Three of the families just hired me today, and I’ve been researching and working on nothing but this case since. I’ll have Bonita run over to the courthouse to file the Complaint, and I’ve asked the court to set a hearing for Monday. I hate that I can’t do anything until then, but the justice system closes down on weekends.
I save the Complaint and shoot it over to Bonita via email with instructions to get the accompanying documents and filing fee ready. She’ll have it for me to sign on my way out the door to show Stone the condo Brooks left him. No matter what he decides to do—keep the properties or give them to charity—those will require the most work, and I want to start on that first. Thus, the reason I want him to see the condo today.
Bending over, I rub my hand along Odin’s hip as he snoozes. It wakes him, and he stretches his legs, lifting his head to give me a bleary but lopsided loll of the tongue, which I equate to a smile.
“You going to be good and not eat Mr. Dumelin today?” I ask him.
He pants happily as I scratch his butt, then lets his head flop back down.
The intercom on my phone buzzes, and I tap the button. Bonita’s voice rings clear. “Your three o’clock, Mr. Dumelin, is here.”
“Send him in,” I reply, and she disconnects.
I stand from my chair, tugging down the hem of my Fair Isle sweater I wore today over fitted jeans. Because I knew it was going to snow, I have on a pair of weatherproof boots with shearling inside.
My office door opens, and Stone Dumelin walks in. Bonita had called him a hottie, but I couldn’t appreciate any of it. But as I take him in—walking calmly rather than stomping—I can definitely see the resemblance to Brooks. Same dark-golden hair that somehow looks sun-streaked, longish all over and messy in a styled looking way. They definitely share the same hazel eyes that are on the lighter side, and the propensity to not shave. He’s got a good three days’ growth on his face, which he wears very, very well, but I don’t think it’s intentional. He doesn’t seem the type who gives a shit what he looks like. Overall, it’s a gruff, masculine aura he presents, but whereas Brooks always had a perpetual light in his eyes, Stone’s seem a little dead.
Walking around my desk, I hold out my hand. “I’m glad you came back.”
As we shake, his eyes cut to my left. I glance back to see that Odin has risen and is staring intently at Stone. He’s not growling, and his ears aren’t pinned back, but he radiates a little hostility, if I’m reading my dog right.
“He won’t hurt you.” My attempt to reassure Stone is met with a skeptical look as our hands separate.
Damn, his eyes really are pretty up close. Lighter than Brooks’s were, and I swear, his lashes are downright thicker.
“Have a seat,” I say, motioning to the two placeholder chairs Bonita brought in from the small conference room. I have no clue what she did with my Hepplewhite pair, but she said she’d take care of finding the best repair place.
Stone glances at the new seating before giving me what appears to be an earnest look of apology. “I didn’t mean to break your chair. I’ve arranged with your receptionist to take it with me today, and I’ve found a good place that will restore it.”
I blink in surprise. Bonita hadn’t said a word to me about it, and it’s far more than I expected from him. I didn’t even expect an apology, to be honest. I don’t think Stone is inherently a dick, but whatever his emotional malfunctions, he’s clearly acting out poorly. I decide to give him a little grace.
“Thank you,” I reply as I step back around my desk to sit. Odin moves to my side, lowers his haunches to the floor, and keeps his eyes pinned on Stone. He’s never acted this way with anyone, and the only thing I can assume is that the negative impression Stone made earlier this week has lasted.
Settling into one of the chairs, Stone gives Odin another wary glance.
Ready for this meeting, I pick up a sheaf of papers I’d prepared—the contents of the trust, the will, as well as a listing of all assets—and hand them across the desk. Stone leans forward and takes them.
“I thought we’d go through the trust first, and I’ll explain it as we go along.” I pick up an identical copy of what I just handed him, prepared to translate the legalese into layman’s terms.
“Let’s not,” Stone says, settling the documents on his lap. “How about you give me the short version instead?”
“Um, okay,” I reply with uncertainty. I mean… I don’t have to make sure he understands this stuff. He’s not my client. Neither was Brooks, for that matter. I’m merely the trustee, which is technically a position not meant to interpret the trust or give advice about it.