Mr. H.O.A.

by Carina Taylor

  I happily sat down in the cushioned chair next to her desk. She kept chatting as she laid the food in front of me, then made a pot of coffee at her little station in the corner.

  Darla was good to me. Actually, Darla was good to everyone. She was what we called the office mom. Since she'd dubbed herself that, the rest of us didn't have an issue rolling with it, because it really was true. Darla took care of all of us. Checking up on our health, remembering birthdays, feeding us, listening to us, and making us feel loved. I wanted to adopt her, if it were possible to adopt a mother.

  "Now, I know it's a little early to bring up bad news, but Sterling called and wanted to go over the Stevens' offer with you."

  "You're right, that is bad news." Any day I had to deal with Sterling Parsons was an unpleasant day. "Did he offer to buy the office again?"

  "Yes, he said he'd bring you his own formal offer when he spoke with you about the Stevens."

  "How lovely."

  Darla set a cup of coffee in front of me before she poured herself a cup and sat down in the plush chair behind her desk. She brushed her gray bangs to the side and pulled her reading glasses out of their case.

  I devoured the breakfast sandwich as she studied me.

  "Bartholomew."

  I snapped my head up at that. She only called me by my full name if it was serious. "Yes?"

  "You look dreadful."

  Pulling a napkin out of the bag, I dabbed at the corners of my mouth.

  "No, not your eating habits. I mean that you look tired. Is everything all right?"

  "It will be. Something unexpected came up with my apartment building, and they're doing a major reconstruction. It just means I'm running a little low on sleep right now." I wondered where Nola had ended up. She had seemed fairly mad. Maybe a little unhinged. But I couldn't help but worry about her. I hadn't seen a ring on her finger, and I assumed she lived by herself. I pushed thoughts of her aside. I couldn’t let her take up valuable brain space I could be using on something else—like finding my own place to live.

  "You poor dear. You know you could always come stay with Patrick and me. His niece is staying with us right now with her three kids, but we could put an air mattress in the living room."

  Patrick and Darla lived in a cute coastal style cottage. It had two bedrooms and one bathroom, and I was fairly certain they were bursting at the seams with six people there already. But it was just like her to want to take care of anyone in a tight spot. "Thank you for that. That means a lot to me, but I think I'll be fine."

  "You promise you'll call if construction gets to be too much for you?" She pointed at me with her stack of sticky notes.

  "Yes, I promise I'll call. Thanks for breakfast. If Sterling comes in by himself, keep him in the waiting room as long as possible."

  She winked. "I always do."

  Tossing the breakfast bag in the recycle bin, I headed to my office to finish listing another house. I don't know why I bothered. The Stevens' would be in the office in another hour with an offer for the place.

  Too bad I hadn't had the foresight to have a backup rental for myself. I couldn't sleep at the office forever.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Homeowners Association Rule #1:

  Any violation of the following rules will result in a fine.

  Dear Mr. Moneytaker, I.e., Sebastian Mercier,

  Thank you for evicting us from our apartments.

  Thank you for giving us no time to pack our belongings and find a new home.

  Thank you for keeping our deposits.

  Thank you for having your head stuck up

  The point is, sir, that you are a thief. A money taker. You don't care whose money it is. You have no trouble keeping money from people who can barely afford your crummy apartments.

  You can't expect those same people to even be able to afford a portion of your luxury apartments with the exorbitant prices you charge. You, sir, are out of your mind.

  With the prices you plan on charging for your luxury apartments, the tenants of The Market Street Apartment Complex couldn’t even afford to rent a supply closet from you.

  I urge you to reconsider keeping the deposits of your latest tenants. If no reason is given, we will be forced to take civil action. (Even a court-appointed lawyer couldn't mess up this case against you.)

  Sincerely,

  A peon that you've robbed.

