I check my clipboard, the plastic cover beaded with water droplets that threaten the paperbeneath. Somewhere, a generator sputters through a rough patch, then settles back into its steady hum.
“Boss, where do you want these fixtures?” Clint balances a box on his shoulder, rain darkening his bandana.
I point toward the covered storage tent. “Stack them with the rest of the bathroom materials, and mark them off on the inventory sheet.”
He gives me a salute with his free hand and trudges through the mud. Two more workers follow him, carrying similar boxes and griping about the weather.
“If it rains any harder, we’ll need life vests instead of hard hats,” one calls out, the wind whipping the quip across the site.
“You think we can demand hazard pay if it comes to that?” the other replies, and laughter breaks out between them.
I turn back to my clipboard, running my finger down the delivery schedule. The baseboards still haven’t arrived, and we’re still held up on the kitchen lines. The exterior hookup can’t go in until the ground dries out. My pen scratches over the damp paper as I note the changes and potential impacts to our timeline.
Despite the chill, sweat trickles down my spine under layers of thermal shirt and waterproof jacket.
I shift my weight, mud squelching beneath my soles. From inside the Homestead comes the sounds of hammers and nail guns echoing in irregular percussion. We’re getting close, but this weather isn’t helping us.
A burst of laughter draws my attention to the supply tent. Jared stands among a group of workers, his tall frame easy to spot from this distance. His head tips back as he laughs at whatever story Clint is sharing, his hands animated as he adds details I can’t hear.
My fingers tighten around the clipboard. He shouldn’t be here, not after his regular shift on the water taxi. Yet there he is, offering to help unload materials or fix equipment, integrating himself into the crew that once shunned him.
The rain beads on his jacket and darkens his hair to amber. Even from here, I can see the ease in his shoulders that wasn’t there weeks ago. He belongs now, or is beginning to. The thought should please me, but instead, it tugs at that ache in my chest from maintaining my distance.
When did his smile become as familiar as my own reflection? When did the sound of his laugh join the list of things I listen for?
As if sensing my stare, Jared turns, and our eyes connect across the muddy expanse of the worksite.His expression brightens for a split second before he reins it in, straightening with an air of professionalism.
Watching him mask his happiness sets off a pang within me, and I force myself to lift my chin in greeting, the same as I would to any other worker, and return my attention to the clipboard. The numbers swim, delivery dates blurring into meaningless patterns. I blink rain from my lashes and try to refocus.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I’m grateful for the distraction. I pull it out, expecting a message from Nathaniel about permits or Dominic about paint colors or Holden demanding the date his kitchen will be ready.
Instead, a notification banner flashes across the top of my screen.
Auren Dovelle has posted a new photo.
My stomach contracts. I should ignore it. Block him. Delete the notification. But my thumb has a mind of its own, swiping to open the app before I can stop it.
The photo loads, displaying a pale wrist with skin so white it almost glows against the dark background. A bruise blooms beneath the surface, purple-blue like spilled ink under milk.
The caption reads, “Some people never change.”
The blood in my veins turns to ice water. The insinuation is clear, the accusation unmistakable. He wants people to think someone hurt him, that he’s being abused by his Alphas.
The worst part is how effective the performance will be. How many of his followers will leap to his defense, send him messages of support, and offer to hunt down the monster who would mark such delicate skin.
With a shaky exhale, I do what I should have done a long time ago and block him on all my socials. It should have come with a sense of relief.
It doesn’t.
As I shove the phone back in my pocket, the image remains burned into my vision. My hands tremble as I try to return to the delivery schedule, the columns of dates and items blurring into meaningless shapes.
One of the younger carpenters pauses beside me, tool belt jingling with each shift of his weight. “You okay, boss?”
“Fine.” The word comes out sharper than intended, and I soften my tone. “Just trying to decipher my own handwriting.”
He chuckles, accepting the lie, and moves on to the next task.
Across the site, Jared steps in to help unload a pallet of insulation, his back to me as he lifts, his shoulders flexing beneath his jacket with each haul.