My internet snooping turned up a class reunion site with a senior yearbook photo of Dylan from Charlotte, North Carolina. Even as a goth rocker, he’d been a cutie. Maybe a bit more gangly and bat-like. I couldn’t decide if the despair in his expression was part of his emo phase or because he already knew what fate had in store for him.
I stumbled across another yearbook from when he was a freshman and found both Drew and George, too. Apparently, their mothers had left Assjacket behind and relocated together. I couldn’t help but picture the two widows, consoling one another as they waited for their sons to die.
How awful. No wonder Dylan didn’t want to marry or have children. He couldn’t doom a wife and child to suffer the same way he and his family had all these years.
So why the hell did I still feel a tug of desire low in my stomach every time I thought of him? I’d never pegged myself for a masochist before, but as I opened another search window, I decided that had to be it.
Dylan was half-owner of a construction company that had been recognized for building homeless shelters on their own dime. And he was listed as one of the top ten donors of a local bat sanctuary. He was also given some award for his work at an after-school club for kids who had lost their fathers.
He was a freaking saint. The world’s most eligible Shifter bachelor. A bittersweet ache took hold in my chest, throbbing in time with the lusty tingle that had migrated all the way to my toes. I tried to convince myself it was the wine, but I was only on my second glass.
I was entirely, hopelessly smitten.
No. I was screwed.
Dylan was dying, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
Chapter 5
DESPITE A SOBBING PITY party with all three bottles of wine, I was up at the butt crack of dawn to primp for my second meeting with Dylan. Broomzilla propped herself in the corner of the bathroom. Her bristles scratched the linoleum floor in a staccato pattern that sounded like a mocking snicker.
“Just because I might get grubby is no excuse to show up that way,” I said, then leaned over the counter to better apply my mascara—the waterproof variety this time. Just in case Papa Nando tried to sabotage my style again.
The retro, polka-dotted romper I’d chosen was maybe a smidge dressier than what I usually wore on overhaul day, but it was the only way to properly rock my bandana updo—another angry ghost-proof measure I’d taken.
When I was done, I looked like Elvira impersonating Rosie the Riveter. I did a spin for Broomzilla. Her handle twisted slowly. If she’d had a head, I imagined it would have been giving me a disapproving shake. But since she didn’t have a head, I interpreted her response to my own liking.
“Why, thank you!” I said, batting my lashes with exaggerated gratitude. “You don’t look too shabby yourself.”
We shuffled out of the bathroom, and I paused to snag my cleaning caddy and the bags containing the paint before we exited the apartment.
It was cooler today, but the trip across town would be shorter with the sweeping transport—not that Broomzilla wouldn’t make it seem like an eternity with all her griping. She’d assumed a horizontal position on the outside landing of the second floor so I could loop my supplies over her handle. The wooden pole creaked loudly in protest.
“It’s not that heavy.” I hitched an eyebrow at her. “I toted it home last night by myself, and we’re not going very far.”
Her bristles twitched, making a milder sound against each other than they did against a floor, but I ignored the slight as I mounted her sideways and gripped the rounded top of her handle. Then we were off.
Daylight creased the sky behind the naked stretch of trees on the opposite side of the road from the apartment. The dark branches cutting through the splash of orange resembled a jack-o-lantern and reminded me that Halloween was just around the corner. I was already dreaming up fall-themed wreaths and a table centerpiece. But no frightening holiday decor. The Hernández house had enough spooky ambiance all on its own.
If Dylan and I managed to get the place whipped into shape today, I could snag some pictures in the morning and put together an open house ad before the weekend. And if we were really lucky, we could have it under contract by early next week.
On the other hand, if the house didn’t sell right away, I’d have more time to get to know Dylan—organically, rather than the internet stalker method I’d exhausted. It was a selfish and presumptuous wish that I quickly dismissed. Besides, he’d already told me about the pact he’d made with his brother and cousin to never marry or have children. Although...married with children was not the same thing as having a girlfriend or a casual fling. He hadn’t said anything about swearing off the latter.
