My pen hovers over the inspection checklist, forgotten as Jared lifts three coils at once. His face brightens as the electrician gives him a thumbs up, his exhaustion forgotten in the glow of acceptance.
I recognize that hunger for approval. The need to prove yourself valuable can drive you to push your body past its limits.
I used to haul twice my share at construction sites when I first started, back when every crew thought a female, even an Alpha, couldn’t handle the physical demands. I worked more hours, lifted heavier loads, and volunteered for the worst tasks, all to prove I belonged in spaces where men eyed me with suspicion or outright hostility.
Jared continues to work without rest, moving from task to task like a man possessed. When George and Pete slink over to help with the lumber, he doesn’t step back. Instead, he works faster,carrying more, as if afraid they’ll send him away if he shows any weakness.
“Inspection sheet?” Blake approaches from the direction of the completed cabins, tablet in hand. “Nathaniel wants the updated timeline for drywall completion.”
I hand him the tablet, my attention still divided. “We’re on schedule. Maybe even ahead in the east wing.”
Blake catches sight of Jared. “What’s he doing on the construction site?”
“By all accounts, he’s trying to work himself to death.” I take back the tablet. “He has some free time, so he came here to prove himself to people who’ve been talking behind his back.”
Blake’s expression softens. “Hopefully, the videos will start dying down online. Our lawyers released the full footage to three major outlets this morning.”
I catch the moment someone tosses Jared a water bottle. He snags it one-handed but sets it aside without drinking. “The damage is already done.”
“He’s young.” Blake pulls the band from his hair and scrapes his flyaways back into his bun. “He’ll bounce back.”
“Will he?” I turn to face him. “How long afterthe gossip dies down can he get back to captaining the boat?”
Blake has the grace to appear uncomfortable. “We’ll do what we think is best for the resort.”
“And what about what’s best for him?” I gesture toward Jared with my pen. “He’s working twice as hard as anyone else out there because he thinks he has to earn back respect he never should have lost in the first place.”
Jared pauses, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. The movement reveals bruises on his side where his shirt rides up—yellowing marks from the fight on the boat. When he spots us watching, he straightens and returns to the task with renewed intensity.
“He’s not part of the construction crew,” Blake points out. “He shouldn’t be here at all.”
“No,” I agree, tucking the tablet under my arm. “He shouldn’t.”
As I move toward the lumber area, tablet in hand, I catalog the determination in Jared’s movements. He doesn’t pause even when I approach, as if stopping would confirm whatever weakness they suspect.
The plywood sheet towers over Jared, eight feet tall and awkward in his grip as he struggles to navigate between stacked supplies. His face setswith stubborn determination, jaw tight as he refuses to call for the help any experienced worker would request.
Every worker on this site is taught not to manhandle a full sheet of plywood solo, but they didn’t bother to school him in that.
George and Pete move past, acting oblivious as Jared adjusts his grip, struggling to steady the unwieldy sheet in the breeze. His boots shuffle backward one step, then another, fighting the sheet’s sail effect as the wind catches it, the wood tilting toward a pile of electrical supplies.
My body tenses, ready to move, while pride keeps him from calling out. His knuckles whiten with effort, muscles trembling as the plywood slips through his fingers.
The sheet careens sideways, catching the edge of a metal toolbox before slamming into a stack of outlet boxes. Tools scatter across the packed dirt, wrenches and screwdrivers bouncing in all directions, and a hard hat rolls to a stop at my boot.
Laughter erupts from the crew.
“Someone tell the new guy which end to hold!” someone calls from the shade.
“Guess they don’t teach physics on water taxis!” another adds, earning snickers from his companions.
Jared freezes in the center of the chaos, his body rigid and face flushing crimson from his neck to his hairline, embarrassment radiating from him in waves.
His eyes find mine across the yard, waiting for the reprimand I’d deliver to any worker who created such a mess.
The tablet in my hand suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. I could walk away and let Clint handle this. Or I could call Jared out to establish the hierarchy these men expect from their superintendent. But Jared’s not one of my crew, and I can’t yell at him for something no one else bothered to teach him.
I set down my tablet and cross the yard, my boots crunching over scattered nails.