“Yes,” I say, and follow her in.
9
Chapter 8
Pippa
By the end ofthe shift, AJ Hodgson looks less like a journalist and more like a man who has been gently reversed over by professional development.
Not destroyed.
Annoyingly, not destroyed.
He has held up better than I expected. Not without several expressions that suggested he was briefly communing with his ancestors. But he listened, adjusted, asked sensible questions when he needed to and did not once pretend to understand something he didn’t.
That last part matters.
A lot of people would rather get something wrong than admit they’re lost in front of a crew they’re trying to impress.
AJ, for all his polished shoes and carefully trained voice, is not quite as stupid as I originally hoped he might be.
Which is inconvenient.
He stands near the bay doors now with his notebook under one arm and his own jacket back on, rubbing onehand over the opposite forearm as if checking whether all his limbs have made it through the day.
I sign off the last of the checks, hand Dan the clipboard, and walk over.
“You survived,” I say.
“Your warmth continues to overwhelm me.”
“You’ll recover.”
“I’m not certain I will.” He shifts his weight, then winces so quickly I almost miss it. “Actually, there is a strong chance I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”
“You jogged, carried hose and did some basic drills.”
“And aged seven years.”
“You’ll get them back with sleep.”
His mouth twitches. Mine does not. Mostly because I am a professional and also because Kev is close enough and I don’t need this becoming group entertainment again.
AJ glances towards the yard. “Do I get any advice for tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
He waits.
I pick up my bag from the bench. “Don’t be a baby.”
His eyes narrow. “That feels targeted.”
“It is.”
“I thought you weren’t joining in with that.”
“I waited until the end of shift. That shows restraint.”
