In my defense, I’d been too tired to prepare lunches after I got home last night, and I didn’t have the time to buy anything that didn’t come from the vending machine at the main entrance of the school.

My lack of time was also why I was spending my lunch break hiding out in my office. The plan had been to buy picture frames and develop some photos, but then I’d taken one look at my schedule for the week and realized it wasn’t gonna happen.

I was working too many hours.

If I was going to have the slightest chance at creating something with August and Camden, I needed to make room. Nicky had already shared a bunch of ideas, so I knew where to start.

I powered up my old computer and unwrapped my Twizzler.

A knock on the door was followed by Nicky poking his head in. “You got a minute?”

“Sure.”

He sat down on the other side of my desk and cut straight to it. “I talked to Gideon on the way back from Nashville—told him about what a second building could do for the Initiative’s future. How we could sign on more schools and hire more teachers.”

I raised a brow but kept my gaze on the empty document I’d opened.

For years, I’d been toying with the idea of offering online tutorials, starting out with children who—for one diagnosis’s reason or another—weren’t able to meet face-to-face. It could be crippling anxiety for someone with autism, or severe shyness for someone with a stutter. I’d worked with several of those kids before. But it didn’t have to be limited to students with special needs.

And those tutorials would need to be produced somewhere, which didn’t have to be right here. It was shit I could do from home. Or…say, a ranch outside of Nashville.

“He wants to invest in the business,” Nicky said.

That made me pause, and I furrowed my brow at him. “We don’t have investors.”

The Initiative wasn’t the type of company you invested in. We took donations, and we got local funding for running music programs for a few public schools. The rest was tuition.

Nicky shrugged. “Maybe it’s not an investment he thinks will pay off in profit as much as it will bring in more money so we don’t gotta work seventy-five-hour weeks.”

I scratched my forehead and saw where he was going with this—or rather, where Gideon was going. He and my brother were settling down together. There’d be a wedding at some point soon, and a kid or two would follow. It made sense that Gideon wanted Nicky to work reasonable hours.

Still. That kinda money… Christ. Gideon had already donated a fuck-ton of money to us.

“We’re talking millions,” I stated.