Nailed (Romantic Renovations #1)

1 - Lauren

Lauren

My heart thundered in my chest as I held out my hand for the set of keys.

Despite the feather-light weight in my palm, those keys felt as heavy as an anchor.

Here I was, twelve years deep into a life where I hadn’t called any place home for more than a few months at a time, now settling into a new, strange city.

Today represented a new phase of that life, a promise to myself that I was gonna stick this one out. The permanence of the exchange wasn’t lost on me.

“There you go!” The real estate agent overseeing the sale, and the woman I’d been speaking to for the past few months, gave me a huge grin.

She looked more excited than I was, her face practically glowing with an enthusiasm that might’ve been draining if she wasn’t so genuinely nice.

“Up for a proper tour? It’s an entirely different experience than seeing the virtual guide on the site, trust me. ”

For some reason, it didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.

I eyed her for a moment. She looked around my age, late twenties if not slightly older.

She’d paired high-waisted jeans, a white top that complemented her pretty brown skin, and a nude trench coat with black ankle boots.

The effect was that despite her age and disposition, she looked polished; a perfect combination of Chicago wind-proofing and elegant professionalism.

Though, the almost mischievous glint in her eyes was the only break in the overall illusion. Somehow it made me trust her just a little bit more. I nodded. “That’d be nice, Miss Reyes.”

“Clara,” she corrected as she began her path. I followed, one hand on the camera around my neck. “You just took a stale listing off my hands. I think you’re entitled to a first-name basis.”

Her familiarity and friendliness caught me off guard, but I couldn’t stop the smile that curved my own lips as I snorted at her dry humor.

“But you made it sound so enticing in the description. What was it again? A unique, “Handyman Special”? Great bones and vision-ready interior with sweeps of historical charm?” I recited the exact wording she’d used.

“I can’t believe I was the only one interested. ”

She chuckled this time. “Not everyone appreciates a good fixer-upper. And there’s plenty here to fix up. But you strike me as the creative type, someone who’d actually enjoy the journey instead of rushing through it.”

She raised her hand, showing off the open space around us.

I could see why many others might be intimidated by the task.

We were standing in the apparatus bay, and the would-be photography studio currently resembled a hangar.

The reinforced concrete floors still bore yellow stripes where engines once stood.

Exposed steel beams and timber joists ran in proud lines above us, and straight ahead was unassailably the most iconic feature of this entire building—a brass fire pole that descended from a circular cutout in the ceiling.

Everything was caked in a layer of dust and the vague yet potent scent of Parfum de Pumper Truck; a mix of musty brick, metallic tang, old wood and dry rot. Some might find the smell offensive or unpleasant but to me it smelled like opportunity, fresh as a new leaf.

“I have some ideas,” I admitted.

“Thought you might,” she replied with a wink.

Then she gestured to the camera around my neck.

“I might be reaching, but I thought the bay area would make for a fantastic studio gallery. Give the concrete a quick polish and you could salvage some of the industrial grit, turn it into a modern masterpiece.”

“I was actually thinking of replacing it altogether,” I said, tapping my foot as though testing the sturdiness of the floor.

“Ah, so you’re planning to redo the entire thing, huh?

” Clara whistled, jerking her head in the direction of the utilitarian wash-down area in the back.

I followed her, occasionally pausing to take a photo.

The sunlight poured in through the large-scale steel-frame windows, fractured by the muntins into softened layers that hit the dust and sent them dancing across the exposed brick and concrete.

“Well, the city has some of the best contractors and renovation companies in the state. You’ll be in good hands,” Clara added.

She continued to show me the rest of the ground floor, pausing to let me take a few more photos, offering some more redesign suggestions and throwing in the occasional fun fact about the history of this neighborhood.

I took it all in, breathing in the strange new scent, basking in the strange new atmosphere, surprised once again at my own capacity for impulse.

How I’d chosen to settle down in Chicago of all places, a city I’d never so much as stepped foot into before tossing most of my money at this quaint but defunct firehouse.

And now, I wasn’t even passing through but digging down. I was laying roots, hopefully building a home that would grow old with me. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“And this is our final stop,” Clara announced, turning on her heel and facing me once again.

We were standing on the second-floor landing, polished to a smooth finish after decades of pivoting boots.

In the center was a waist-length U-shaped structure of heavy-gauge brass, mirroring the curve of the cutout.

The top of the fire pole extended slightly above the floor level like a golden mast.

“Now this is the pièce de résistance. If there’s any lingering doubt about whether or not you made the right choice in buying this property, a trip down the fire pole will solidify your decision as the right one.

Care to give it a go?” She walked over and tapped the top rung of the railing almost affectionately.

My mouth twitched. “No thanks, I think I’m good. But I appreciate the offer.”

Clara shrugged and moved to the stairs, evidently not interested in testing her own theory. “Will the movers be arriving soon?”

“No,” I answered. At her confused frown, I gave my camera an affectionate pat of my own. “There’s nothing to move. Except this.”

She nodded, not asking any more probing questions and for that, I was grateful. Truthfully, after years of moving around, there was little besides this camera that I ever bothered bringing with me. It was my most prized possession, the one constant in a world of motion and chaos.

I decided to walk Clara out, and as we exited the big red doors, she turned to me one last time.

“You know, if you’d like a proper welcome guide, we should grab dinner sometime.

It’s a fast-paced city and it’s always better to have a local show you the ropes than to try and play catch-up on your own. ”

I hesitated, taken aback by her offer. It was embarrassing to admit, but my social skills were rather rusty. I wasn’t the best at keeping up with friends between constantly moving from city to city and establishing my photography career.

Ah, who was I bullshitting. I wasn’t the best at making friends, period.

The sincerity behind Clara’s brown eyes almost made me consider it. But then I shook my head, retreating back into my usual shell. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be free any time soon. Between work and the renovations, there’s just too much on my plate right now.”

Instead of looking offended, she just nodded again. “That’s alright. You have my number if you ever need anything.”

With a final wave goodbye and friendly smile, Clara climbed into her Lexus and reversed off the concrete apron—the soon-to-be driveway—and disappeared into the evening traffic.

I stood outside of my new home, turning around to admire it from the street.

The taller and more ornate building stood out as a giant within the dense residential block of two-story brick rowhouses and storefronts that it was tucked into.

With massive arched engine doors and high masonry parapets that loomed high above the standard and narrow windows of the surrounding houses, part of me hoped that this wouldn’t be some kind of omen foreshadowing what my time in the city might be like.

Then again, I had knowingly bought a firehouse. It’d hardly looked inconspicuous among the other listings, but I was determined to try and bring my vision to life. I could see the potential of what this place could be beneath the dust and industrial wear. There was potential for beauty.

Movement in my periphery snagged my attention. It was a small group of morning joggers, approaching in a blur of rhythmic thudding sneakers and neon tech-wear. I awkwardly raised my hand in a half-wave, but if any of them saw me, they chose not to return the greeting.

That is, until I was about to turn around and head back inside. One of the joggers, a man clad in yellow spandex, yelled right as they passed my new home.

“Don’t even bother unpacking.”