7. Edda
Chapter seven
Edda
The scaffold creaks beneath my boots as I tighten my grip on the clipboard and look up at the exposed brick.
Three stories of it climbing toward a sky the color of dirty dishwater.
The Brennan Building has sat empty for eighteen months, but the bones are solid.
More than solid. The kind of craftsmanship people stopped teaching decades ago.
"The mortar's deteriorating along the east face," I tell Rachel, Bennett's project coordinator. She stands two feet behind me, clutching her tablet against her chest like a shield. "But the foundation work is solid. Whoever laid this knew exactly what they were doing."
Rachel nods, fingers moving quickly across her screen. "I'll add it to the assessment. Mr. Thornhill wanted a full condition report by Friday."
Mr. Thornhill. Not Bennett.
I tuck that away, the deliberate distance his staff keeps even when he isn't in the room. Respect mixed with caution. The kind of deference that clings to him long after he leaves.
I crouch beside the corner where brick meets the original limestone trim, dragging my fingers along the seam. Grit catches against my calluses. Age. Neglect. History.
This building has lived a dozen different lives beneath layers of paint and renovation, and somewhere under all of it is the crack I spotted in the heritage documents three weeks ago.
"The structural survey missed something," I say, mostly to myself.
Rachel folds her arms. "The survey was done by certified engineers."
"Certified engineers checking load-bearing capacity, not original construction methods.
" I shift on the scaffold, feeling the faint sway beneath my boots.
Wind cuts between the buildings, carrying exhaust, rain, and something green from the park a couple of blocks over.
"There's a difference between what keeps a building standing and what keeps it whole. "
Rachel goes quiet. She doesn't get it.
Most people don't.
I check my watch. Forty minutes into the walkthrough, and we've covered maybe a third of the exterior. The interior will take longer, all those rooms with their plaster ghosts and hardwood floors that haven't seen foot traffic in years.
I'm jotting notes about water damage near the roofline when the scaffold shifts under added weight.
I don't look up. I know those footsteps.
Bennett climbs onto the platform with the kind of effortless authority that makes even industrial equipment seem designed around him. Charcoal suit. No tie. Sleeves rolled to his forearms in a way that should read practical and nothing else.
It doesn't.
"Ms. Rowley."
Neutral. Professional. Like the hotel suite never happened. Like the morning after was a detail quietly edited out of the contract.
"Mr. Thornhill." I match his tone, catching Rachel straightening in my peripheral vision. "Your coordinator didn't mention you'd be joining us."
“Last-minute addition to my schedule.”
I glance at Rachel. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even look surprised, which tells me exactly how “last-minute” this really was.
Awareness slides through me anyway, immediate and unwanted. I’ve spent weeks trying not to notice Bennett Thornhill, and my body keeps betraying me every damn time he steps too close.
His presence changes the atmosphere on the scaffold, tightening the narrow space between steel rails and crumbling brick. Charged. Smaller somehow.
I hate that I register him automatically: the breadth of his shoulders beneath his coat, the steady grip of his hands on the railing, the sharp cut of his jaw against the overcast sky.
I turn back to the brick before my attention lingers too long. “We were discussing the east face deterioration.”
"I saw the preliminary notes," Bennett says as he steps closer.
The scaffold shifts slightly under his weight.
"The mortar work," he adds.
"Among other things."
He stops beside me. Close enough that I catch cedar on him, layered with something warmer underneath. Something that drags up an image I would rather not have, hotel sheets tangled, arguments that blurred into something else before either of us admitted it had changed.
I fix my attention on the wall as it owes me answers.
"Show me," he says.
Not a question. Bennett never wastes words on questions when statements will do.
I’ve started noticing that about him, against my better judgment, cataloging it with everything else that should not have stuck.
The way he holds silence like leverage. The way his attention presses in without ever actually touching.
I lift my hand, pointing to the seam where limestone meets the foundation.
"Here. The original builders used a different bonding technique than the restoration crew in the eighties. You can see where the materials don’t quite align."
