Clint checks the manifest sheet. “What do you think, boss? Want the new guy back on your rotation, or is he restricted to marine detail now?”
“Marine detail, until he runs out of things to keep his hands busy. Check with him about his schedule,” I respond without breaking stride.
As I step around a stack of insulation, I catch Jared’s profile as he lifts another box from the taxi, and I resist the urge to go to him, to bridge the gap. But if I do, I’ll only feed the rumors already snaking through the crew.
Better to keep things simple. So instead, I head up the gravel path toward the Homestead.
The wind lifts, and the fog stirs around my legs. The ground squishes under my boots, damp earth grabbing at the tread.
The worksite is going to be a muddy mess, which means more care when going in and out of the large cabin. Should probably lay down some plywood to protect the floor.
The site trailer appears through the haze, its metal door mottled with water droplets.
Kicking the heels of my boots against the metal steps before I enter, breathing in the scent of paper, ink, and stale coffee. I shed my jacket and let ithang from the hook by the door before turning on the little space heater to warm myself up.
Piles of blueprints claim every inch of my desk, the glossy pages curling at the corners from damp that seeps in at night. I comb through supply logs, chasing down a missing order, while the coffee pot gurgles to life in the small space cleared amid the mess.
The drone of saws and the crackle of the site radio filter in through the trailer walls, but the work absorbs me, blanketing the rough start to the morning with the familiar flow of construction.
Despite the heater, a wet chill sneaks in from the door, but I ignore the goose bumps on my arms and dig deeper into the stack of paperwork. Rows of numbers and notes in my own handwriting keep me from thinking too much about everything on the outside.
The trailer’s battered door kicks open, letting in a blast of rain, and slams shut again. Nathaniel stands on the mat, shaking droplets from his jacket, the water running off in the quilting in rivulets.
“Morning.” He plops a storage container full of muffins onto the stack of paperwork. “Thought I’d check in before heading to the mainland. We’ve got a vendor meeting and a permit review in Pinecrest.”
Despite the breakfast sandwiches Jared put together for us, my stomach rumbles, and I snatch up the Tupperware, cracking the seal to release the drool-worthy scent of blueberry streusel.
No matter how many muffin recipes I experiment with, nothing beats Holden Wright’s baking.
Nathaniel falls into the chair across the desk from me, sprawling out. “Have you seen the updated delivery email for the baseboards?”
I shake my head as I peel back a muffin wrapper. “Let me guess, another delay?”
“Of course.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “They’re blaming a shorted-out crane at the port, so everything’s a day behind again.”
It’s easy, falling back into the shorthand of construction talk with Nathaniel. I lose myself in the updates, the reassurances about weather windows, and the discussions about lead times and brand substitutions. For a minute or two, the world shrinks to the trailer, muffins, and the manageable chaos of the job site.
Then Nathaniel’s posture changes, the easy banter fading. “You know, you don’t have to handle every fire yourself.”
My hand freezes in the act of reaching out to fill a thermal mug with coffee. “I can manage.”
He leans forward, studying me. “Course you can. But you shouldn’t have to. Folks pick up on it when you’re burning out, Emily.”
I force a laugh. “Guess I need to work on my poker face.”
“If you need more help, all you have to do is ask,” he continues. “Not to brag, but we’re not hurting for funds. If a few more crew members will convince you to take more time off, just say the word.”
I smirk at him. “Is this worry for me? Or are you trying to escape Cabin One faster?”
“Can’t say I’m not eager to have my own space again,” he acknowledges. “I love my pack, but there are too many of us crammed into such a small space.”
I can’t even imagine how four large Alphas, their Omega, their adopted pup, and a Newfoundland fit into a five-hundred square-foot cabin. And they’ve been doing it for months now.
“Have you considered splitting up an dhalf of you bunking down in Cabin Four?” I suggest. “It would give you a world of breathing room.”
“Bite your tongue, woman,” Nathaniel says. “The Wright Pack stays together, through thick and thin and only one bed.”
“Suit yourself. And if you want to hire morepeople for me, by all means,” I say dryly. “But you know as well as I do that a lot of the timetable is dependent on deliveries, waiting for materials to dry, and Blake’s insistence on so much custom furniture in the family suite.”