Chapter 15 #2
“Construction workers like to razz the new guys. It’s all part of the industry.” I rest a palm on the stack. “But they won’t leave you hanging if you ask for help. And if they do, report them. They’re putting everyone in the crew at risk, and we can’t let that stand.”
His eyes cling to mine, hungry for confirmation that he hasn’t ruined everything. “Thank you. I will.”
“Next time, wait for proper equipment or assistance.” I bend to pick up a stray hammer, passing it to him. “You’re no good to anyone with a slipped disc.”
Around us, the site returns to normal activity, power tools whining to life, hammers resuming their rhythm. The crew gives us a wide berth, their earlier amusement gone in the face of my silent rebuke.
“I should clean this up.” Jared gestures to the scattered tools, his shoulder brushing mine as he moves to kneel.
“Let the electricians handle their own equipment.” I touch his arm, stopping him. “Take a break. Drink some water before you get heatstroke. Then report to Clint for your actual assignment.”
Confusion furrows his brow. “But I volunteered to—”
“And now I’m un-volunteering you.” My hand falls away from his arm, the brief contact leaving warmth on my fingertips. “Working yourself to the bone won’t change minds, Jared. It’ll only prove you’re trying to compensate for something. Trust me, I know from experience.”
Understanding dawns in his expression. “Is that what you did when you started?”
“Yes. And it nearly broke me.”
He stares at me for a long moment, the connection between us thickening. I rub at the ache in my chest, hoping I got through to him.
He tracks the movement before he steps back, creating space between us. “Water first. Then I’ll find Clint.”
“Good man.”
As he walks toward the water cooler, his stride steadier than before, I notice several workers watching him with new consideration in their expressions. Not respect, not yet, but reassessment. Sometimes, that’s all you can hope for.
I retrieve my tablet and jot notes on the inspection form while my mind remains stuck on the warmth of Jared’s arm beneath my hand.
My pen pauses over the checklist. This isn’t professional. This isn’t maintaining boundaries. Caring too much about someone who needed saving is what got me into trouble with Auren.
Yet when I raise my head and catch Jared watching me from across the yard, water bottle halfway to his lips, I can’t bring myself to turn away.
After yesterday’s tension, my crew has settled back into somewhat of a rhythm.
Jared is still their volunteer gofer, but most of the animosity and ridicule has subsided.
I’ve been working most of the morning to get these two-by-fours ready for use, but it’s obvious that I need a new saw blade.
The current one’s dull teeth glint in the afternoon light, worn smooth from too much cutting.
I toss it into the bucket for resharpening and reach for my tool belt, planning to install a fresh blade before finishing the trim work in the lobby, only to find my belt empty.
I straighten and swipe the sweat from the back of my neck. I could do with a break, and a walk down to the tool shed by the water sounds like a nice way to stretch out the kinks of being bent over for too long.
The gravel path crunches under my boots as I head downhill, the scent of sawdust fading behind me, replaced by the clean tang of ocean air.
The path was laid wide enough for the resort’s golf cart to haul luggage up from the docks, its gentle slope winding between trees that have been on this island for hundreds of years.
The site grows quieter with every step, the steady hum of saws and nailers giving way to the rhythmic lap of water against the pilings.
The tool shed sits behind a screen of trees, out of view of the guest cabins. I use my site key to unlock it and step inside, grabbing a fresh pack of blades and logging them out.
As I close the door and lock it up, the sound of laughter comes from the dock.
I step to the side, head tilting toward the sound.
Through the gap of trees, I catch a flash of movement on the dock below.
The water taxi rocks in its moorings, three figures moving across its deck with buckets and brushes.
Jared crouches at the waterline, sleeves rolled to his elbows, scrubbing at something on the hull. He’d left the Homestead site at lunch break, and now his shoulders move with easy rhythm, no trace of the desperate drive for validation from yesterday.
Beside him, Quinn kneels with a child-sized sponge, her small hands mimicking his movements with serious concentration. Leif stands nearby, managing the hose, his broad frame blocking the sun from Quinn’s eyes.
My fingers curl around the fresh saw blades, forgotten as I step away from the shed. The afternoon sun catches on water droplets, transforming them to gold as they spray across the deck.
“Mr. Jared, you missed a spot!” Quinn points to a patch of hull beneath the waterline. “The green stuff is still there.”
“That’s marine growth, Quinn,” Leif says, watching Jared’s arm vanish up to the shoulder. “Sediment and plants stick to the hull when the boat’s zipping back and forth all day.”
Leif shifts his stance, angling the hose where Jared scrubs. “It’s like the muck in Holden’s garden pond. It builds up when the water gets stirred around a lot.”
“Then boats should just go super fast so the muck can’t catch them,” Quinn declares with seven-year-old logic, her face scrunching in fierce concentration as she scrubs at a stubborn patch.
“Exactly right.” Jared emerges with a clump of green slime, holding it up for her inspection. “Want to add it to your collection?”
“Yes!” Quinn squeals, scrambling forward with a bucket. “Grady will be so scared of it!”
“That’s not very nice!” Jared’s face lights with mischief, and he flicks his fingers, sending water droplets spraying toward her.
Quinn shrieks with laughter, scrambling backward to duck behind Leif’s legs for protection.
Leif doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth lifts, protective as ever with Quinn pressed to his side. He’s not fragile, needing someone else to take care of him. He’s steady and quietly confident in a way I’m not familiar with when it comes to Omegas.
“No fair!” She peeks around Leif’s knee. “I’m not wearing swimming clothes!”
“Neither is Jared, but he’s already soaked.” Leif adjusts the hose nozzle and sends a light spray toward Jared’s boots.
Water splashes upward, soaking his pant legs to the knee.
“Hey!” Jared’s protest dissolves into laughter as he shields his face from the spray.
Quinn emerges from behind Leif, grabbing her sponge and squeezing it in Jared’s direction. The pitiful splash that follows only makes them laugh harder.
Jared appears younger with his guard down, the tension lines between his brows smoothed away by genuine enjoyment. He looks at Quinn and Leif with an expression so unguarded, so hopeful, my heart aches for him.
When was the last time I laughed like that? Played without purpose? Let myself enjoy a day without planning out every hour and filling it with projects to keep me distracted?
Before Auren and my removal from the pack. Before I learned how vulnerability invites exploitation.
Jared straightens, scanning the tree line, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he spots me lurking in the shadows.
Then Leif draws his attention, gesturing toward the bow, and I step back out of view, my chest aching so much I struggle to breathe.
I want to protect his happiness. Admitting to anything more terrifies me.