Chapter 20
Ben
Icould see her from the ridge beam.
She was sitting at her folding table in the garage bay, backlit by the weak glow of her laptop screen.
Every few minutes, she'd lean forward to type something, her fingers moving fast, then sit back with her coffee.
She'd been at it for two hours straight—handling permits and invoices, making phone calls I could hear in fragments when the wind shifted.
I should have been focused on the rafter I was setting—the twenty-foot length of Douglas fir that would carry the roof deck.
It needed to land precisely on the layout marks Frank had chalked on the top plate below.
Get the pitch wrong by even a degree, and the whole roof line would look like a drunk's haircut.
But I kept glancing toward the garage.
It wasn't just that she was here. It was that I was aware of her in a way I shouldn't have been.
Every time I looked down, I found myself tracking her movements—the way she leaned forward over the laptop, the sharp gestures when she was on the phone.
Even the moment she stood up to refill her coffee.
She was a distraction I couldn't afford. Not because she was in the way. Instead, because she was Ryan's wife, and I was simply thinking about her too much.
That was a problem.
"Ben, you gonna set that thing or just admire the view?" Frank called from below.
I snapped back to the rafter. "Yeah. Coming down."
I guided it into place, checking the layout twice before firing the framing nailer. The pneumatic punch echoed across the clearing.
I straightened, rolling my shoulders, and looked back toward the garage.
She was on her phone now, pacing in front of the space heater. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but her free hand was gesturing in precise movements that meant she was arguing with someone.
I felt a grin tug at the corner of my mouth.
Then I heard it.
The diesel rumble and the beep-beep-beep of a reverse alarm. The roof sheathing. We'd need it by mid-week once the rafter framing was complete. I looked toward the driveway and saw the white lumber truck backing into position near the material pile.
I needed to get down there and check the delivery before the driver unloaded. Suppliers screwed up orders more often than they got them right, and if we ended up with the wrong dimensions or the wrong grade, we'd lose half a day sending it back and waiting for the replacement.
I started climbing down the ladder, but Collins shouted up from below.
"Stay put, boss. We got it."
I hesitated, one boot on the rung. "I need to check the invoice—"
"I'll handle it," Collins called. He was already walking toward the truck, pulling work gloves from his back pocket.
I looked down at him, then over at the garage.
Olivia was already moving. She'd set down her coffee and grabbed something off her table—a clipboard, maybe, or one of those color-coded folders. She was heading toward the truck with purpose, her coat zipped tight against the wind.
I stayed on the ladder, watching.
The driver climbed out of the cab—a heavy guy in his fifties, wearing a hi-vis vest and the kind of scowl that said he'd been doing this job too long to care about anyone's schedule. He walked around to the flatbed and started loosening the straps without waiting for anyone to tell him it was okay.
Collins reached him first. They talked briefly, then Collins turned and waved toward the material pile, giving the universal "drop it there" signal. The driver nodded and reached for the forklift controls mounted on the side of the truck.
That's when Olivia stepped in.
She walked up to the driver with her clipboard held at chest level like a shield and said something that made him stop mid-reach.
From twenty feet up, I couldn't hear the words. But I could see the body language.
The driver straightened, his hand dropping from the controls. He looked at her, then at the clipboard, then back at her like he was trying to figure out who the hell she thought she was. Olivia didn't flinch. She just pointed at the flatbed and said something else.
The driver's scowl deepened. He pulled a folded invoice from his vest pocket and handed it to her with the kind of exaggerated patience you'd use on a child asking too many questions.
Olivia took it and scanned it. Then looked up at him and shook her head.
Oh, shit.
She said something—calm, even—and handed the invoice back. The driver didn't take it. He crossed his arms over his chest and said something that made Collins glance back toward the house, looking for me.
I started climbing down, but before I could reach the ground, Olivia had her phone out. She tapped the screen a few times, then held it up to her ear, her other hand still holding the clipboard like she was presenting evidence in court.
The driver watched her, his arms still crossed, his expression shifting from annoyed to uncertain.
She spoke into the phone for maybe thirty seconds. Then she lowered it and held it out to the driver. He stared at it. Then, slowly, he took the phone and held it to his ear.
I hit the ground and started walking toward them.
By the time I got there, the driver was handing the phone back to Olivia with a look that said he'd just lost an argument he didn't know he was having.
"Yeah, all right," he muttered. "I'll take it back. But you're gonna wait 'til Monday for the redelivery."
"Tuesday's fine," Olivia said in a professional tone, like she negotiated with pissed-off truck drivers every day. "As long as it's the right order this time."
The driver grunted, climbed back into the cab, and started re-strapping the load. Collins looked at me, eyebrows raised. I just shook my head.
Olivia turned and saw me standing there. She held up the clipboard.
"They sent seven-sixteenths," she said. "Not five-eighths. Wrong thickness, it won't pass inspection."
I stared at her. Then at the truck.
"How did you—"
"Purchase order." She tapped the clipboard. "I cross-referenced it with the delivery invoice. The order numbers didn't match." She smiled. "I called the supplier. They admitted the mistake. Tuesday delivery, no charge for the reorder."
The wind pushed a strand of hair across her face. She tucked it behind her ear, waiting for me to say something. Thing is, I didn't know what to say. She'd been here less than three hours, and she'd just saved us from a failed roof inspection and having to tear off and replace hundreds of panels.
"Good catch," I said finally.
She nodded once, then walked back toward the garage, the clipboard tucked under her arm. Collins watched her go. Then he looked at me with a grin that I didn't like at all.
"Don't," I warned.
"Didn't say anything, boss."
"You were thinking it."
"Yeah," he admitted. "I was."