Raiden doesn’t question. He doesn’t consider and look at plans and check and check again and forget a measurement and look it up again. He just knows what to do next, like he knows there are sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, and twenty-four of those in a day.
I’m not sure how any of it works, but after a few days, I’ve stopped questioning. Raiden is on some sort of spectrum as yet undefined, and it isn’t the color spectrum.
He might be on probation, but with every passing moment, I draw and drill and hammer a part of me into this tiny house too. Two weeks isn’t a long time, but it didn’t take more than a day for my heart to get invested in this build. I want to see it through to the end. Hug it close as mine. Hug it close as his and help him realize his dream.
I’ve drawn up most of the plans from his model and the real thing is going to be a jaw-dropper. Every last feature is clever and a designer’s dream. The space management is the most intuitive I’ve ever seen. He needs to review and sign off on the drawings. Some details still escape me, and for those I need to pin him down for a few hours. So far, he’s been avoiding desk time as if I’m inviting him to sit down in an electric chair.
Raiden’s desk-avoidance is exacerbated by a new problem I scout on my horizon. Jack’s subtle sidenote on the specs is a hint that he spotted a mistake. I’ve watched enough reality TV in my life to know how this goes. They’ll expect us to stumble upon the mistake during the week and drama-drama, let’s see how they deal with it in the next episode. The commentary they’ll add when they edit the footage will point out our issue to the audience, but would Jack bother to tell me? Nope. He’s here to make good TV and good TV includes a twist or two. We have a twist on our horizon, and I have some investigating to do, starting with the National Tiny House Competition’s secretary as my first port of call.
I wipe at my cheeks, grateful that Raiden has picked up his drill again. The TV twister can blow up later. For now, I need to post something on Tic Tack Tiny for our growing crowd of followers. Not bad for a week’s work and worth every second of Raiden’s faked irritation with me. This has become our daily dose of fun and games.
For a moment I scroll through our feed to see what would be best to post next. Project, Raiden, or a combo? Sometimes I think our followers are here more for Raiden than for our tiny house. He’s handsome as the devil himself and could have been a model if he’d ever wanted to. He wouldn’t have needed to talk while modeling, but then my drifting thoughts hook on the scar on his chest which I’ve only seen twice. That wouldn’t do, not in a world that worships apparent perfection.
The light at this time of day is my favorite. It’s still morning and the sun beams a soft glow over the project from the two high windows in the barn’s wall.
With my phone in hand, I stalk toward Raiden where he’s busy strengthening the frame. He has his back to me, in a black T-shirt that I’m sure he’d love to strip off once the midday heat bakes the barn into a hothouse, if only I weren’t around. He’s wearing cargo shorts and work boots and I feel for him. The barn was built for winter and a mild Vermont summer, not the July heat wave we’re in.
One good thing coming from the tropical south is that I deal with sticky weather better and I don’t feel the urge to strip and dunk myself in the lake all the time. Every day this week, that’s exactly what he did. He walked out at around three in the afternoon, peeling off his T-shirt the minute he got out the door, and disappeared through the woods. He’d come back some time later, hair wet, but nothing else gave away that he’d had a cool-off in the lake.
Hmm. He had to be skinny dipping, because there were no tell-tale water marks hinting that he’d kept his underwear on. No wonder he doesn’t invite me along.
I swallow at the thought, because the whole idea makes me wet in places that have nothing to do with lake water. God knows I need a distraction. I go to the camera app on my phone and take a few photos of Raiden as I quietly sneak around him. Soon I’ll have his face in the frame.
“Taking photos again, are you?” He looks down at me, his voice stern, a frown creasing his forehead, but his eyes tease.
“You’ll see, this project will benefit from a strong online presence. I bet you some of the other teams are also thinking this far ahead.” And you are the brand, I add in my head. I close in on him, gauging what the best shot would be that still meets the strict social media guidelines for the competition. Bottom line, nothing can give away that we are in the National Tiny House competition until the Labor Day weekend when the tiny houses are on display. “This morning went great, but we can keep working on your on-screen persona, because we both know I’m not the one with stage fright.” I shouldn’t be so cocky after this morning.
“Uh-huh. Whatever, Miami. Help, I can use. Real, hands-on help.”
I suppress a giggle and manage to scoff. Raiden is playing along and being the perfect grump. My heart settles as I take him in. He knows going back to the status quo is what I need to move on from this morning.
These photos would be perfect if I had more height and could get him to look up into the morning light. As it is, he seems to have a halo shining over him, but Raiden is no angel, that’s for sure.
I glance around the barn and my desk chair is a few feet away. I drag it closer and attempt to lift it up onto the trailer floor, but Raiden is already there, helping me.
“Thanks.”
“What are you doing now, Miami?” he asks as I clamber onto the trailer and place the chair where I want it to be.
“Irritating you,” I mutter as I suppress a chuckle.
“Hmm.” He picks up his drill again and continues to fasten the hurricane ties to the studs.
It’s tit for tat. He never calls me by my name. He doesn’t even go for George or G as some people do. Raiden got stuck on Miami and it’s annoying as hell, but I try to keep my cool and not let him know that I’m starting to find it endearing. Maybe it’s easier for him to say than Georgiana. It could be that he stumbles more over a G than an M.
I climb onto the chair and with the extra height, I’m taller than him for once. I raise my phone and take a few shots, but Raiden feigns indifference as he keeps pulling out screws from the side pocket of his tool belt and drilling as if I’m not there. Soon he’ll need to move to the next stud, but I’m in his way.
He glances up at me and I press the shutter and keep my finger on it. I take multiple photos as he meets my gaze, his eyes a startling blue, luminous in the light. If only he would smile, it would be the perfect portrait shot, framed by blurred wood that softens the background.
“Move, Miami,” he says as he pauses his drill and wipes at his brow.
“Smile first.”
His intense stare doesn’t waiver as the challenge hangs between us.
“Watch it, Miami. I’ll help you move.”
Oh. Now that could be interesting.