Page 8 of Under Construction

"About those beams," Chris says, his tone casual.

"What about them?" Dennis keeps his eyes on his tablet, the numbers blurring together.

"We can't expose them until the electrical's done."

"What?" Dennis’s head whips up in surprise, then his brows furrow, mad. "Why wasn't this flagged earlier?"

"Because someone," Chris leans in closer, his eyes narrowing, "changed the specs without telling the electrical team."

"I did not—" Dennis stops, his protest dying on his lips. He grabs his tablet, his fingers flying over the screen as he scrolls through revision notes.

Oh.

Shit.

"See?" Chris leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Not so perfect after all, are we, princess?"

"Don't call me that." Dennis scowls.Gah!He hates this guy with a passion.

"What? Princess?" Chris's dimples appear, the sight somehow maddening. "But it suits you so well. All pristine and proper in your fancy clothes—"

"These are standard site wear!"

"—ordering everyone around from your little office—"

"This is literally my job!"

"—looking down that perfect nose at us common folk."

"You don't know anything about me."

"Don't I?" Chris's eyes gleam. "Trust fund baby plays at being an architect, thinks sustainable design will make daddy proud—"

"I earned my place here!"

"Sure you did." Chris's laugh is cruel. "That's why you need me to fix every calculation, adjust every spec, make your pretty dreams actually work in the real world."

"At least I have dreams," Dennis snaps. "What's your excuse? Playing working class hero while wearing..." He squints at Chris's boots. Looks up at Chris. Raises an eyebrow. "Damn bro, is that Gucci?"

Something flashes across Chris's face. Gone before Dennis can read it.

Hit a nerve, eh? Dennis smirks. Doesn’t feel so bad now about letting himself go,justa bit.

"Aww, princess knows his designer labels." Chris's smile turns mean. "Did daddy teach you that during your weekly shopping sprees?"

"Better than whatever this act is." Dennis gestures at Chris's perfectly distressed work clothes. "How much did you pay to look 'authentic'?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Chris leans closer. "Been checking out my clothes, have you? Or is it the man wearing them?"

The insinuation makes Dennis’s face heat. Not because it's true. Ofcoursefucking not. As if Dennis would—as far as he knows, he doesn’t evenlikedudes. But he’d sure as hell sooner kiss a man than be in the same room as Chris because the stupid motherfucker is enjoying watching him squirmwaytoo much.

"You think you're so special," Chris continues. "The visionary architect, changing the industry. But you're just playing at being important. Just like you're playing at being in charge."

Dennis’s laugh is thin, even as he attempts to sound certain. "Your crew seems to think I'm in charge."

"My crew?" Chris's laugh is all teeth. "They follow my lead because I know what I'm doing. They follow your orders because your signature's on their checks."

"And you? Why are you even here then?" Dennis challenges.

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