As soon as Mr. Delaney disappears toward the siteoffice, Theo pivots back to the foreman. “Bring in your site engineer,” he says. “I want the joint rechecked yesterday.”
Things move fast after that. Radios crackle, tools are called for, and a ladder is dragged into place. In the middle of it all, Theo finds a moment to pull me aside.
“Well done, Kaori,” he says. His voice is low, a private resonance just for us. “You trusted your instincts. That’s the one thing I can’t teach. I’ve seen veteran engineers fold under half that pressure. You didn’t. I’m proud of you.”
My insides want to melt. I’m standing in the dust of a construction site, being handed the one thing I’ve been craving—his respect. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “But there’s still a chance I’m wrong. This could all be for nothing.”
He tilts his head slightly, already watching the scaffold as the site engineer reaches the joint. “You’re not wrong,” he says, his tone calm and utterly certain. “I don’t just trust the math, Kaori. I trust my team. The evidence will sort it out.”
A few minutes of agonizing silence pass. We watch the tiny figure on the scaffold apply the digital torque wrench. Then the radio on Theo’s belt crackles to life, the static loud in the quiet tension.
“Riverton, this is Miller at support two. We’ve got a problem. Joint didn’t even hit sixty percent of the required spec before the bolt started to yield. The alignment is forced. You were right to call it.”
Theo exhales slowly, controlled. “There it is.” Picking up his radio he calls, “Ten-four. Roger that.”
Relief hits me all at once. Not because I proved anyone wrong, but because I trusted myself and Theo listened.
Around us, the site shifts gears. Tools are called for.Instructions are relayed. The foreman’s voice tightens as he issues new orders.
I stand there with my tablet pressed to my chest, the hum of machinery and voices fading into background noise. My smile comes without permission, small but unstoppable. For the first time since I joined Excelsior Parks, I don’t feel like I’m pretending to be an engineer. I feel like I am one.
Nine
“What a waste of time. It’ll take them at least a week to fix something that never should’ve slipped through the cracks in the first place,” Theo grumbles removing his hard hat.
I nod and peel off my own vest and helmet, more than happy to dump both into the Honda’s back seat. The Florida sun has been relentless. We’ve been standing out in the heat for a couple hours.
As we climb into the car, I lean my head back against the seat, feeling completely drained. All I want is to sit in a dark, air-conditioned room and eat an entire pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
I glance his way. “Do mistakes like that happen often?”
“No.” He pulls his door shut and turns the key. The car hums to life. “That joint could’ve failed during testing. If it had...” He exhales through his nose, short and controlled. “I should’ve caught the mistake when I walked the track.”
“You can’t catch everything,” I say softly as I fasten my seat belt. “That’s why you brought me. I’m a fresh set of eyes.”
He doesn’t answer right away. “Maybe,” he finally says. “But I don’t like slipping up. I’m glad it was you out there today, Minami.”
I glance at him. His jaw is rigid. His shoulders are drawn tight with tension. Nevertheless, I decide this is the moment to push, just a little. “You don’t have to be so hard on yourself. You’re like some kind of Dalek robot waiting on a firmware upgrade.”
A huff escapes him before he can stop it. “A Dalek?” he mutters. “Please. At least give me the dignity of being a Cyberman. Daleks look like salt shakers with plungers.”
I snort. “Fine. You’re a Cyberman. I should’ve guessed you’d be aDoctor Whofan.”
“It comes with the territory of being British and an engineer,” he says dryly. “That along with an innate need for tea, a talent for queuing, and a lifelong commitment to complaining about the weather.”
I laugh. “I knew you were a nerd just like the rest of us.”
“Us?” He lifts one of his brows.
“You know, your team—Derrick, Leon, Andy, Anya,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “We do stuff like bingeThe Officeanddebate whether the Death Star’s weak point was a design flaw or a management failure.” I shrug. “Normal-people stuff.”
He leans back in his seat. “I’ve never seen it,” he admits, and there’s a hint of stubborn pride in his voice. “I don’t really do sitcoms. I’ve never had the patience for watching people be idiots on purpose. I get quite enough of that in real life.”
I raise a brow. “So whatdoyou watch?”
He exhales and mumbles, “The oldTop Gear. The Clarkson years. And occasionallyGrand Designs,when I can’t sleep.”
I blink at him. The car show, I can picture, especially knowing he owns a Jaguar. But a home-design show? That catches me off guard. “Grand Designs?That’s your guilty pleasure?”