  With a sigh, I folded the letter and slipped it into the envelope. I licked the glue before I pressed the flap down. There was something oddly satisfying about doing that. Licking an envelope and pressing it down always gave me a feeling of importance. I doubt the signers of the Declaration of Independence had felt as important writing their names as I did when I sealed an envelope.

  I shook my head. It was quite possible that I had a slight overthinking problem.

  I placed a stamp in the top right corner, then carefully printed out the address I knew by heart. I added the return address with the label: The Distressed Tenants of The Market Street Apartments.

  Didn't Sebastian Mercier have enough money already? How could he possibly need more? Mr. Moneytaker was the latest moniker I'd given him. He was a money-making-machine. A triple M.

  If he could squeeze a dollar out of a nun, he’d probably do it. If a run-down building didn't make as much as luxury apartments, he would destroy it. Forget that the building was home to at least a dozen people. Forget that Riverly was an extremely competitive place to find a home.

  It had been two days since the eviction notice had shown up on my door. Two days. The apartment building was eerily silent. All the other tenants had vacated—even Chippy. I planned on staying until the demolition crew showed up. I had nowhere else to go.

  I needed time to figure something out.

  Standing up, I walked into the kitchen and opened my cupboards. I was completely out of mac and cheese. Condemned apartment or not, I still needed to eat.

  Snatching up the sealed envelope, I grabbed my purse off of the stained countertop and headed out of the apartment. I didn't bother to lock it. Staying in an empty apartment building had its benefits.

  On the way to the store, I spotted a "For Rent" sign taped to a duplex window. I stopped my car in the middle of the street and ran up the sidewalk. I called the number on the sign. As the phone rang, the front door to the house opened, and a man stepped out.

  "You calling about this duplex?"

  "Yes?" I don't know why I said it like a question.

  "I'm sorry, but it already rented an hour ago. I was just coming by to take the sign down."

  With a heavy sigh, I trudged back to my car.

  Nothing was available. Every space was rented out. I'd seen a few "room for rent" ads online, but the pictures posted were even worse than the apartment I was living in and included built-in roommates. I didn't feel comfortable moving into a stranger's home. I'd rather not be murdered in my sleep.

  After parking my car at the grocery store, I hopped out and headed inside. On the way, I narrowly missed being run over by a mom driving a minivan. I'd never imagined my life being snuffed out by a cracker-mobile. Those things were dangerous—I would know since I drove a minivan myself.

  I took my sweet time wandering around in the grocery store. I wasn't thrilled to head back to the empty apartment building, so I wandered the aisles. I sniffed the cilantro. It made me want some street tacos from the food carts in Portland. I thumped the watermelon—not that I'd be able to tell if it was ripe or not. Why did people knock on watermelon? Were they waiting for someone to knock back?

  I picked up a few oranges and tossed them into my basket, then reached for the grapefruit. My hand brushed against something warm. Yanking my hand back, I looked up in surprise to see a face I recognized. It was Mr. Yummy who lived in the apartment below me. Or used to live there, I should say.

  His thick, dark brown hair was mussed on the top of his head, and he had a little scruff on his face. I stared a beat too long into his piercing hazel eyes. I
couldn't decide what his heritage was. Spanish? Maybe. Greek? Possibly. Delicious? 100%.

  "Hi," I said. My voice sounded too breathy. I’d been so angry about the eviction notice the other day that I hadn’t taken the time to appreciate my fellow evictee’s good looks.

  "Hello." He nodded at me. "You must have found a place in town then."

  I shook my head as I tossed two grapefruit into my basket. "They haven't shut the power off to the building yet."

  He scowled at me. "Wait. You're still in the apartment?"

  "Yes," I said, nodding slowly.

  "Are you sure you should stay there? That sounds dangerous."

  "Well, it's not as if anyone's going to notice. Besides, you know how the red tape on those things are. They probably won't start demo on the building for another six months. It's not like I can find anywhere else in town. Everything gets rented so fast."

  He nodded. "I know, but you shouldn’t be staying there by yourself. You could get hurt. If I hear of anything, I could let you know."

