3. Elsie
Elsie
The south bridge file looks like a raccoon broke into a government office and tried to file its own taxes. I’ve been staring at it for forty minutes and that’s still the most accurate description I can produce.
There are photos on two tablets, a spreadsheet that was clearly built by someone who thinks columns are optional, a repair log that references sections of bridge that are not labelled anywhere in the photos, and a manila folder of receipts that have been sorted by a system I’ve never seen before.
I open my notebook and start a fresh column. I’ve organized worse. This is just photos, bridge reports, and a spreadsheet that seems like it was made back in the stone ages, but I can do this.
I start with the photos because the photos have timestamps.
I pull the tablets toward me, open the camera rolls, and begin going through them one by one, cross-referencing each one against the SB-1 column in the spreadsheet.
There are two hundred and seventeen photos, only forty-six of them are labelled.
The folder called "maybe bridge" contains thirty-one photos of what does appear to be a bridge, alongside three photos of someone's lunch and one extremely blurry shot of the sky.
I write: who named this folder, and why are they still employed in my notebook, and then cross it out because I’m being a professional and that was mean.
"The SB-2 entries," I say when Hugo comes back through the door with a radio in his hand, and mud on his boots. "Are those the same bridge or a different one?"
"Different section," he says. "South deck is SB-1. The guardrail damage and shoulder work is SB-2."
"Are the photos separated by section anywhere?"
"No."
"Great." I write it down. "Helpful system."
"It worked."
"Hugo, there’s a folder called ‘maybe bridge.’"
He’s quiet for a second. "Corey named that one."
"I'm going to pretend that explains it."
"It does."
"No." I look at him over the tablet. "It absolutely does not."
He almost smiles again; it’s just a slight shift at the corner of his mouth before it disappears. But I see it and I feel stupidly, disproportionately victorious about it.
I go back to the tablets, and he goes back to whatever it is he does when he’s not standing in the office making my concentration worse.
We develop a rhythm quickly, which I didn’t expect.
Hugo is in and out every twenty minutes.
Someone needs him for the aggregate delivery on the upper ridge, or someone calls about an icy access road on the north side of town, there’s an issue with a retaining wall report that needs his sign-off before it goes to City Hall, Hank Mullins calls twice about crew scheduling, and a man named Darnell puts his head in to ask about the south shoulder gravel assessment.
Hugo answers all of it, all in short sentences.
He gives instructions and people follow them without arguing, not because they’re afraid of him but because it’s obvious he knows what he’s talking about.
When Darnell asks about the shoulder, Hugo tells him exactly which section, exactly how much material, and then asks if the drainage channel is clear.
Darnell says mostly, and Hugo tells him to check it properly before he signs-off.
That’s the whole conversation, it took about thirty seconds, and everything was handled.
I watch him do this four times before I understand something; he doesn't talk much because everyone else is always asking him for something. Every time he walks in here, someone needs a piece of him, every call is a problem to fix, and every crew member is waiting on his answer before they can move forward. He’s not grumpy because he enjoys being difficult, he’s grumpy because he’s carrying a lot and he’s been carrying it for a long time.
I write in my notebook: not grumpy. just load-bearing.
Then I cross it out because I shouldn’t be making notes about him.
I’ve sworn off men.
I remind myself and I have a feeling that I’ll be reminding myself that a lot more frequently.
"So, you're the one brave enough to touch his filing system." I look up and see a man in a high-vis jacket and a baseball cap leaning against the door frame, grinning at me. He seems to be in his late twenties, with a broad smile, and mud up to his knees.
"Someone had to," I say with a grin.
"Three other people tried," he says. "One cried because it’s a mess."
"I write romance novels for a living. I've seen worse disasters in chapter twelve."
He laughs. "I'm Corey."
"Elsie." I hold up one of the tablets. "You named a folder of photos, the ‘maybe bridge’ folder."
He shrugs like it’s completely normal. "It made sense at the time."
Lord help me. "In what universe?"
He gives me the cockiest grin as he crosses his arms against his chest. "The one where I wasn't sure it was the right bridge."
"Then you label it with the date and the location, not maybe bridge."
"I see why he needed you," Corey says, still grinning.
