4 - Bear #2
“Okay. Give me a few minutes to change,” she said, walking past us and trailing the scent of soap and something sweeter. I breathed it in, wanted to keep breathing it in long after the scent faded. When she disappeared into her room, Dax turned to look at me as though I’d grown a second head.
“You’re letting her work with us? On site?” he demanded in a low voice. “Well, Bear, one thing I can’t say about you is that you’re predictable.”
“That’s great, because I didn’t ask for your opinion,” I said caustically.
Dax curled his lip, nodding his head as he took a step back. “You’re the boss. Just don’t expect me to pick up any slack she leaves behind.”
“What’s your issue with her?” I asked. “You’ve been hostile from the start. What, you don’t like anyone even remotely affiliated with the justice system, do you? Bad memories?”
He scowled.
“She’ll be fine,” Sy waved him off. “She’s competent.”
“At filing paperwork,” Dax muttered.
“At many things actually, including filing paperwork.”
For the second time that day, Lane’s sudden appearance caught us off-guard. The three of us spun around to see her watching us intently, hands on her hips. She was now wearing work pants and a flannel shirt, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a business ponytail.
I smiled slowly. “See that, Dax? Competent, good at paperwork and surprisingly quick at changing. Definitely multi-talented.”
Dax shook off whatever spell he’d been under. He smirked at Lane, immediately causing my own smile to drop. “Alright, Miss Whittaker. Let’s see if you’re just as good at stacking sandbags as you are at making an entrance.”
*
I managed to quickly get a little system going. Silas was stationed at the truckbed, tossing the wet, forty-pound woven poly-sandbags down the narrow gangway. Dax and I formed the assembly line along the tight, icy path to the basement window wells.
That’s where our honorary crewmember was posted, waiting for the next drop-off to stack against the semi-circle metal pits. Those were our buckets, I’d explained, ensuring the floodwater would run off. But she wasn’t content to stay there for very long.
Within maybe three trips, she’d trudged up the gangway, practically shivering in the biting wind but stubborn. So damn stubborn. She marched up to Silas and held her arms out, silently requesting a bag.
He hesitated, looking torn. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lane. These things are heavy.”
“I just wanna try,” she insisted. “Please?”
“Let one of us help you,” I said, stepping forward and offering a free arm. But Dax came running up the gangway, his empty arms from the return trip the deciding factor in having him be the one to help Lane.
“Are you sure?” Sy asked.
“Yep,” she answered.
Silas gently dropped the bag into her arms, and while she buckled slightly as she adjusted to the weight, she seemed to hold it just fine.
“I got it,” she said, her arms moving the bag around until she was comfortable enough to start the trek back to the wells.
I stayed a few steps behind her and Dax.
When her boot almost slipped on the slushy concrete, both Dax and I lunged forward.
Fortunately, she managed to catch herself with a sharp curse.
“You good there, Lane?” I asked.
“Just perfect,” she grunted.
Dax suddenly moved in closer, his arm brushing up against her shoulder in the narrow gap.
“Drop it, Counselor,” he said with a sneer, reaching for her bag. “You’re going to pull something.”
“Move your hands, Dax or the next pair of shins at risk will be yours,” she snapped.
Dax gave a low chuckle, like this was some kind of inside joke between only the two of them.
He gripped the bag anyway, not taking it from her but bearing the brunt of its weight.
“That’s a risk I’m going to have to take.
Remember I said I won’t be picking up any of your slack. Consider this proactive management.”
By now we reached the wells and Dax helped her drop the bag into a neat, overlapping semicircle inside the corrugated steel. I tossed my own one onto the pile, suddenly irritated.
I didn’t like the sharp, ugly twist of jealousy that hit my gut at the sight of his bruised face so close to her ear as he laughed. But then Lane said something so unexpected that I actually stopped dead in my tracks.
“Judging by that lovely shiner you have going on, I think you better leave the risk assessment to me, Miller,” she said.
Dax blinked at her, surprised. I barked a laugh and Lane smiled sweetly, already starting to walk back to get the next sandbag. Miller was still dumbfounded as I took off after her, wanting to offer my help the next round.
“She’s not exactly wrong there,” I said with a shrug.
Dax scoffed. “Cheeky, that one.”
The rest of the morning dragged out longer than it probably could’ve if we’d just finished our tasks but I doubted it would’ve been anywhere near as fun if not for Lane.
With each carry, she grew a bit more confident even despite growing more tired.
Silas had made some comment about her “perfect tosses” and Dax made some wisecrack about how that checked out with her career and how anal she was about everything, only for him to walk away in defeat when Sy pointed out that she was outperforming him.
I’d wanted her to let loose a bit and distract herself from whatever was bothering her but she did more than that—she assimilated into the crew.
She rolled with the banter as though she’d been working the site with us for years and not hours.
And seeing her like this, sweaty, hair dishevelled, face twisted in genuine laughter, it felt like seeing her for the first time.
Relaxation looked good on her.
When we were done with the window wells, I instructed Silas to clear a floor drain backup in the main bathroom, and Dax to plastic-wrap the exposed exterior foundation where water was starting to seep in.
Lane offered to make us a quick lunch while we worked, and I offered to accompany her to the kitchen. I didn’t miss the side-eye Dax shot me before he stalked outside, but I promptly ignored it.
Lane, however, didn’t pass up the opportunity to ask questions.
“Not that I’m hinting at anything, but I thought you might have some other task you needed to get done,” she said casually as we walked together. “It sounds a little bit like an abuse of authority, sending off your guys while you lounge around in the kitchen.
“Who said I’d be lounging around?” I asked. “We never know what kind of structural weakness this weather can introduce. The heavy rain could put weight on a compromised roof patch right over your stove and you’d need me to monitor the drywell for cracks.”
“Hmm,” she hummed. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. Or the drilling we did earlier could’ve shaken your upper kitchen cabinets loose from the plaster. You need me here,” I added.
“I’m sure I do,” she said with a mischievous smile on her face.
We reached our destination and she turned around, addressing me with a sudden seriousness that took me by surprise.
“Well, if you’re going to be offering your services in the kitchen, we can start with your knife skills.
How good are you at slicing prosciutto?”
In no time, Lane had us cleaned up before saddling me with the gruntwork of slicing cheese and meat while she cooked up a hearty tomato soup.
Well, that’s what it came down to even if it was a lot fancier than the stuff I was used to.
I’d have been happy with the canned version, but she insisted on making it from scratch.
“Multi-talented, huh?” I said with a grin, recalling the conversation from earlier as I cut up the last of the white cheddar block. “You weren’t lying. This is fancy.”
“Tomato basil soup with sourdough grilled cheese is hardly fancy,” she said with a laugh.
“You even have…what was it again? The meat stuff.”
“Prosciutto.”
“That.”
Lane shrugged, not looking up from the pot she was stirring. “If I do something, I like to do it well.”
“So a perfectionist,” I observed. I had her pegged as one right from the beginning. Everything about the way she presented herself even down to the way she was never even a minute late anywhere—well, with the exception of our first day on the job—spoke of how precisely she ran her life.
“You don’t sound surprised,” she said, lining up several spices to throw into the steaming soup. “Guess it takes one to know one.”
“I’m that easy to read?” I asked, curious.
“I’m just particularly well-studied,” she replied, and the tone of her voice made it clear she wasn’t being fully serious. When she set the soup to a low simmer, she lined up the sourdough loaf and began to slice it up. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you, by the way.”