  He placed a few grapefruit in his basket.

  "Do you have a secret source that lets you know?"

  He smiled, his white teeth contrasting his olive toned skin. "I'm a real estate agent that also manages rental properties. Today I helped three investors fill their vacant houses in a matter of an hour."

  "Why didn't you call me?"

  "I’d already had qualified clients waiting for available rentals." He tossed a few oranges into his basket. "Besides, I didn't know you were interested."

  He seemed ignorant of the potential right in front of him. I gave him a tight smile. "I am definitely interested."

  He didn't glance at me but reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, holding it out towards me. "If I'm being perfectly honest with you, if anything shows up, I'm going to rent it myself."

  I tugged the business card from his grasp and read the name.

  Bartholomew Fox, Realtor.

  Sales and Rental Management.

  "Bartholomew?" I asked, a little incredulous. Good-looking men weren't supposed to be named Bartholomew.

  He glanced at me with wide eyes. He snatched the card back out of my hand. "Ugh, Darla."

  "Actually, my name isn't—"

  "No, not you. My office manager printed new business cards for me this week. Not Bartholomew. Everyone calls me Bane."

  "Then why does it say Bartholomew?" I tapped the top of the card in his hand.

  "Because my parents wanted to torture me as a child. I go by Bane now."

  "Is your office manager your mother?"

  "Are you always so full of questions for a stranger?"

  "You're not a stranger, you're my real estate agent."

  He raised his eyebrows. "You can't afford me."

  "Based on what?" I began stacking a few more grapefruit in my basket, intent on keeping my hands busy so I didn’t give in to the urge to smack him.

  "Based on your previous home."

  "Are you judging me because of the apartment I lived in?" More grapefruit went into my basket.

  "I meant no offense. I only take on clients who can afford it. People who live in The Market Street Apartments aren't my usual clients."

  "You lived there. What does that make you?"

  He gave me a half smile. "I can't even afford me."

  "You’ve got to be making commissions like crazy in this market. Of course you could afford yourself."

  "I’m putting a lot into my work right now, not that it’s any of your business." He glared at me.

  My basket was getting heavy. I glance down and realized I'd filled it all the way to the top with the fruit.

  "You a grapefruit fan?" He asked, a smirk on that handsome face.

  "Er, yes. It's that diet. You know. The one where you lose thirty pounds in a week."

  "Sounds healthy." He shook his head. His eyes traveled from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

  "Oh yeah, well, it was all the rage twenty years ago. I like to be vintage like that."

  "Are you going to be able to carry that all the way to the checkout? Can I help you?"

  "Oh no, definitely not. I can't afford you," I snapped as I turned around to leave. Shifting the basket handles into one hand, I snatched the business card from between his fingers. "In case my ship comes in."

  His chuckle floated after me as I made my way to the front of the store. I didn't want to buy thirty pounds of grapefruit and oranges. No person in their right mind could eat that much citrus before it went bad—but it would be too embarrassing to go back to the produce section and unload my basket. Maybe someone was suffering from scurvy, and I could donate some grapefruit to the cause.

  It was a good thing volunteering at the food bank kept me in shape. Carrying the weight was awkward but not difficult. I was used to throwing around fifty-pound sacks and heavy boxes of canned goods.

  I tried to choose the quickest check-out stand, but there was only one open. Thank goodness they were so conscientious of people's time in this store.

  I stepped behind a man who stood leaning against his cart reading the gossip rags. He glanced over his shoulder at me, rolled his eyes, and looked pointedly at the checker. There were still three people between the elderly gentleman and the checker.

  He looked back at me and asked, "Care for a magazine?"

  "Been here long?"

  He nodded. "You don't think I was this old when I came in the store, do you?"

  Biting my lip to keep from chuckling, I asked, "How are the royals this week?"

  "Over-covered." He gave a disgusted look at the magazines.

  "Not a romantic?"

  "My wife calls me a practical man."

