Chapter Eleven
CHASE
I stoodat the edge of bungalow one’s foundation, staring at the muddy puddle that had no right to exist. The afternoon squall had stopped half an hour ago, leaving behind that particular Keys humidity that made my shirt cling to my back like an overeager dance partner. This innocent-looking collection of rainwater was becoming my nemesis. Third time in two weeks, same spot, same problem. And I couldn’t figure out why.
“How long’s it been sitting like this?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Bill, the foreman for the bungalow project, shifted his weight, mud caking his work boots. “Since the rain started. Hasn’t budged.” Lifting his baseball hat with one hand, he gestured with it toward the adjacent bungalows. “Rest of them are dry as a bone.”
I nodded, frustration building in my chest. All four bungalows were now fully framed, and their storm-resistant skeletons promised the luxurious accommodationsthat would soon draw visitors to Sunset Siesta. All of them perfect, except this one.
Bungalow one sat a bit lower than its neighbors, near a patch of dense, untamed brush that marked the property edge. According to my plans—plans I’d reviewed, revised, and refined until they were flawless—water should flow away from the foundation, not pool against it like an unwelcome guest refusing to leave.
I pulled my tablet from my bag and opened the grading specifications, scrolling through the detailed topographical survey of this section. “The grade is set for a two-degree slope away from the foundation toward that natural drainage area.” I pointed toward the brush line. “Water shouldn’t be collecting here at all.”
Bill wiped sweat from his cheek, leaving a smudge of dirt. “Well, something isn’t right. We followed your specs to the letter.”
“I know you did.”
And that was the problem. If the issue wasn’t in the execution, it had to be in the planning. My planning.
I glanced past the construction site toward the beach, where a family was packing up their belongings as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the sand. Just last weekend, I’d been down there with Harper and Finn, building what Finn had declared was the most awesome sandcastle in the universe.
It had been easy, being with them. Natural, even. The way Harper teased me when I took the turret construction so seriously, or how Finn’s laughter rose above the sound of the waves. We fit together somehow, despite my having zero experience.
Sandcastles were simple. You built them, the tide came in, they washed away. No expectations, no pressure, no persistent puddles undermining your professionalcompetence. Too bad I wasn’t building one with them right now.
“Maybe we need to regrade this whole section,” Bill suggested, breaking into my thoughts.
I shook my head. “Let’s not jump to solutions yet. We need to understand the problem first.”
I examined the puddle, crouching down to get a better look at how the water was interacting with the terrain. My jeans were already spotted with mud, so I didn’t bother trying to stay clean as I pressed my palm against the soil near the foundation.
The earth felt unusually compact, almost impervious. “The water’s not penetrating the soil here the way it should.” I stood, moving toward the brush line, checking the slope. “It should be flowing that way, toward the natural drainage.”
I turned back to my tablet, flipping between the current grading plan and the original topographical survey. Nothing jumped out. The calculations were sound, the execution precise. I paced, trying to see what I was missing. I’d designed dozens of properties in coastal areas, accounting for drainage issues far more complex than this. The puddle seemed to mock me, reflecting the darkening sky above.
Standing water against a new foundation wasn’t just an aesthetic issue. It was a potential structural problem waiting to happen. In the Florida Keys, with our particular challenges of high water tables and hurricane threats, proper drainage wasn’t a luxury. It was essential. And beyond the practical concerns, there was my reputation to consider. Latitudes Design was still establishing itself, and the Sunset Siesta renovation was my highest-profile project to date. I thought of Harper, of the trust she’d placed in me. Hell, that the whole family had placed in me.
I stood and brushed the mud from my hands onto my jeans. The Keys sunset was beginning to paint the sky in vivid oranges and pinks, but I hardly noticed. “We need to solve this before we can move forward with the exterior on this bungalow,” I said more to myself than to Bill. “I’m not having water damage issues down the line because we rushed past this.”
Bill nodded, his expression a mix of respect and frustration. I knew the crew was eager to maintain their timeline, but some things couldn’t be rushed. Quality wasn’t negotiable.
I took a deep breath, the heavy, humid air filling my lungs. “Let’s get some soil from this specific area and compare it to samples from the other bungalow foundations. I want to see if there’s a detectable difference.” I glanced at my watch. “We’ve still got some daylight. And I want to take another look at the historical property surveys, see if there’s anything we missed.”
Bill nodded, the resignation of a long day getting longer evident in his posture. “Whatever you say, boss. I’ll grab the sample kits from the truck.”
As he walked away, I turned back to the puddle, staring at it as if sheer force of will could make it reveal its secrets. The water reflected the dimming sky.
A movement on the beach caught my eye—a tall figure walking with purpose toward us, the distinctive stride immediately recognizable as Austin Coleridge’s. Unlike the rest of us, who’d been sweating through the humid afternoon, Austin looked at ease in the Keys heat, his movements efficient and unhurried. He approached bungalow one, those observant gray eyes of his immediately focusing not on me or Bill, but on the puddle itself, studying it with an intensity that made me wonder what he was seeing that we weren’t.
Austin stopped a few feet away, his gaze shifting from the puddle to the dense brush near the bungalow and back again. He didn’t offer a greeting, just stood there, taking in the scene with quiet assessment.
“Hey, Austin,” I said, breaking the silence.
“Afternoon. Looks a little wet around here.”
“Yeah. Dealing with a surprise drainage issue.”