There was a truck from the electric company parked in the driveway when Broomzilla dumped me on the sidewalk in front of the Hernández house. I ignored the ill-mannered landing and pointed her toward the porch. The overgrown vines had been removed and the busted step replaced. The front door still needed a fresh paint job, and the windows would require some extra love, but it was a start.
Broomzilla quivered dramatically as she hauled my supplies up the stairs to the porch. It was an eye roll-worthy performance, but I knew she’d be in a better mood once we started cleaning—or at least she’d be too busy to make a fuss.
I walked around the side of the house to the tall privacy fence that boxed in the backyard. The wood was weathered and in desperate need of being sealed or painted. In its current condition, I feared finding an overgrown jungle on the other side. After the basement mishap the day before, I’d been in no big hurry to see the rest of the property, and I agreed to work with Dylan before the urge to duck tail and run overpowered me.
I contemplated knocking on the gate, but then I heard voices approaching.
“I’m done. I’ll have your invoice mailed.”
“I appreciate you coming out so quickly,” I heard Dylan reply. “And sorry about the bats—they’re not used to guests.”
The other man cleared his throat. “Good luck selling the place,” he said dryly.
“Thanks.” Dylan sighed, and then the gate swung open, revealing the two men. The electrician jumped at the sight of me, likely still spooked from whatever incident had occurred with the bats.
“Good morning.” I grinned and wiggled my fingers in a friendly wave.
“Ms. West.” Dylan nodded to me before turning back to the other man. “My real estate agent,” he explained.
The electrician gave me a tight smile as he touched the brim of his baseball cap. “Ma’am,” he said in simultaneous greeting and parting before heading off toward his truck. Dylan watched him go with a worried grimace.
“I take it that didn’t go well?”
“The bats were returning from their nightly hunt when he arrived.” Dylan ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed again.
I cocked my head, admiring the way his brows knit together when he brooded. With his tragic family history, the despairing smolder was probably in his DNA. Maybe it was why women kept seeking out the Hernández men and having their babies despite the inevitable heartache.
The smell of rotting fruit and cut grass finally drew my attention over his shoulder and into the backyard. The lawn was freshly mown, and smoke snaked up through a small pile of twigs near a dilapidated gazebo missing half its roof.
“How long have you been up?” I asked. The sun was still touching the horizon, but sweat stained the pits of Dylan’s white tee shirt. A streak of dirt cut across one cheek, and there was more under his nails. He shrugged at my question.
“A while. I have exceptional night vision, and there’s no shortage of work to do around here,” he added, taking in my startled expression.
“Why does your backyard smell like the neglected produce section of the Assjacket grocery store?” I asked next.
Dylan waved me through the gate and led me around to the back of the house. In the stretch of lawn on the opposite side from the gazebo was a cluster of sma
ll, shrub-like trees. Their droopy leaves were tinged yellow, and light green, oblong orbs hung from every branch.
“Are those... pear trees?” I asked, stepping over a piece of fruit too rotten to be certain it was anything more than spoiled.
“Pawpaws,” Dylan said. He bent over and picked up a piece that was less ugly but still speckled with brown spots. “Papa Nando planted these when he and Mama Ellie decided to settle here. Fruit bats in Cuba eat bananas and mangos, but those won’t grow here. Pawpaw trees don’t usually live this long, but Mama Ellie worked her magic on them so our family would always be well fed.”
“Hmm.” I pressed my lips together and gave the ugly lump in his hand a skeptical frown. “And that thing is a good replacement for a banana?”
Dylan retrieved a small folding knife from his pocket and dragged it over the sickly-looking flesh of the fruit. Then he ripped it in half, revealing a pulpy, yellow center dotted with large seeds. He held a piece out to me, but I hesitated.
“It’s good, I promise,” he said. Then he lifted the other half to his mouth and closed his eyes as he sucked the pulp off the fruit’s skin.
I swallowed a soft moan as it rose up the back of my throat and took the other half of the pawpaw, my eyes still glued to Dylan as he licked his lips clean. My own mouth watered, though it had little to do with the strange fruit. When Dylan noticed me staring, I hastily bit into my half of the pawpaw.