Bennett crouches beside me, and suddenly we are both eye level with the crack I flagged in my heritage notes. His shoulder almost grazes mine. The scaffold is narrow, meant for two workers at most, and with Rachel hovering just behind us, the space feels tighter than it should.
“The crack runs deeper than it looks,” I say, keeping my voice steady by force alone. “It is not structural. Not yet. But if the restoration does not account for the original construction methods, you will see the same failure again in twenty years.”
Bennett studies the wall the way I study a broken mechanism. Noticing what is holding, what was patched instead of repaired. His fingers follow the mortar line, slow and precise, and I catch myself tracking the movement longer than I should.
“You caught this before my engineer did,” he says.
The words land cleaner than expected. No polish, no deflection. Just a fact.
“Your engineer was looking in the wrong places.”
“Apparently.” He pushes up to stand, and for a brief moment, we are too close, my line of sight catching on the breadth of his chest before I straighten to meet his gaze. His eyes stay on mine a beat too long, like he is recalculating something.
“What else did they miss?”
"I’ll have a full report by Friday."
"I didn’t ask about the report."
I hold his stare, refusing to look away first. Wind pushes through the site again, dragging construction noise up from the street and a distant siren that never quite settles.
Bennett’s expression stays composed, but something in his stance recalibrates.
Not obvious. Just enough to notice if I am paying attention.
"The interior has similar issues," I say. "Original plasterwork hidden behind cheap drywall. Wood floors that need a structural assessment, not just refinishing. The building’s history is buried under shortcuts."
"Can it be recovered?"
That lands differently than expected. Not a question about cost efficiency or demolition timelines. Not a negotiation tactic. Something closer to intent.
"Yes," I say. "With the right approach."
Bennett nods once. Controlled, unreadable, but it doesn’t fully erase what just passed between us. He turns to Rachel.
"Clear my three o’clock. I’ll finish the walkthrough myself."
Rachel’s tablet almost slips from her hands. "Sir, you have the Chen Industries call scheduled for three fifteen."
"Push it to four. They'll wait."
"Mr. Chen specifically requested the earlier time."
"Then he'll learn patience." Bennett's voice doesn't rise or sharpen. It simply lands, certain in a way that doesn't invite follow-up. "Ms. Rowley and I have work to discuss."
Rachel hesitates. Her mouth parts as she might argue, then closes again.
She nods once, clipped and professional, already stepping back.
I watch her take the scaffold ladder down with careful precision, the kind that says she wants distance without making it obvious.
Her heels tap against concrete below, fading until the platform feels too quiet.
Three stories up, the city stretches out around us. Wind moves lightly across the open frame, carrying dust and distant traffic.
"That wasn't necessary," I say.
"The walkthrough requires continuity. Your assessment will be more accurate with consistent observation."
"I meant dismissing her like that."
A beat passes. Not long. Just enough to register that he heard me and chose not to react immediately.
"I didn't dismiss her," he says. "I redirected the schedule."
"Same outcome."
His gaze shifts to me then, brief and assessing, like he's recalibrating how much space I take up in his plans. "Time is the constraint, not courtesy."
Of course it is, I think, but don't say.
The platform creaks softly under a shift in weight, his or mine, hard to tell. There's too much open air between us for it to feel neutral. Too much visibility, too little escape.
Bennett’s gaze sharpens. “She reports to me.”
“She’s a person, not a piece of equipment.”
Something flickers across his face, too quick to pin down. He turns back toward the building, attention locking onto the exposed brick as if it can absorb what he does not want to answer. “The foundation crack. Show me exactly where it starts.”
I could push. Part of me wants to needle him for the way he rearranges people like schedules and expects no resistance. But there is work to do, and arguing about his management style will not change how he runs his site.
I lead him along the scaffold, pointing out how the crack tracks up from the foundation, splitting the line of the structure as it climbs.
He listens without interrupting, asking questions that are precise enough to land differently, like he is actually following instead of waiting for his turn to speak.
His focus is absolute in a way that is hard to ignore, the same kind of attention he gave my heritage folder in his office, as if once something has his interest, it stays there.