Chapter Three #2
“There’s knob-and-tube wiring in the basement, and judging by the lack of outlets and ceiling-light fixtures, I doubt anyone has serviced or changed the electrical in the last several decades. I’d put money on knob-and-tube throughout the house.”
Fuck, Austin didn’t need Rita or Joe to tell him that would cost to replace.
“On the plus side, the house is so old that asbestos isn’t a concern. I did some scratch tests. But from what I can see, the insultation is all but nonexistent. Which is probably why it’s so cold in here.”
Leveling of the house, new wiring, insulation…
“So, more good news, the plumbing is copper, mazel tov. Your hot water tank, on the other hand, is leaking.”
… new hot water tank.
The list was growing longer, and the stable frame that had gotten Austin’s hopes up was starting to sound less impactful.
By the time Rita finished and shook their hands, Austin had a knot in his stomach and a tight band across his chest.
It was stupid. Selling the house was still an incredible financial move for him. He’d never dreamed of being able to put a hundred thousand dollars into savings before he reached his thirtieth birthday.
But he loved this house, with its original wood floors and sturdy, shady porch. They didn’t build houses like this anymore. And Austin had started to dream about what it might be like to restore it to its former glory. To give it the attention it deserved.
“Hey.”
Austin jumped half a foot when Joe touched his shoulder. When he looked up, Joe was frowning. “Are you okay? You’re kind of… zoning.”
Austin didn’t have an excuse. He’d had plenty of practice, as a service industry professional, at holding his tongue. So he didn’t know why his control escaped him now. Maybe he’d inhaled some mold spores. Maybe the fact that they’d been working their asses to the bone had left his defenses low.
Maybe it was the way Joe’s eyes looked warm and soft in the dim lighting of the kitchen addition.
“I don’t want to sell it like this,” Austin said firmly. “Let’s fix it.”
JOE GAPED. “Let’s what?”
Truth told, part of him had been enjoying the quest to reveal the farmhouse’s actual features from under fifty years’ worth of accumulated junk. It was satisfying work, if slow, and even though most of what they found had to be thrown out, the process was still interesting.
Joe had grown up with his mom in a newer raised ranch.
Then he and Paul had rented an apartment.
Before they could close on their first house, they’d broken up, and Joe had put the money he’d saved for a down payment toward the austere barndominium where he now lived instead, so he had a place to live and a base of operations for his business.
In this house, he felt like he was getting a view into another world—into the family that had lived here once.
There were newspaper clippings and photographs and sports trophies and academic awards, all set aside for Meg to bring to her dad’s; there were ancient light bulbs and a typewriter that might predate the house and a collection of dilapidated musical instruments, squashed into the office sort of room next to the bathroom.
But the house needed so much work. Sure, it wasn’t going to fall down around their ears—hooray. That was a pretty low bar. Excuse Joe if he wasn’t getting excited just yet.
Austin, though, had obviously made up his mind.
“Let’s fix it,” he said. “Yeah, it’ll cost money, but it’ll be worth more when we sell, right?
Like, I’m pretty sure we can get out what we put in, and then some.
Sweat equity. Plus there are those rebates for insulation and stuff. I bet we can do a lot of the work.”
That was a terrible idea.
Not financially. Financially, it made perfect sense.
Joe had read the appraisal carefully, and he had years of experience listening to his mother talk about the market.
He knew that even getting rid of all the junk would improve the home’s value.
A cleanup, some paint, and the major repair items on the list—the septic problem and the kitchen—and the house’s value would shoot up.
Besides, winter was coming, and with it, a major seasonal slowdown.
That meant less money and less work for Joe.
Most of his crew did different seasonal work in the winter—in retail, plowing snow, building furniture.
Joe himself had driven a plow a few times, clearing out parking lots and driveways, but payment always depended on snow actually arriving.
This far south, with global warming as a factor, he couldn’t count on it.
He’d be bored and broke if he didn’t find something to do.
No, the problem was Austin. Austin was a terrible idea.
Austin was smart and cute and funny, and if Joe had to watch him skillfully wield power tools, he would lose his mind.
Or, God, the thought of him doing kitchen demo, swinging a sledgehammer with those broad shoulders and narrow hips—Joe would die.
Joe could not do that. His heart was a lonely himbo. It would make the dumbest possible decision and he’d end up right where he’d been when things with Paul imploded. “Where are we going to get the money for that?”
Austin gestured around. “Uh, well… now that we’ve cleared out some of the crap, we can sell some of the furniture.
The dining set’s in great condition, and it’s an actual antique.
I bet some of those Christmas ornaments are collector’s items. The typewriter…
. We haven’t even been upstairs yet. Who knows what’s up there? ”
“More junk?” Joe suggested, because he didn’t want to go down this road.
“Or more money.”
Joe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Enough money to delay selling the place for months and to pay for renos?”
“If we’re lucky and do it right, we might be able to make hundreds just from selling the ornaments. And if we don’t have to hurry the sale, we can price them at what they’re worth.”
Sound logic, which, sadly, also applied to the house. If they waited until the spring to list it, the market would probably be better and they could ask more. Not to mention that any work they did to make the place livable would increase the value exponentially. Austin wasn’t wrong about that.
And… if they were able to get the house in good enough condition to actually live in it, then they could sell it as their primary residence and avoid the taxes associated with selling a secondary one.
Plus then Joe could rent out the living area of the barndominium to cover some of the costs building up.
“Look,” Austin began, “how about we make a deal? Give me a week to see if I can sell some of this stuff. If I manage to get, say, a thousand dollars, will that be enough for proof of concept?” His eyes were big and pleading. “Please?”
“Fine,” Joe said, folding like wet paper, because there was no way he could stand up to those liquid eyes and that pouty lip.
Austin lit up and beamed at Joe. “You won’t regret this.”
Oh, Joe already did. He was definitely regretting more time spent with an adorable, sexy man he already wanted to ruin in all the best ways. That hair was just made for being artfully tousled on someone else’s pillow. Not to mention the way he looked in a pair of tight jeans.
The next several months would severely test Joe’s self-restraint. He was starting to suspect he might have a masochistic streak.