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So after a beat I manage to choke out, “That would be helpful, thank you.”
Jason’s mouth curls up at one corner as he begins leading me up to the cub, a secret look behind his eyes saying that he can read me like a book.
We walk up the wide entrance steps and he unlocks the door to the office. Then he pushes it open and steps back so that I can walk through.
I fold my arms across my chest and my luggage hits against the side of my hip. “I’m good here.”
He watches me cautiously for one moment and then nods. He looks down at the metal o-ring in his hand and begins the slow key-extraction process, a sharp white canine biting into the bottom corner of his lip, brow creased as he removes the cubbie key from the bundle. When it’s free he holds it out like a peace offering.
I extend my palm. He drops it gently inside.
He points to the back wall and I glance over to it. It’s fitted with a series of small labelled hooks, each adorned with multiple keys.
“The keys are for each of the cabins, plus all of the out-buildings and electrical boxes. Reno plans and documentation are on the table. Duplicates are in the folders over there.”
I scan the wall. I can’t read the labels from this distance. “Is there a key for the bungalows?”
“The bungalows?” He looks surprised but he doesn’t let it faze him. He walks inside the portacabin over to the back wall, unhooks two separate keys and then comes back to the doorway, leaning against the dark green frame. He dangles the keys in front of me and they jingle together.
“Two keys, one for either side.” Then, wary, he adds, “You inspecting them or something? We gave them the same pipe-work and re-wiring that we did to the cabins.”
“I’m not inspecting them. I’m staying in them,” I tell him.
His eyebrows shoot skywards. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m staying in them,” I repeat, glancing up at him a little irritated.
“You’re staying on-site?”
“Yes.” I frown. “Is that a problem or something?”
I thought that he was leaving? What’s it to him?
“Uh, not for me,” he begins, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. The curl of his bicep catches my attention and I suddenly begin to wonder what his brother Mitch looks like. Is he younger? Older? Do they look the same? Are they… builtthe same?
A little shiver runs through me. I can’t deny it: men do not look like this in Los Angeles. The men there are smooth, un-weathered, softened by years of privilege.
But here?
These men are hard lines and solid muscles, thickened and compacted by a lifetime of manual labour. Sandpaper grit raking up their throats and laugh lines creasing around their eyes. Sun-kissed jaws. Large calloused hands.
I do a little cough and divert my eyes.
I hear a series of engines rev to life and I turn to see that his crew are leaving for the day. Truck after truck after truck, they drive slow and safe off the site, their eyes sliding curiously our way as they depart.
Jason brings me back to the present.
“Ma’am, I’m sure that this is all legit and everything but, uh, I gotta admit that this sounds like a legal accident waiting to happen. Mitch could get in serious shit if you get injured on-site. Do you have clearance?”
“Of course I have clearance,” I say, alarmed. I have literally no idea what that even means.
Jason gives me another wary look but then decides that, being one of the only heirs to the site he’s just wrapped up on, I must have the documentation to be here mid-upheaval.
“Then you’re all set,” he says, the toe of his boot tapping an agitated little rhythm on the threshold of the portacabin. Something is bothering him. I decide not to ask.
Instead I back-step slowly down the two stairs and I point to the bungalows over my shoulder. “I’ll be making myself at home then. Have a pleasant evening.”
His brow is creasing in agony and he scrubs at it with his hand.