“Watch out for the seeds,” he said. I felt one drop onto my chin, but I froze as Dylan’s hand reached for my face. He wiped it away with his thumb, and I swallowed hard. Luckily, the fruit was the consistency of custard. It tasted just as sweet, too.
“Wow.” I blinked down at the remaining yellow mush in my hand.
“Right?” Dylan grinned. “My mom tells me that I refused to eat anything other than these until I was six.”
I glanced around the backyard, taking in the brown spots in the grass where pawpaws had obviously rotted into oblivion. There were a few edible pieces, like the one Dylan and I shared, on the ground, too. But most of the darker, rotten fruit was piled up near the backside of the lawn, next to shallow trench and a piece of machinery that looked like a woodchipper.
“I’m almost done back here,” Dylan said, following my gaze. “Once I finish shredding the expired pawpaws and leaves, I’ll cover them with grass clippings and a layer of soil. Then the smell won’t be so bad, and whoever buys the house will have some quality compost come spring.”
“This is great, and I’m sure it will definitely be a good selling point for the fruit and veggie-loving Shifters...”
“But?” Dylan asked, his brow crinkling with worry.
“But,” I echoed with an apologetic smile, “we should really focus our efforts on the curb appeal. That first impression shouldn’t make potential buyers wonder which horror flick they’ve seen this house in before.”
Dylan put his hands on his hips. I feared I’d offended him, but then he nodded slowly in agreement. “What do you suggest?”
Those were the magic words I loved to hear from clients. I could have recommended a dozen excellent options. But knowing how precious Dylan’s time was, I dismissed anything that couldn’t be tackled in a day or two with under a hundred bucks.
“I have some ideas. Let’s go take a look,” I said, turning back toward the open gate. As we circled around to the front of the house, I remembered Broomzilla. “I should warn you, I brought my...assistant.” I shot an uneasy smile over my shoulder.
“Why would you need to warn me?” Dylan asked. His gaze grew skeptical as he searched the porch, taking note of the pile of hardware store bags and the housekeeping caddy.
Then Broomzilla pushed off the stretch of stucco she’d been reclining against and bobbed up and down on her bristles. I recognized the motion as a mild temper tantrum—likely due to the whole five minutes she’d had to wait for me to return.
“The hell...” Dylan stopped suddenly, his eyes going wide at the sight. “That’s your assistant?”
Broomzilla’s bristles grew louder, and she swept a bit of sawdust from the steps in our direction, creating an offensive haze for us to walk through.
“Behave,” I warned her. “I saw a nice dust mop at the store yesterday, and it didn’t cop an attitude.”
She scrubbed the boards softly in an irritated mutter but backed out of our way as we joined her on the porch. Dylan’s alarm slowly subsided, though he kept his eyes on Broomzilla as I dug around in my housekeeping caddy for some glass cleaner.
“Here we go.” I gave the bottle a shake and then winked at it, mentally directing it to one of the windows that flanked the front door. I winked again, and a rag from the caddy joined in the fun, wiping up the excess cleaner and grime as it dripped from the exterior sill. A sparkling, clear pane of glass revealed the dingy curtains hanging inside, but I’d deal with those soon enough.
“I’ll need a garden hose to properly clean the stucco,” I said.
Dylan nodded. “I can add that to my shopping list. What else?”
“Maybe a wicker chair or two?” I glanced out at the scarce front lawn. “And some planters to go on either side of the front steps. A new mailbox wouldn’t hurt either.”
“Yeah.” Dylan winced at the rusty, lopsided box near the curb. “I’ll move that one to the backyard.”
“What for?” My nose curled.
“There’s something living in it. I’d hate to evict them from their home.”
“You’d make a terrible landlord,” I told him earnestly. He shrugged without a hint of offense. Such a bleeding heart. It made me adore him all the more, but I resisted swooning. There was work to be done.