  "Ah, so you got her a toaster for her birthday."

  He grinned at me and nodded. "What's with the grapefruit?"

  "It's a long story."

  "Well, we have until the Lord returns, thanks to coupon-Betty in the front."

  I couldn't stop the laugh that erupted from me. Because sure enough, a woman stood at the front of the line with her coupon notebook, flipping through it, pulling out little clips of paper. Unfortunately, my laughter shook the top layer of grapefruit from the basket, and they bounced onto the ground, rolling in all directions. They didn't even have the decency to stay close together. One slammed into the cardboard stand holding candy bars. Another bumped into the gentleman in front of me. Two rolled behind me.

  I set the basket on the ground and turned around to attempt to catch the stray grapefruit.

  A familiar tan hand reached the grapefruit before I did.

  When I straightened, I looked into Bartholomew Fox's face. My cheeks heated as my eyes met his.

  "I don't think these grapefruit want to go home with you," he said as he extended a large hand towards me, holding two grapefruit. Who had hands that big?

  "Thanks." I reached for the grapefruit but fumbled during the transfer. I would have dropped them again if he hadn’t reached out to steady them in my hand. His fingers were warm against mine as he helped me set them in the basket again.

  "Pesky little things, aren't they?" the elderly gentleman commented as he handed me the rogue fruit that had landed near his cart. He glanced behind me. "Bane?"

  Bane's smirk changed to a polite, but warm smile. "Ron! How are you doing?"

  He leaned around me to shake the man's hand. The air shifted as he brushed against me. It was one thing to look at someone like him. It was another for him to brush against me. I couldn't breathe.

  "It's good to see you, Bane. We were just talking about you last evening. We were wondering when you were going to come by for dinner at the new house."

  Bane chuckled. "The minute I have a free evening, I'll be over. How are you liking the new house?"

  My head swiveled back and forth, sandwiched between the two men's conversation as I stood over a basket of grapefruit.

  "It's perfect. That shop was the perfect addition. Just wait until you see it now that I've set i
t up."

  "Can't wait."

  Ron turned to me. "You know, this man is the best real estate agent I've ever worked with. If you're ever in the market for a house, look him up. He helped my wife and me find the perfect place to retire this year."

  "Oh, I see. You must be able to afford—" Something solid and warm bumped against my shoulder. I glanced up to meet Bane's steely eyes, his hand squeezing my shoulder, warning me to shut my mouth. I changed my tactic and said, "Bartholomew loves finding the ideal place. Only perfection for him."

  If looks could kill, I would have been a bloodstain on the concrete floor.

  Ron was oblivious to the undercurrent as he spoke, "You know it's the attention to those details that makes him so good. He listened to all of our concerns and negotiated to fit the home within our budget. He never pushed us to spend more than we wanted to. You've got a fine man there. What was your name again?"

  "Oh, he's not mine. And my name is Nola."

  "Nice name. Haven’t heard that in years. Most Nola's I meet are even older than me. You two aren’t dating?" The gentleman glanced between us, noting the limited space between Bane and me.

  "No, we used to be neighbors." I smiled when Bane stiffened next to me.

  "Did you move recently, Bane? Where do you live now?" Ron asked him.

  I glanced back at Bane. His smile was still there, but his eyes looked panicked. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. I jumped in to rescue him. He did save my grapefruit, after all.

  "Yes, Bane is living at Willow Loop. Cypress Avenue." I could practically feel Bane's intake of breath, his arm bumping against mine.

  Ron nodded. "My wife wanted me to look there, but when I heard there was a homeowners association, I knew it wasn't for me. I like to let my lawn go wild and free during the winter months. Oh look, it's actually my turn." Ron turned around and unloaded his cart onto the belt and proceeded to check out.

  "Why did you tell him I lived in that neighborhood?" Bane whispered over my shoulder. His warm breath fanned across my cheek. He smelled like fresh mint gum and the barest hint of cologne.