When he finally meets my gaze, his eyes are cold, as if he read my mind. “Whatever, Miami. J-Just make sure you f-follow the c-competition’s rules on social media. Nothing can link to the competition until we go live on Labor Day weekend. Everything is c-confidential.” He shrugs as if he couldn’t care less. “You want it, you manage it.”
Ugh. I hoped for more enthusiasm there.
For a long time, it’s silent as he gets off the trailer and collects more floorboards. I inspect the few photos I took. He is hot as hell in them, as expected, and I lick my lips.
“And you? W-what are you go-going to do once my t-two weeks are up?” he asks as he clambers back on the trailer.
Between the stammer of words, there is a teasing tone. I’ve put him on probation, but I’m the one who gets to leave if he fails to perform. Awkward much?
If he thinks I’m going to throw a tantrum in two weeks’ time and leave in a huff for Miami, he’s in for a surprise, but I’m fumbling for a quick, sharp response. The only thing that comes to mind is that I’ll whip his ass into shape if he doesn’t perform, but I’m already adjusting my expectations here and it’s interesting to work with someone else. It’s interesting to work with him. Unexpected as it is, Raiden is performing in his own way.
“We’ll see.” Lots can happen in two weeks. “Shall we call it Chic Shack?” I have the app open on my phone and type away with my thumbs. Names have been popping up in my head all day long. “Darn, that’s taken.” I lean against the trailer as I check out some hashtags. Raiden is closing in on me with his floorboards as he drills them into the subfloor frame. “Or Tic Tack Shack?”
He looks up and rolls his eyes at me.
“Nope? I’m not a fan either. What about Tic Tack Tiny? That’s as cute as a button.”
I glance up at Raiden and he sits back on his haunches. Drops of sweat gather on his temples and he wipes at his brow. “Help I can use. Real help. If you’re done?”
His voice is stern, but there might just be a twinkle in his eye. I don’t know him well enough to interpret his expression. “Sure, boss, after I’m done setting up this account and posting some photos.”
I raise my phone again and take the perfect shot of him with his scowl. He might like to piss on my party, but I know how to sidestep a steady stream. “Tic Tack Tiny it is, like it or not.”
14
RAIDEN
It’s Tuesday morning and as much as I loathe this, there’s no getting out of it. The film crew will be on their way and I’m not looking forward to that camera in my face.
I look up from where I’m marking the circular holes in the studs where the electric wiring will go through. Georgiana is busy on her laptop. Could be admin. Could be Instagram for Tic Tack Tiny. Social media seems to take more time than I could ever bother with, but I’ve checked out our feed. I like it a lot. I like it maybe too much.
It’s been a week since Georgiana’s arrival, and she’s been a pain in my ass with an arsenal of killer stares. In my head, I call it the Miami Glare. Sometimes, I call her my Miami Sunshine. Openly, I stick to Miami, and it irritates the living crap out of her, resulting in the Miami Glare.
Her eyes tell me everything and I like it. A lot. Probably too much.
The part I like the most though, is that part when she’s done with the admin and clambers on the trailer to get hands-on. I honestly enjoy working with her. I’d go so far as to say I love working with her.
In trouble, I am.
After she tackled the ungodly pile of admin last week, she drew up the plans for the tiny house. Then she made a timeline with goals, project-managing the life out of this little build of ours. The electrician, the plumber, and every other contractor we need to complete or sign off on our work, have been allotted their time, and the devil help them if they’re not here on the day to do their bit.
We’ve settled into a routine at work and at home. It’s more like a schedule that she stuck up on the fridge with who’s in charge of lunch and dinner—since we are so conveniently living together, she pointed out on day three of my probation, we can cut costs. Her schedule keeps us both so busy there’s no time for much else. It’s made life so easy and diluted the stress that comes with our tight timeline. Plus, Georgiana isn’t overtime shy, and we work until nightfall to get ahead with the project. That said, once home, there’s nothing either of us wants to do but eat, shower, and crash. This suits me just fine.
Georgiana has experience and loads of it, so much so that I wonder if she’s ever had a life. She often refers to this project or that, but never about who the client was or who she worked for. She never mentions her home or any family from Miami, but almost every night this past week, I’ve heard her talking in muffled tones with someone and afterwards actually crying.
Listening to someone cry alone isn’t my thing. I know how much the feel of a warm hand on your back means and it’s hard to keep to myself and not knock on her door. My concern for her takes my mind off my own buried troubles that always resurface when I come to Ashleigh Lake. In that way, Boston has been good to me, and I’ve avoided long stretches in Ashleigh Lake for years now, to navigate around triggers that hang like ghostly coats in the trees, swaying in the wind and catching my eye, building up to an inevitable episode.
As for Georgiana, I know it isn’t the work or me. At least I hope it isn’t. She seems to be happy and focused, and we’ve kept a pleasant vibe going in the barn. At first it was strained, but lately, it’s coming naturally. In this physical, close-quarters working environment, sharp edges are sanded off quickly.
These are all signs. I’ve lived these signs. Georgiana is running from some a problem she doesn’t know how to deal with or how to discuss. Not with me. Not yet. I don’t have a good mouth, but I make up for it with good ears. And hugs.
This girl needs hugs—lots of them—and I can’t even give her one. Damn this doing the right thing business, because now even an innocent hug seems off. After that first day when we got too close physically, Georgiana has given me a wide berth and I’ve done the same with her. Shower times are unofficially scheduled. We are painfully aware who is where in the boathouse and make sure we don’t cross paths unless we’re fully clothed and presentable. Keeping it professional to the T, we are.
My plan for social distraction failed miserably. Britt and Rachel tried to lure her out again on Saturday, but she told them she was too busy…and promptly drove to Burlington for solo sightseeing and only came back late the next day.
She never told me she intended to stay the night. I almost cracked. I freaked out completely when she didn’t come home. She clearly needed some space, so I didn’t want to phone her. Not even when it was almost midnight, and I couldn’t sleep. All I could see was her red maggot crumpled on impact as it hit a truck on that curved road to the interstate.
I didn’t want to dig too deep into the anxiety that came with her not driving down the farm road until Sunday afternoon. I know what it means though and I’m not ready to categorize Georgiana as someone I care about. As she pointed out to Britt, she’s leaving Ashleigh Lake after this stint and would like to focus on work and seeing as much of Vermont as she can on the weekends.