Out On a Limb(61)

“Any time?” I laugh out.

“Can I text you the details? I don’t think I have your phone number.”

“Oh, sure.” I wait as he pulls out his phone, then I put my number into it. Saving myself as Winnie the One-Handed Wonder—because it just felt right.

And suddenly, I’m not in such a bad mood.

“He’s going to be so excited to meet you. And,” he smiles down at my contact information on his phone, tapping the screen, “the name suits you. I did talk about you as if you were a superhero.”

“Well, let’s hope Henry isn’t disappointed.”

“Aw, well, who could be?” He winks before glancing around the pool. “Shit, I am very lucky no one decided to drown just now. I, uh, should probably get back up there.” He points a thumb over his shoulder.

“Right, yeah, I’m going to try a few more laps. Clear my head.”

“You should really think about that camp, Win.” Cam says, sauntering backward slowly. “I think it could be a very cool thing!”

And I do think about it.

I think about it so much that I’m no longer thinking about last night or what could have been. In fact, by the time I’m showered, dressed, and on the bus ride home—I can’t think about anything else. My thoughts, ideas, and questions pile on top of one another. And suddenly, I have an entirely new conversation I’d like to have with Bo.

Finance Bo, that is.

Not to be mistaken with a Finance Bro.

God, no.



When I get home, Bo’s on a client call at his desk, swivelling in his chair as he taps the end of a pencil to the far corner of his eyebrow. His long limbs are all spread out as he leans back, nearly capsizing.

I approach his desk, buzzing with energy, dropping my things onto the couch on my way toward him.

He tilts his head curiously at me, agreeing to whatever the other person on the phone is saying with a series of murmured mm-hmms. “What?” he mouths silently, his giddy smile matching my own.

“I have an idea,” I whisper, hovering above him. “But… I need your help.”

He checks his watch and nods at me, holding out one finger.

When I linger for what feels like too long, I begin biting at my thumb nail anxiously. Bo checks his watch again, apologising with an eye roll directed at the phone and a wrap it up motion with a finger pointed at the sky.

The immediate realisation that I’m standing over the guy while he’s working strikes and fills me with embarrassment. I’m acting as if I’m entitled to his time. I’m very much not entitled to his time. Especially when his time pays the vast majority of my bills.

“Sorry, never mind. It can wait,” I say, waving my hands and stepping back onto my heel.

He stops me with a firm grasp around my forearm, dropping the pencil onto the floor as he does.

I had only just gotten those thoughts out of my head…

“Hey, Odette? I’m so sorry to interrupt, but my colleague, Fred, just reminded me of a meeting that’s already started without me. So I’ll have to let you go.” He nods, his eyes stuck on his computer screen and his hand still clasped around me.

I take a second to appreciate the veins in his hands. The sheer size of them causes envy on the best of days, but the strength and definition of them isn’t lost on me either. I know it’s ironic, to have some sort of hand fetish. But in my defence, I never even considered hands as anything other than limbs prior to Bo.

And I could shrug free of his hold, but I don’t.

“Yep. Yes, of course. I’ll check in then. Best of luck with the move. Okay, yes, bye-bye.” Bo drops his phone on the desk with a careless thud and turns to me, eager-eyed and excitable, before he releases my arm. “What’s happening? What’s this idea?”

I grab a folding chair still left out from the DND game last night and drag it over to his desk. “I want you to help me with money.”

“Seriously?” He grips the arms of the chair as he kicks a leg out. “Hell yeah!”

I laugh, a little offended. “I’m not that bad with money, am I?”

“No. Sorry, just—I’m glad you’d come to me for help. I like that.”

Do not blush. “I want to figure out how to get a business loan. How to make a savings plan and how to really get the ball rolling on my camp. I don’t care if it’ll take me ten years or even more—I just want to start the process now. Tell me what I need to do.”

His smile is warm and slow and thoughtful, creasing lines next to his eyes and eyebrows rising up his forehead. His tongue darts out to lick his lips as he nods. “Fuck yeah. Let’s do some math.”

I check in with him at the first hour mark, ensuring that he doesn’t have actual clients or responsibilities he should be tending to instead. Then, when his phone rings for the second time as I fetch us snacks from the kitchen, I make sure he doesn’t have to answer it. Both times, he dismisses me politely, focusing intently on the spreadsheet he’s crafting.

Three and a half hours later, I have a file labelled WinniFRED McNulty on his desktop, a new monthly budget, a pile of sticky notes with things I need to do before contacting banks, and two different timelines for loan applications—depending on how aggressively I’m willing to save.

It’s a start.