"Corey." Hugo's voice comes from behind him, flat and even. "I need those shoulder readings on my desk before noon."
Corey straightens immediately. "On it, boss." He gives me a quick salute and disappears.
Hugo looks at me for a moment, says nothing, and goes back to the radio call he was on.
I look back at the tablets as I realize he didn’t raise his voice, or threaten anything, he just said Corey's name and that was enough to have Corey stand up straight and leave and for some reason I find that interesting.
I’ve been matching photos to the repair log section by section for three days now, and it has mostly been working.
It’s messy, slow, and requires more patience than I actually have, but it’s been working.
Until I get to the final inspection phase of the SB-1 deck repair and find that the written log references a sealed expansion joint on the south end, but none of the photos I have show a sealed joint.
I have photos of the damage, the prep work, and the deck patch.
I have no after photo of the joint itself.
The written log says it was completed, but there’s no documented proof of that which for a grant inspection isn’t going to work.
"Hugo," I call out, he’s at the other end of the office, looking at a map, but he turns at me calling him. "The SB-1 final inspection log references a sealed expansion joint on the south end. I have no photo of it."
He frowns. "There should be one."
"I have two hundred and seventeen photos. I have gone through all of them. There’s no sealed joint."
He crosses the office and comes around behind me to look at the screen.
He’s way too close and I can feel his breath against my face.
His arm brushes the back of my chair as he leans forward to point at the screen.
"This section," he says, tapping a photo.
"The repair note says joint sealed same day as deck patch. These photos are all deck patch."
"Right," I say, my voice is completely normal despite the close proximity. "So either the photo was never taken, or it's somewhere not in these camera rolls."
"Could be on Darnell's phone."
I narrow my eyes. "Crew members document repairs on their personal phones?"
He glances down at me. "Sometimes."
"Hugo," I groan.
He gives me a look. "I know."
"That is a documentation problem," I remind him.
"I know," he repeats.
"The state team is going to ask why the photographic record is on someone's personal device."
"I know." He straightens up, which gives me my space back and my ability to breathe.
"We need to go to the site and take the missing shots.
" He picks up his jacket from the hook by the door.
"The joint is still visible. We document it now with a date stamp, cross-reference it to the original log, and note it as supplementary documentation. "
"That works?"
"As long as everything else is in order." He says it in the tone of a man who is very aware that everything else is not entirely in order.
"When?" I ask.
"Now."
I look at the tablets. "I thought you meant, like, Thursday."
"Now is better." He looks at my boots. "What are those?"
I look at my boots. They are brown, they have a heel, they are not designed for mountain infrastructure sites.
"Boots," I say.
"Those aren't work boots."
I tap my heels. "They're very sturdy."
His gaze narrows in on them. "They have a heel."
I nod and grin. "A small one."
He opens a cabinet I have not looked in yet and pulls out a high-vis vest. He holds it out for me. I quickly take it and pull it on. It’s enormous; it comes to my thighs and I’ve no doubt that I look like a traffic cone that has given up on its shape.
Corey, passing by the open door, sees me, and very carefully looks at the wall instead. Hugo looks at me, looks at the vest, and before he can open his mouth I cut him off.
"Don't," I say.
"I didn't say anything."
"Yet," I hiss.
He turns toward the door. "Stay behind the barriers unless I clear it, watch your footing on the approach. The mud near the shoulder is soft and the creek bank is steeper than it looks."
"I know how to walk," I say.
"Good. Do it carefully."
He holds the door open and I walk through it not looking at him because I have a feeling I’ll say something stupid.
His truck is just as messy as the office. There’s maps in the door pocket, a clipboard on the back seat, there’s mud on the floor mats, and a pair of thermal gloves sitting on the dash. Exactly what I had expected given the state of the office.
Hugo pulls out of the lot and we drive. "Did you grow up here?" I ask, because the silence is getting to me.
"Yes."
"Have you always worked on roads?"
"Started on the crew when I was nineteen." He checks his mirror. "Moved up."
"Did you ever leave?"
"Not for long."
I have a feeling that there’s more to the story than he’s willing to share, which is totally fine, but it does feel as though I’m pulling teeth at the moment and I’m not willing to push him, so I turn to look at the road.
"What kind of books?" he asks.
I blink. "Sorry?"
