He finished breakfast, walked back, and spent an hour on the couch going through the IRS documentation one more time. The paperwork was clean — Diana's attorney had been thorough in a way that communicated this was not their first time structuring something sensitive. The backdated seed round sat in the documentation as solidly as if it had always been there, the kind of paperwork that answered questions before they were asked.
He put the folder away to reminisce the golf course.
Diana at the railing, coffee in hand, the grey light, the careful architecture of her saying 'don't read into things' while standing close enough that her arm was three inches from his.
Why was her leg under the table at the dinner?
He had the answer to that question.
He quickly focused on the date tonight instead, which was the correct thing to think about, and went to his closet to figure out what he was wearing.
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The next two hours were, by any reasonable measure, a disaster.
