Page 6 of Working for Him

She's good. That's the problem. If she were sloppy, or slow, or another consultant who shows up at ten and rubber-stamps whatever's already planned, I could file this whole thing under inconvenient and move on. Instead she caught the ground instability before I even walked the site myself, and she read that slip faster than anyone I've worked with in five years, and now I'm standing here with a weather report in one hand trying to figure out if I want an excuse to talk to her again or if I've already decided I don't need one.

Rain's coming back tomorrow night. If the ground softens further near the eastern edge, the pour schedule's going to need adjusting before we're stuck reacting instead of planning for it.

That's true. It's also convenient, and I know it the second I catch myself walking toward her truck with the schedule tucked under my arm instead of just sending it over with Tommy.

She's packing up equipment when I reach her, her clipboard already back under one arm as if it never left.

"You got a minute?" I ask. "I want your eyes on the pour schedule before I lock it in. The weather's shifting again."

Something flickers across her face, it’s there and gone fast enough that I almost miss it. Interest, maybe. Or the same thing sitting in my chest, dressed up as professional obligation because that's easier to carry around in daylight, in front of a crew, on a job site where every decision I make gets watched.

"I've got a minute," she says.

"Trailer," I say, already walking, already telling myself this is about concrete and timing and nothing else.

I don't believe it for a second. Judging by the way she falls into step beside me, close enough that I catch that same clean, sharp scent from the diner, I don't think she believes it either.

Whatever this is, we're about to be alone in a very small room together.

That's either a mistake or the smartest thing I've done all day. I honestly can't tell which yet.

CHAPTER 3

Rena

The door closes behind us with a click that echoes in the small space. Forced proximity has a way of sharpening everything, stripping away the buffer of open air and the ability to pretend you're not hyper-aware of another person's existence.

I glance around while he sets his own clipboard down, taking in the neat stacks of blueprints, the site map pinned up, the single coffee mug rinsed and upside down on a paper towel, like even his desk clutter has a system.

"This feels like you," I say before I can stop myself.

"Yeah?" Something almost like amusement crosses his face. "How's that?"

"Organized. No wasted space. Like everything's exactly where it needs to be because you decided it should be."

He doesn't answer that, just holds my gaze a beat too long, and I look away first, annoyed at how much that silence tells me anyway.

Caleb moves past me to shut the window, and his shoulder brushes mine. Half a second of contact, the kind that happens a hundred times a day on a job site without anyone noticing. Except my entire nervous system lights up as if he touched me with a live wire.

I don't step away. Neither does he.

"Appreciate you taking a look at this," he says, his voice carefully controlled, nodding toward the schedule spread across the desk.

"Weather's shifting." I set my clipboard down, putting a few inches between us because my body's making suggestions my brain knows are terrible ideas. "If the ground keeps softening, you'll need to adjust timing or you're going to have settlement issues."

"You always this dramatic about dirt?"

"I'm not dramatic. I'm accurate. There's a difference, and it's the difference between a foundation and a very expensive hole."

He leans over the plans, bracing one hand on the desk, close enough that I catch the way his forearm flexes under his sleeve. I angle in beside him to point at the diagram, which is a tactical error, because now I can smell him properly. Clean skin, laundry detergent, and the faint tang of concrete dust that never quite washes out.

"You always this hands-on?" he murmurs, and the question feels like it's about something other than pour schedules.

"Only when it matters," I manage.

"I don't like surprises," he says, his voice sounds rough.

"I don't either. That's why I'm here."