"You said you write books. What kind?"
"Romance."
He is quiet for a second. "Right," he says, his brow lifting slightly.
I know that tone; it’s the tone of someone rethinking everything that they thought about me. It always happens, whenever someone hears I write romance, they change the way they perceive me.
"It's a business," I say. "A real one. I have a publisher, a deadline, contracts, marketing, a newsletter with twelve thousand subscribers. It's not just women sighing over shirtless men in the rain."
Hugo’s brows furrow. "I didn't say it wasn't," he says.
"Your right brow said it wasn't."
"My right what?"
"Eyebrow. It lifted when you judged me."
"I don't do things with my eyebrows."
"Hugo, you absolutely do."
He doesn’t respond, which is either a concession or a decision to let me think I won. I can’t tell which yet.
The south bridge is worse than I expected.
The site is active, which means there are crew members, heavy equipment, temporary barriers, orange cones, and mud in quantities that I wasn’t prepared for.
I glance down at my boots and inwardly groan, what the hell was I thinking not getting different boots?
Hugo steps out of the truck and immediately enters boss mode.
He talks to Darnell near the deck section and points to the drainage channel and Darnell nods and writes something on a clipboard.
He checks a guardrail himself, testing it with both hands, not trusting someone else's word for it.
He crouches at the edge of the south shoulder and looks at the repair from below, really looks at it, and I can see him calculating something, weight or drainage or stress, something I do not know how to calculate but which clearly matters.
I take photos with my phone and make notes in the work file. He shows me which sections I need: the sealed expansion joint on the south end, the final deck surface, the guardrail installation, the drainage channel outlet, and the repaired shoulder
"This one," he says, crouching at the joint and gesturing. "Get the sealant bead visible. And the date stamp needs to show."
I crouch beside him. The joint is clean, properly sealed, exactly what the log says it is. I take three photos from different angles.
"Good," he says, standing.
I stand too fast.
My boot slips on the wet concrete edge, and my stomach drops as my hand shoots out on instinct.
I find Hugo’s arm, because of course I do.
He’s already there, already moving, one hand at my elbow, the other at my waist, firm and certain as he steadies me.
It’s over in two seconds, but my body doesn’t seem to know that.
"Watch your footing," he says.
"I was," I say, which is an obvious lie and we both know it.
He releases me and takes a step back, his jaw’s set and he’s looking at the ground near my feet rather than at me, which I understand because I am also looking at the ground near my feet rather than at him.
"The heels," he says.
"I know," I say.
He nods once and walks toward Darnell, my elbow is warm where his hand was. That is a completely normal physiological response, and I am not thinking about it.
I’m sitting on the equipment box near the truck, going through the photos on my phone and making sure I have everything, when I catch myself writing something in the wrong notebook.
Not the work notebook. The personal one, which I apparently pulled out by mistake.
He does not smile often, but when he doesn't, you notice his mouth anyway. Not charming, worse, he’s competent. Everyone on site moves slightly differently when he is there. Like they recalibrate around him.
I stare at it.
"That the bridge file?"
I close the notebook. Hugo is standing two feet away, looking at the closed notebook, then at me.
"Work notes," I say.
"You closed it very fast for work notes."
"I'm thorough."
He looks at me for a moment. "Book research?" he asks.
I open my mouth. "Maybe," I say.
It is not a yes, it’s also not a no. It is the honest answer, which I didn’t mean to give.
"Am I in it?" he asks.
"Absolutely not," I say.
He looks at me.
"Probably not," I say.
He looks at the notebook. "You shouldn't use me for a hero," he says quietly.
"Why not?"
He looks back at the bridge. "I'm not one," he says.
I don’t say anything, what can I say to that?
He walks away and I sit there with my closed notebook and my phone full of bridge photos and think about everything I watched him do today.
Checking the guardrail himself. Sending the cold crew member to sit in the truck.
Asking Darnell about his hand. Updating a road closure notice before school traffic.
Hugo thinks he is not hero material.
Which is ridiculous, and also deeply inconvenient. Because my fictional hero has been dead on the page for three weeks, and the real one is walking back toward the truck covered in mud, not waiting for me to argue with him, just moving on to the next thing that needs fixing.
The way he always does.