He’s not wrong. The last time I tried taking a vacation, I spent half of it glued to my inbox and the other half scouring the neighborhood for our indoor-only cat, thanks to my ex, who swore letting her out was an accident.
We move into the skeleton of the new kitchen, where the scent of glue and fresh OSB hangs heavyin the air. The rough, splintery board made from pressed wood chips always reminds me of hamster bedding and leaves my nose itching.
But the subfloor in the kitchen is perfect. No bounce, no noise, just a solid platform that begs for feet and movement. The fire-suppression line is being rerouted by a plumber with shoulders twice as broad as his hips and a tattoo of a carp swimming up his neck.
He pretends we’re not there, but when I circle behind, he cranes his head and mutters, “Inspection will be ready by end of day, ma’am.”
I give him a thumbs-up and move on.
“Breakfast pass-through is ready to go in for people who want to buy food on the go,” I say, gesturing at the wall. “And the new, bigger pantry will give enough space for separate, allergy-restricted storage.”
A pair of Betas with matching beards maneuver a countertop slab across the floor. When they see me, both straighten and greet me with respect.
I inspect the corners of the expansion, checking off punch list items with one thumb as I go. Every error or shortcut jumps out, a missed screw here, a bracket swapped for a cheaper grade there. The crew does their best, but nothing escapes my notice.
A ridge of blackened timber runs through the wall cavity at the far side of the kitchen, untouched since the fire. I rest my hand against it, the wood cool, almost slick, and it leaves a whisper of soot on my palm. “Sure you want to keep this here?”
The fire set the resort project back. The summer launch was meant to include the Homestead, with rooms to rent inside the large cabin, as well as the private cabins by the dock. When the propane lines blew, it took out most of the kitchen and the west wing. It forced the small Wright Pack who own the island to move to Cabin One, a single-room box far too small for four Alphas, the Omega they bonded, and a seven-year-old pup.
“It’s a good reminder of what we almost lost,” Nathaniel says.
Blake clasps his bondmate’s shoulder. “And that we survived to become stronger.”
“Besides, the fire gave us the excuse to add the guest lobby and the bigger kitchen Holden needed.” His gaze lingers on the scar of the burn, then travels over the space we stand in. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Course you could have.” One corner of my mouth quirks. “Just would’ve taken you until next year and cost twice as much.”
Blake scratches his thick beard with a middlefinger, the rainbow beaded bracelet his niece made him sliding down his wrist. “Yeah, yeah, you’re earning your bonus.”
I motion to the blueprints under Nathaniel’s arm. “Please tell me that isn’t Dominic trying to redraw the kitchen again.”
He chuckles, though a pinch at the corner of his mouth sets off my alarm bells. “Not this time. Plans are fine. It’s the inspector kicking back on the roof trusses. City wants more redundancy.”
I groan. “Redundancy? We’ve already got the scissor layout they signed off on.”
Nathaniel unrolls the papers with a sigh. “They did. Until they saw the vaulted ceiling span. Now, they’re insisting we tighten spacing. It’s not Dominic’s fault.”
I step up to his side. “Okay, give it to me.”
Nathaniel flattens the plans on the workbench, fingers smoothing the corners. “Inspector says the scissor trusses at twenty-four centers aren’t enough for snow load. They want us to drop to sixteen.”
Blake’s bark of laughter echoes through the studs. “Snow load? We’re lucky if we get an inch all winter. Can’t remember the last time we dragged out salt for the front steps.”
Nathaniel arches a brow. “You’re forgetting the two feet we got?—”
“Five years ago,” Blake cuts in, arms folded across his chest. “That was a freak storm, not the norm. Now they’re telling us to choke the vault and jack the budget because some inspector’s scared of flurries?”
I examine the pitch line and tap where the vaulted ceiling arcs. “Doesn’t matter what’s normal. Six years ago, a lot of people’s roofs collapsed under ice because nobody planned for the worst. I’m not repeating their mistake.”
Blake’s jaw works, but he doesn’t argue.
“Raised heels on the trusses,” I continue, already running the math. “Keeps the insulation depth, satisfies code, and doesn’t butcher the ceiling line. Dominic redraws it once, and we move forward. No lighting nightmares, no ducting choke points.”
Nathaniel sighs. “Better safe than sorry.”
“Safer, and still on schedule,” I counter, sliding the plan back toward him. “Now wake Dominic up and tell him I want the revision in my email by dinner.”
Blake mutters about inspectors who should get snowed in for real, but he pulls out his phone to call down to Cabin One.