"You didn't seem to want to tell him you lived at The Market Street Apartment Complex. Did you?"
"No! Definitely not," he snapped. "But why did you name Willow Loop? Ron's retired, and he has all the time in the world to talk. He talks with the other people in the community. What if they find out it's a lie?"
I raised my eyebrows at him. "Why didn't you tell him the truth when you had the chance?"
"And tell him his favorite real estate agent is homeless? That's just bad business." He straightened and waved goodbye to Ron over my head.
Stepping forward, I heaved the heavy basket onto the conveyor belt. The checker gave me a concerned look, which I did my best to ignore while I paid for my forty-nine-million grapefruit. Bane finished checking out while I was still bagging my food. All of his items fit in one bag. Mine took three. He slipped a hand beneath one of the paper bags I was awkwardly juggling.
"Oh, thank you!" I said with a smile.
He glared. "We need to talk."
I rolled my eyes and headed out of the store. Bane followed right behind me as I led the way to my car.
After setting the bag in the trunk, he turned on me again. "You even told him what street I live on!"
"Well, why don't you live there?"
He coughed. "Why don't I live there, she says..."
I slammed the trunk, then faced him with my hands on my hips. "It's a friend of mine’s house. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before for you."
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"My friend is gone a lot. They’ve told me to use the house before. If you need somewhere to stay, you should think about it. It’d be the perfect solution for you."
Bane shook his head. "I can’t stay at a stranger’s home. Besides, you still need a place."
"But it’s not a stranger’s home. I know them! I could even show you the spare key if you change your mind. It's sitting there, empty and unused. You really seem to care about the impression you give people, so instead of telling him what a snob you are, I figured I'd help protect your image."
"Why would you try to help me?"
"Because despite being stuck up, I’ve seen how kind you are to Melanie. And the way Ron just talked about you made you seem like a good guy. You’re in a tough spot—even I can see that. Your clients want any available house, but you need a place too. What harm could come from saying you live at an empty house? I mean, really, you might as well make yourself at home. Someone should have the decency to put it to use. Why not you?"
He sputtered, "I can't stay at a house that I don't own."
"Really? Even though Mercier kicked you out of your house?"
"Well..."
"To build luxury apartments?"
He scowled at that.
"And kept your deposit? A thousand-dollar deposit?"
His face turned thunderous. "I'm looking into that—for all of us. It's the principle of the matter. That amount of money should be nominal to a man like that. But to some of the people who lived at The Market Street Apartments, that was an enormous chunk of money. I'm waiting to hear back from the email I sent him. I'll let everyone know what I find out."
"Good luck getting through to him. Fort Knox is easier to access."
Bane shifted his grocery bag to his other arm. "You seem to know a lot about Mercier. Have you ever met him?"
I shrugged. "It's such a small community here that his reputation precedes him."
He nodded slowly. "I’ve had some difficulties trying to contact him about different properties he owns in town."
I didn’t say anything, I just watched him think. He glanced at his SUV, then at the sky, then back to me.
He said, "It is unfortunate that there's an empty house when there's such a deficit."
"My point exactly." I smiled.
He didn't smile back. "What’s the name of your friend? I’d like to call and talk to them about renting it short term, at least."
I bit my lip and searched my mind frantically for an excuse. "I’ll email them. You can’t call them because they’re on a medical mission trip. Very remote. They won’t be back for months."
He nodded slowly, looking as though he didn’t quite believe me. "If you can’t get their permission, or a lease, you could get busted for squatting."
"I may end up staying there, I’m not sure yet. It makes things awkward with that neighborhood having an HOA."
"They do tend to be nosy..."
"We could always pretend to be relatives."
"Well, just make sure you don't get caught breaking and entering. You're too pretty for jail."
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him, "You're too pretty for jail." But I refrained because I wasn’t twelve. Instead, I asked, "Was that a compliment?"
He scoffed. "A statement. Besides, what's keeping you in Riverly? Why not move somewhere else?"
"My work is important to me."
"Why aren’t you at the house now?"
I shrugged. I knew it would sound silly if I said it out loud. He would think I was too full of pride. Too impractical. Especially since I hadn’t told him everything about the house. But I said it anyway. "I wanted to stand on my own two feet. I wanted to know I could make my way in life without help. Too bad I’m not doing so great at that."
Bane didn’t make a mocking comment. Rather, he nodded as though he understood.
"You really should use it though; it’s sitting there empty."
"I’m not comfortable staying at a house when I haven’t met the owners or signed a lease agreement. What if one of the neighbor’s asks why I’m there?"
I shrugged. "Well, there’s a hammock in the backyard and even an outdoor shower, if you’re not comfortable staying in the house. As long as you don’t go to the neighborhood block parties, I’m sure they’ll leave you alone."
"What will you do?"
"I’m going to try to find a roommate who won’t kill me in my sleep."
His teeth pulled at his bottom lip as he said, "Well, in that case, good luck, and be careful in the empty building."
I snapped a quick salute as I opened the driver door to my car. "Righto."
