Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Emily
Two strangers shouldn’t be on my island. At least not these strangers.
Not the blushing young Alpha I crossed paths with at the pawn shop, nor the big, wary Omega I pulled out of that mess on the boardwalk. Different circumstances, same morning. And then fate went and put them both on the water taxi to Misty Pines.
Too much coincidence for a place this small.
The scent of pine sap rides every draft in the Homestead’s skeleton, thick enough to coat the back of my tongue and sting my nose. I shoulder the front door, just a frame at this point, and walk into the cacophony of nailers pounding overhead and a table saw shrieking at intervals.
My phone pinches tight to my shoulder, held there by a neck gone stiff from an hour of being on this call. The screen of my tablet sweats under a sheet of fingerprints, the punch list already two pages deep before I even leave the foyer.
The new lobby’s support studs stand as bare columns, the drywall not yet sealing them off, so every sound pours through.
I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke spliced with cedar, signaling that one of the electricians is slacking off in the utility closet.
I don’t have to catch him in the act to know.
The pheromones in the air tell me who’s working and who’s hiding.
“Copy that, yeah,” I bark into the phone, cutting off the supplier mid-spiel. “You sort the cost variance by EOD, or we’re going with Crestline for the remaining fixtures.”
The speaker on the other end sputters with frantic assurances. I end the call and flag the purchase order for follow-up. I’m behind by a few minutes, and my employers are already waiting.
Nathaniel and Blake stand shoulder to shoulder in the unfinished lobby, tape measures dangling from their belts, yellow hard hats tipped back in deference to the heat.
Blake’s shirt is streaked with sawdust and sweat, his forearms covered in sleeve tattoos that hide a map of old scars from a lifetime on job sites.
Nathaniel, by contrast, wears the only crisp button-down on site, cuffs unrolled and clean, guarding a sheaf of rolled plans under one arm as if the blueprints themselves were his most precious tools.
I pass through the dust cloud of a drywall sander and pause at the lip of the lobby, the hum of power tools crawling up my spine.
“You need a vacation,” Nathaniel says as he gestures to the tablet in my hand. “Blake’s convinced you’d staple that thing to your palm if you could.”
Blake bumps his elbow into Nathaniel’s, grinning. “Hey, don’t give her ideas. She’ll try it just to prove you right.”
I tuck the tablet under my arm. “If you can find someone who can wrangle this crew and finish the punch list, I’ll take two weeks off, easy.”
“Three days in,” Nathaniel says, “and you’d be twitching with worry about something getting messed up without you here.”
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 heavy in 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 middle finger, 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.
I grab my tablet and add the new truss layout to my list of things to double-check before insulation goes up. “Cabinet guys coming today?”
“Two of them are on the ten o’clock ferry.
Kyle should be picking them up soon. Kitchen’s ahead of schedule.
” Nathaniel flicks his tape and snaps it closed in an unconscious gesture.
“You’ll have your cabinets by the end of the week, and if you tell the plumbing sub they’re allowed to use the good bathroom, maybe they’ll stop pissing in the woods behind the dumpster. ”
Blake’s eyes brighten. “Already told them. I’m trying to prevent another incident with the portable john. No one wants a repeat.”
I shudder at the reminder. “We’re still getting bill-backs from the septic company.”
Blake’s phone chimes, and he checks at the screen. “My cousin is emailing again. The Harris pack are—” He sighs and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “They keep offering to ‘help’ move the project forward faster.”
I raise a brow. “That’s generous, considering the circumstances.”
“Yeah, generous.” Blake lets out a brittle laugh. “They want to ensure we don’t go after the familial pack’s coffers for what my dad embezzled from Sadie, and they don’t want how he tried to ruin us going public.”
Nathaniel rakes a hand through his blond waves. “They heard that my dad wants to go after them for trying to sabotage our project. Good riddance to large familial packs and all the politics that go with them.”
Blake leans into his bondmate’s side, his affection clear. “And you think we’re the opposite now that we’re registered?”
Nathaniel shrugs. “Wright Pack is only us and Quinn. Bondmates, plus the pup. Simple.”
Simple, I think, as a light breeze turns the dust around us into a blurry halo.
My old pack started simple, too, with just me and Auren, before he convinced me to let in the wrong people, and it left me packless. Of course, we weren’t bondmates. Not the way the Wright Pack are. I had only been able to Mark Auren, which had grown into a bone of contention between us.