Broomzilla was already making short work of the leaves on the porch. She’d move on to the gutters next, I had no doubt. We’d perfected this dance by now.
“I’ll freshen up the paint on the front door and the shutters once the exterior is clean,” I said, turning back toward the uninviting entrance. I wasn’t excited about going back inside and facing the wrath of Papa Nando, but there wasn’t much else I could come up with to stall.
Dylan picked up the bags of paint in one hand and reached for the doorknob with his other. I took a deep breath, anticipating another spidery greeting. At least Broomzilla was nearby this time. As moody as she could be, she always had my back.
To my relief, nothing crawled over the doorframe. And the front room was brightly lit, now that the electricity had been turned on. I picked up the cleaning caddy and followed Dylan inside, instantly spotting three gothic, cast-iron chandeliers that I hadn’t noticed before. One over the parlor slash office space situated inside the U of the staircase, another over the dining table, and the last over the formal sitting area. They hung from the vaulted ceiling, illuminating cobwebs and the fuzzy layer of dust that clung to their chains and bulbs—half of which were burnt out.
“I’m replacing all of those with LEDs,” Dylan said, pointing up at them.
“Good.” I blinked stiffly, zapping the webs and dust from sight. Dylan gasped as the room became even brighter. The extra light should have reduced the house’s creep factor, but it only highlighted all the work that needed to be done.
I winked at the caddy, and it broke apart. The bucket base zipped through the air toward the kitchen to fill itself, a bottle of floor polish in hot pursuit. Next, I blinked at the walls, stripping the remaining wallpaper and prepping them for my favorite trick.
I pulled the buckets of paint from the bags and lined them up on floor at my feet, while Dylan’s eyebrows hitched with worry.
“Is all that really necessary? This house has a lot of rooms. I mean, maybe in here...” His eyes roved over the patched drywall as I removed the lids of two cans.
“Toasted almond sounds about right, don’t you think?” I said, reading off the name of the soft beige color.
Before Dylan could answer, I blinked twice, and the liquid pigment spiraled up from the mouth of the first bucket. It danced through the
air like a ribbon in a stiff breeze, and then fanned out as it neared its target. When the paint made contact, it zipped across the drywall in a perfect pattern, not a single drop out of place.
My magical method was fast and economical. I could make a can of paint go more than twice as far as the label boasted, and there was zero waste or cleanup.
My lashes flickered swiftly, repeating the colorful dance on all four walls of the massive front room, tracing around doorways and windows. It took all of sixty seconds, and when it was done, even I was surprised by the transformation.
“Uh...” Dylan turned to face me again, his mouth hanging open. “Toasted almond, huh?” He nodded slowly. “I like it.”
“I’m just getting started.” I gave him a satisfied smirk before handing him two of the paint cans and gathering up the last one. “Let’s have a look at these bedrooms.”
Chapter 6
DYLAN WAS RIGHT. THERE were a lot of rooms in the old house. And holy wallpaper, Batman. Zapping dust out of existence was one thing, but it had taken five trash bags to clear out all the faded shreds of paisley and floral paper before getting to the paint.
To my delight, Papa Nando didn’t interfere once. He’d died at the age of thirty, but he was technically over a hundred years old now. Which made him an old man. Did old man ghosts require frequent naps? Or was the house so big that he didn’t even realize he had guests? Either way, I wasn’t complaining.
Dylan had mentioned that there were other ghosts in the house, but none of them made an appearance either. I could only hope they’d be so courteous during the open house. As far as I knew, there were no disclosure forms that needed to be filled out for ghosts. Lead-based paint, asbestos, radon, meth labs—sure. But those, and the checklist on a standard seller’s disclosure, seemed to be the extent of most homebuyers’ worries.
I ran out of paint just as I finished the second level. The floor polish and window cleaner were nearly used up, too. But that was okay. Between the master suite off the main level and the four bedrooms and two baths on the second floor, it was more than enough space for the average family. A third-floor project would appeal to the right buyer—or they could seal it off and conserve their energy bill.
How to Sell a Haunted House Page 4