Page 63 of Shattered Sun
Wind howls outside,a shiver curling up my spine, shaking me from boot to beanie. Arms crossed over my chest, I tuck my fists under my arms and inch closer to the heat lamp. The glowing orange bulb wards off the initial bite but doesn’t warm me fully.
At least the space has windows now. Last week, a commissioned antique window specialist delivered massive windows to match those in the current library. With their team, our crew, and the help of a crane, the windows were placed. The next morning, the heat from the lamps stayed longer, which made working in the winter a little easier.
Eyes cast across the room, I stare at the bare bones of what will become a grand fireplace. At ten feet wide and eight feet tall, it is the largest fireplace I have laid eyes on. Reminiscent of the days when central heating was a fool’s dream. Though the fireplace won’t be the only source of heat for the library’s new addition, I picture it becoming a coveted spot to sit and read or hang out with friends.
After the holidays, an artist from Colorado will join the build. Flying more than a thousand miles, he will spend weeks bringing the fireplace to life and matching the medieval stone details on the windows’ exterior. John took no offense when the town committee shared the news. The artist works with various types of stone, carving intricate details for hours and days and weeks until a new masterpiece takes shape. Considering the town wanted the library to maintain its medieval Gothic vibe, this artist was more appropriate for the job than anyone on our crew.
“You pussing out on me, Wilks?” Luke feigns a punch to my arm as he huddles next to the heat lamp, rubbing his hands together.
With a gentle shake of my head, I roll my eyes. “If by ‘pussing out’ you mean not letting my fingers go numb soIcan do my job, then yeah.”
His hands still, his entire frame stiff and unyielding as he sears my profile with his stare. “Calling me a slacker?” His voice toneless, I study the tense line of his lips. Look for hidden meaning in his question.
Is he mad? Or is this just him giving me shit like always?
“I, uh…”
This is what we do; pretend to be irritated by the other. But truth be told, everyone on this crew is family. The amount of time we spend together, the level of trust our job requires as we put ourselves in risky situations, how can we not be close? Though some of us have stronger bonds, it’s impossible to picture my life without anyone in this room.
Whack.
Luke slaps my bicep and laughs. “Just giving you shit. Everyone knows I work ten times harder than you.” He says that last part loud enough for the crew to hear over the music echoing off the walls. “And my lines are cleaner.”
I slap him back. Every muscle in his face scrunches to the middle as he lifts his arm and pretends to be hurt. All I want to do is laugh—at him, with him—so I do.
“Are you laughing at me?” he asks in mock offense.
This makes me laugh harder, louder, until my abdomen aches.
“I may have chiseled muscles, a sharp jawline, and a panty-ripping smile”—he pauses, clamping down on his lips briefly before continuing—“but I am a delicate flower, Wilks.”
At this, every sense of rationality I have lets go. An embarrassing snort-laugh rips from my nose and mouth as I clutch my stomach.
“What’re you two blathering about?” John sips water from a jug, his eyes darting between us.
I reel in my laughter long enough to say, “Luke is… a delicate flower.”
A classic holiday song ends and a modern rendition plays next. The heat lamp cycles off for one, two, three breaths before kicking back on. Aaron, Jake, and Dylan join our muted conversation, their eyes darting from one person to the next in question.
“Did I hear Fitzpatrick call himself a delicate flower?” Dylan arches a brow, then levels Luke with her formidable gaze. A single snort bounces off the bare walls. “Delicate my ass.” Fingers inches from his nose, she flicks the air. “If you’re a flower, you’re definitely a pansy.”
At this, everyone clutches their stomachs as booming laughter crowds the room, Luke included.
“Alright, children,” John chimes in when our merriment fizzles out. “Let’s call it a day.” Weathered eyes survey the room for a beat. “Our time in Stone Bay is almost up. If we push hard, we should be on our way home early next week.” A bulky, long arm spans my shoulders and grazes Luke’s farthest shoulder, John’s other arm drapes across Dylan, Jake, and barely touches Aaron. “Proud of you all and the hard work you’ve put in the past five weeks.”
Bright smiles light the room as we huddle closer to John.
Of all the people I have worked for and with, John and this crew are unparalleled in skill, motivation, and compassion. We are a true team. What impacts one of us influences all of us. We handle ups and downs as if they’re our own, cheering on good days and lending a shoulder or an ear on bad days.
“Aw,” Luke coos, sarcastic as ever. “You’re such a softy, boss. Like a mega teddy bear.”
John slaps Luke’s back, loud enough to hear but not hard enough to hurt.
But Luke being Luke, he plays into it. “Ow, John. That hurts my feelings.”
We break apart and clean up for the day.
“Oh, I’ll hurt your feelings, you grouser.”