He ignored my sassy salute and headed straight for his shiny, black SUV. The man really was all about appearances. Fancy suits, shiny cars. Yet he stayed at The Market Street Apartments?
There had to be a reason. Perhaps it was similar to my own. Maybe we more similar than it seemed.
CHAPTER THREE
Homeowners Association Rule #54:
Home operated businesses must be approved by the current HOA president.
"I hear the business is running you down a bit. Ready to sell out?"
I set my coffee cup down on my desk as Sterling Parsons stepped into my office. He was as exciting to see as Tax day.
"What can I do for you, Sterling? We already closed on the Stevens’ home. I don't see any reason why you should be in my office."
Some people deserved a certain level of respect; a certain level of consideration, if you will. Sterling was not some people.
If you looked up the definition of a liar in the dictionary, it would have a picture of Sterling's face in there.
"What exactly do you have against me?" Sterling asked with his signature smile—the one he used when convincing people they were in good hands. I liked to call it his conniver smile.
"Besides the fact that you're always trying to undercut my business? Or that you lie to your clients? Or is it the part where you're unreliable?"
"Well now, you're just hurting my feelings." He laid a hand against his wide chest. "But I'm not here to talk about our longstanding friendship."
I snorted. "It wasn't even short standing."
"You were asleep in the car when we met at the bank yesterday." Sterling leaned forward, reminding me of a predator circling its kill.
Ah, yes. It was the night I slept in my car. Having never slept in my car before, I’d assumed it wouldn’t be a big deal. I’d never been so wrong. Sleeping
in my car was the worst sleep I'd gotten in my life. Sounds seemed to be amplified. The seat was remarkably uncomfortable, and lights from passing cars kept strobing through my windows.
"Yes, it's called power napping. You should try it someday. It might improve your personality."
Sterling rubbed a hand against his jaw. "No, that's not it. I think you're in trouble."
If he found out I was homeless, I'd be in big trouble. He would spread the news as quickly as possible. Like the virus he was.
I didn't answer him. I simply folded my hands together and rested them on my desk as I leveled a steady glare at him. It was best not to jump in with explanations that would land me in even deeper trouble.
"Bartholomew, I know the truth," Sterling said as he studied me from beneath his bushy eyebrows.
I kept leaning on my desk, careful to not change my expression. It was a morbid little game Sterling liked to play, "Get a rise out of Bane Fox."
Only the slight twitch of Sterling’s lips showed his irritation at my lack of reaction.
"Running this office is too much for you. You need a partner. A mentor. Someone who could take this stress off your shoulders. Someone like me, who could take the lead."
So he hadn't heard that I was homeless. He was simply up to his old tricks—trying to buy my real estate office out from under me. Not a chance. I'd scraped and saved to get to this point. I would not let someone with Sterling's reputation move in and ruin everything for me and the other real estate agents in my office.
"You know, I'm going to have to think about that long and hard, or I could save us both some time, and give you the answer I know I'll come up with. No. You're not welcome here as a partner, or an employee."
"Fox, you're pretty uppity for someone so young." Sterling's voice dropped lower as he spoke. "Everyone has a price, and I'm good at finding that price."
With those parting words, he stood and left the room. A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I watched him through the large bay windows as he left the office building and climbed into his car. Watching him leave always felt like a miniature vacation to me. The sense of relief that washed over me whenever I was not in that man's presence was comparable to a tropical beach.
I’d opened my own real estate office just last year. With the near housing crisis in Oregon, it had been the perfect time to do so. However, it had taken everything I had to get it started. Opening a business on a cash basis was incredibly difficult in a credit society.
At fourteen years old, I made a promise to myself. Pay cash for everything possible. So far, I’d held firm to that promise. I paid for my cars with cash. I had no debt of any kind. I opened my real estate office on a strictly cash basis.
Now, I was ready to buy a house with cash. Even though I had a great year and earned a record number of commissions, it was hard to tell when I would be able to buy. It would depend on which houses went to auction.
I didn't doubt Sterling’s zeal to buy the office. What he didn't seem to understand was that this office would end up the same way as his current team: struggling, burnt out, and in need of a good therapist. It wasn't the office or the brand I'd built for myself that really made my team successful. It was the people I surrounded myself with. I was careful who I took on in my office, and I was willing to do the work to make sure they were the right fit. Every realtor in the Riverly Realty Group had a phenomenal work ethic. They put in the time and effort that made our office stand out.
Sterling? He didn't believe in the old 'time and effort' method. He believed in a quick turnaround and a fast check. He wasn't concerned with accurate appraisals or working with loan officers to help his clients find the perfect fit for them. Sterling didn't have many return customers, which was why I wanted to know where he came up with the money to try to buy the office. Perhaps he didn't even have it and was only talking big, hoping to unnerve me.
The man had an unhealthy obsession with watching me fail. Any mistake I made, whether it was remembering the wrong address or forgetting a couple's sixth child's name, Sterling was sure to remind me.
