is business. You don't understand how far we've come.”
“I understand the loan.”
“You understand equipment loans. That's not the same.”