Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Emily
The lumber stack towers over Jared’s head as he staggers across the construction yard, his arms wrapped around a bundle meant for two men. Sweat darkens his T-shirt in spreading patches, his face flushed with effort as he struggles to maintain his grip.
The other workers lounge in the shade of the half-built lobby, coffee cups in hand, and not one of them lifts a finger to help.
My tablet digs into my palm as I track his struggle through each step toward the framing area. “Clint. A word.”
My foreman peels himself away from the water cooler, flicking evidence of his breakfast off his shirt. “What’s up, boss?”
I nod toward Jared, who drops the lumber with a thunderous clatter before straightening with a wince. “Why is the marine technician hauling cabinet materials?”
“Oh, Masterson?” Clint shrugs, his tool belt jangling. “He showed up this morning offering to help. Said he doesn’t have any work until this afternoon.”
“And you put him on lumber detail because?”
Clint shifts his weight, suddenly interested in the toe of his boot. “The guys needed the extra hands. He volunteered.”
Of course, he did. Of course, he thought he had to earn his place with sweat and bruises.
Across the yard, Jared rotates his shoulder, pain flashing across his face before he masks it. Without pausing to drink water or catch his breath, he turns back toward the supply pile.
“Hey, Alpha!” one of the framers calls out, his shout carrying across the site. “We need another load over by the east corner!”
“Let the big guy show off!” another worker adds, earning chuckles from his companions.
Jared’s steps falter, his back stiffening at the comments. He peeks toward the group, seeking approval while pretending not to care. When he reaches the lumber pile, he grabs another massive bundle, his arms trembling with the effort.
“You assigned the crew their tasks this morning?” I keep my attention on the tablet, though every muscle in my body urges me to intervene.
“Yeah, standard rotation.” Clint smirks toward Jared. “Masterson’s extra. Figure we might as well use the help.”
“Interesting.” I make a note on my schedule. “The cabinetmakers seem underutilized if they have time to supervise volunteers.”
Clint’s smirk evaporates. “They’re on schedule. Masterson’s doing grunt work.”
“Grunt work is usually assigned to your team.” I take my focus off my tablet, holding his eyes until he looks away. “Tell George and Pete to get their asses over there and help with the lumber. Their coffee break ended fifteen minutes ago.”
Clint opens his mouth to protest, then thinks better of it. “Yes, boss.”
As he trudges toward the lounging cabinetmakers, I tip my head back to admire how the Homestead is coming along.
My team was in charge of the original build, and witnessing this transformation is bittersweet.
I was proud of the original construction, but with a higher budget for the repair, this will be a better fit long term for the resort’s goals.
Jared deposits the second bundle, his chest heaving with exertion. Without pause, he heads to where two electricians wrestle coils of conduit, gathering supplies for the additional outlet runs they need to finish before the drywall crew arrives. The older man waves him over.
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 after the 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 sets with 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.
Jared’s shoulders slump further with each step I take, bracing for impact.
Instead of speaking, I pull on my work gloves and position myself on the opposite side of the fallen plywood.
The crew falls silent as I flatten my palms on the smooth surface, fingers spread for balance. Their mockery curdles into unease as it dawns on them whose side I’m on.
I ignore them to focus on Jared. “Hold it like this.”
After a beat of confusion, Jared mirrors my stance.
“On three,” I say. “One, two, lift.”
The sheet rises between us, our arms extending in unison. With the weight distributed between us, the awkward size becomes manageable. We pivot together, maneuvering around the mess of scattered tools until we reach the stack where the plywood belongs.
“Steady,” I murmur as we lower it into place. “Corner first, then ease it down.”
When the sheet settles onto the stack, Jared steps back, wiping his palms on his jeans. His head stays lowered, avoiding looking at me.
“You don’t have to prove yourself like this,” I say, aiming the reassurance for his ears alone. “Do the job you were hired for. That’s enough.”
His head snaps up, surprise replacing shame in his expression. “I want to help.”
“Help, then, but don’t hurt yourself.” I gesture toward the scattered tools. “This site has procedures for a reason. Safety protocols. Two-person lifts.”
“They wouldn’t—” He cuts himself off, eyes darting to where the crew has found other tasks requiring their attention.
No one looks at us now, their earlier mockery forgotten in the wake of my intervention.
“Wouldn’t help?” I finish for him. “Did you ask?”
His throat works as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “No.”