At least one good thing came of the meeting with Sterling. It was the perfect reminder that it was time for me to find a permanent place to sleep at night. I'd parked my car at the bank the night before, knowing I had a nine o'clock meeting with Sterling and the Stevens. I'd almost been caught.
I didn't need anything spectacular. In fact, I wanted somewhere as affordable as possible.
I knew of a house that might be going to foreclosure in two weeks. Depending on how many people were interested, I'd be able to buy a house sooner than my predicted three months. If the house I was eyeing did go to auction, I'd be waiting, check in hand.
I hated debt—with a passion. Even if it meant a mortgage. Which was why I was careful with my money. When the right house popped up on the market, I was going to buy it—with cold, hard, germy cash.
In the meantime, I needed somewhere to stay, since Mercier decided he needed luxury apartments.
Mercier.
Mercier seemed to be the center of my troubles. I had not heard from him regarding the deposits.
I opened my laptop and typed another formal email, inquiring after the funds, reminding him that he was the one who decided to demo the building, sight unseen.
Three hours later, I still had no reply.
CHAPTER FOUR
Homeowners Association Rule #29:
Cars made before 2015 must be parked in the garage.
I spent my mornings working at the local Department of Human Services, but late afternoons I got to put on my soccer mom hat and drive my kids around. I loved it.
The overloaded foster system was struggling under the number of kids in Oregon in need of a safe home. It had even gotten to the point where a lot of kids were put up in hotels throughout the state with a social worker until they could find a place.
Sharon and Rob ran the group home where I volunteered. They were a sweet couple that I got to know during my senior year of high school. My best friend Riley had lived in their group home her senior year, so I’d spent a considerable amount of time with them.
They were kind, giving, and busy. There were twelve kids at the home at any given time, so they needed all the help they could get. I spent the afternoons picking up kids from sports and any other extracurricular activities. Sharon and Rob were adamant that each child be involved in some kind of activity after school—whether it was a sport, band, or a book club, they wanted each child to explore a hobby of some sort. We were on summer break, so most of the activities consisted of tennis lessons, baseball, and theater tryouts for the fall play.
I pulled into the drive, honking my horn. Three of the kids, Grace, Payton, and Clay were trying out for the high school drama club and I was their designated driver. Beauty and the Beast was planned for the fall, so tryouts began in June. Surprisingly, the kids were quite good, and I hoped for Grace's sake that she landed the part of Belle. The part she'd been practicing for the entire past month. It was her senior year, and she was looking to add theater arts to her resume. Payton and Clay were both freshmen and would gladly take any part they could get as long as it meant being close to their crushes.
Before I had the chance to climb out of the car to make sure everyone was ready, Payton and Clay came running out of the house, pushing and shoving at each other as they jumped in the van, clambering over the middle seat to sit in the back row.
Another small body climbed into the car.
Maya sat in the middle seat. I turned around to look at her. Black curly hair framed her round six-year-old cheeks. "Maya, what are you doing?"
"Sharon said I could come with you! Can we go to the park?"
"Then sit in the booster seat and get buckled up—and yes, we’ll go play at the park."
With an eye roll and a heavy sigh, Maya climbed into the booster seat. "I'm too old for this."
"No, you're not. Besides, it keeps you safe when we're driving."
Maya grumbled as she b
uckled herself into the seat. The front door slammed as Grace jumped into the front seat. "Can I drive on the way back?"
"Let me think about that for ten years." I pulled out of the driveway, careful to steer around the pink bike at the end.
"Hey, I'm seventeen. Rob says I can try for my license before school starts."
"Then you let Rob try to survive your driving."
"It was one little scratch. So tiny you could barely see it."
If I hadn't been driving, I would have leveled her with a stare. The tiny scratch she was talking about was the one time she drove my car and backed into the light post. Somehow it broke both taillights and dented the back hatch of my van.
Pulling into the parking lot, I stopped in front of the school, opened the doors and let the older kids out. Maya tried to make a break for it, but I bribed her into staying with me by telling her I'd take her to the park.
We drove a block down the road and turned into the county park in the center of an old, but nice neighborhood that bordered the school property.
"Yay!" Maya screamed as she headed straight for the tall metal slide in the center of the playground. It was an old playground complete with a merry-go-round, giant swings, and a chance of tetanus on a two-story tall slide. They didn't make things like they used to. It was Maya's favorite park, and I felt as though it was the key to her heart.
A car door slamming drew my attention to the house closest to the park playground. A "for sale" sign sat on the front yard. One large, black SUV sat parked in the driveway and there was a middle-aged couple climbing out of the back seat.
The driver's door opened and out stepped none other than Bartholomew Fox.
I unabashedly stared as he stood in the driveway chatting with the couple for a few minutes.
He spoke animatedly with one hand in the air—his other hand tucked into his pants pocket. Eventually he led them to the front of the house, unlocked the door, and gestured for them to go inside. Instead of following them inside, he closed the door after them and returned to his SUV, where he leaned a hip against the front fender as he scrolled through his phone.
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