Page 11 of Working for the Mountain Man

"I know," I say.

He nods once and walks toward Darnell, my elbow is warm where his hand was. That is a completely normal physiological response, and I am not thinking about it.

I’m sitting on the equipment box near the truck, going through the photos on my phone and making sure I have everything, when I catch myself writing something in the wrong notebook.

Not the work notebook. The personal one, which I apparently pulled out by mistake.

He does not smile often, but when he doesn't, you notice his mouth anyway. Not charming, worse, he’s competent. Everyone on site moves slightly differently when he is there. Like they recalibrate around him.

I stare at it.

"That the bridge file?"

I close the notebook. Hugo is standing two feet away, looking at the closed notebook, then at me.

"Work notes," I say.

"You closed it very fast for work notes."

"I'm thorough."

He looks at me for a moment. "Book research?" he asks.

I open my mouth. "Maybe," I say.

It is not a yes, it’s also not a no. It is the honest answer, which I didn’t mean to give.

"Am I in it?" he asks.

"Absolutely not," I say.

He looks at me.

"Probably not," I say.

He looks at the notebook. "You shouldn't use me for a hero," he says quietly.

"Why not?"

He looks back at the bridge. "I'm not one," he says.

I don’t say anything, what can I say to that?

He walks away and I sit there with my closed notebook and my phone full of bridge photos and think about everything I watched him do today. Checking the guardrail himself. Sending the cold crew member to sit in the truck. Asking Darnell about his hand. Updating a road closure notice before school traffic.

Hugo thinks he is not hero material.

Which is ridiculous, and also deeply inconvenient. Because my fictional hero has been dead on the page for three weeks, and the real one is walking back toward the truck covered in mud, not waiting for me to argue with him, just moving on to the next thing that needs fixing.

The way he always does.

Chapter 4

Hugo

The drive back from the south bridge is quiet, too damn quiet, so much so, I’m pulled into my own thoughts and right now, I can’t stop thinking about her waist, how soft her body felt beneath my touch. Christ. I turn my thoughts to the notebook and the way she closed it too fast, the way she saidProbably not, when I asked if I was in it.

You shouldn't use me for a hero.