Rena #2
I should look away. This is already toeing the line of unprofessional, and I haven't even clocked in yet.
But my body's not listening to my brain, it’s too busy cataloging the way his shoulders fill out that jacket, the way his voice seems to vibrate through the air between us, and the way his attention feels like a physical weight on my skin.
This is a bad idea. I've had enough bad ideas to recognize the warning signs.
I stand, shrugging into my jacket. His gaze tracks every shift, every adjustment, like he's memorizing the shape of me.
"I'll see you on-site, Wyatt," I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Try not to make my life difficult."
He leans back slightly, his posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, and I know he's doing it on purpose. He’s making me wait for his response, drawing this out.
"No promises," he says, his voice dropping half an octave. "This job's not kind to people who get in the way."
I smile, sharp and unapologetic, letting him see exactly how unintimidated I am. "Good. Neither am I."
I drop a few dollars on the bar for my coffee and then turn and walk toward the door.
I feel his gaze like a hand between my shoulder blades, steady, unyielding and absolutely impossible to ignore.
My pulse is still racing when I push through the door into the cool morning air, and I know with bone-deep certainty that Forge Creek just became a hell of a lot more complicated.
I haven't even seen the site yet, and I already know this job's going to cost me something I wasn't planning to spend.
I just hope it's worth it.
I can hear the Jefferson Street site before I see it.
The low rumble of diesel engines, the beep of equipment backing up, and the sharp crack of metal on metal that carries across the cold morning air.
It’s the same noise as all the sites I’ve previously worked on.
I pull into the gravel lot and kill the engine, sitting there for a moment as I take it all in.
It's organized chaos, which looks random to outsiders but follows a pattern if you know how to read it.
Concrete forms are lined up like soldiers, rebar stacked in neat bundles, workers moving with the efficiency of people who've done this enough times to make it muscle memory.
A temporary office trailer sits near the fence line, its windows plastered with safety notices and shift schedules.
This is the easy part. Sites I understand. Sites follow rules, obey physics, and respond to logic. It's the people who make things complicated.
I grab my hard hat and clipboard and step out, taking in the smells of a working construction site.
Diesel fuel and damp earth. A few heads turn as I walk toward the trailer, curiosity flickering across faces before they return to their tasks.
No one approaches me. No one needs to. The high-visibility jacket and clipboard do the talking for me.
I'm halfway to the trailer when I spot him.
Caleb stands near the eastern edge of the dig, his hard hat is on now, and his jacket is zipped up against the chill.
He's talking to someone, gesturing toward the excavation with one hand, but even from here I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself like he's personally responsible for every cubic yard of concrete on this site. Which, I guess, he probably is.
Then he turns, and his gaze finds mine across the yard as if he's been tracking me since I pulled in.
My stomach does something deeply unhelpful. I don't wave. I don't acknowledge him beyond a slight nod. It’s professional, appropriate, and exactly what this needs to be.
The answering tilt of his head suggests he's thinking the same thing, but neither of us believes it for a second.
I force myself to look away first this time, focusing on the site instead of the man running it.
The ground near the eastern edge looks soft, darker than the surrounding soil.
There’s been some recent rain, probably.
I make a note on my clipboard, already cataloging risks before I've officially started.
"You must be the safety consultant."
I turn to find a younger guy approaching, in his early twenties, wearing a grin that suggests he hasn't been beaten down by this job yet. His hard hat sits slightly crooked, and there's fresh concrete dust on his boots.
"Rena Black," I say, offering my hand.
He shakes it with enthusiasm. "Tommy. Tommy Clarke. I'm on the concrete crew. Caleb said you'd be coming by."
"Did he?"
Tommy's grin widens. "Said you were thorough. That we should listen when you talk."
Interesting. That's more backup than I usually get on day one.
"He's right," I say mildly. "I’m thorough."
"Cool. Well, uh, if you need anything, just holler. Most of us are pretty friendly once you get past the whole construction site vibe."
"Noted," I say, and he walks off, still grinning.
I spend the next hour doing what I do best. Walking the perimeter, checking grades, noting equipment placement, and documenting everything that looks even slightly off.
It's meditative in its own way, this process of observation and assessment. The world narrows down to angles and measurements, cause and effect, risk and mitigation. I work in my own world, and inside my head, I’m taking notes of everything.
I'm crouched near the soft ground I spotted earlier, my fingers brushing the dirt to test its consistency, when a shadow falls across my clipboard.
I don't need to look up to know who it is.
"Morning, Wyatt," I say, still focused on the soil. "You're early."
"So are you." His voice is even, controlled, giving nothing away.