Chapter 4
The problem is, Zach knows it’s good, too.
We drive over in my Subaru—my choice, since I can admit that I need to be in control of some aspect of this outing.
During the ride over, I make Zach promise not to play tour guide or try to convince me how much work the place needs.
I will see for myself. I’ve spent nearly two decades in real estate. I know my shit, thank you very much.
Now we’re standing on the front steps while a twenty-something woman in a ball cap and head-to-toe athleisure jingles keys. “You guys can’t stay any longer than fifteen minutes,” she says. “My boss will kill me if anyone finds out we let you in.”
“I’ll set the timer on my watch,” I offer.
“Please tell Abby that I appreciate it,” Zach says to her.
“Abby would only do this for you,” the woman replies. “Lock the door on your way out. I’ll come back later and do the deadbolt.”
I try not to roll my eyes. I wonder if he told Abby that’s she pretty, too.
Zach is smiling like he was born to break the rules, which is funny since he seems to be such a fan of his own.
He knocks a knuckle against the siding before we step inside.
I can practically see him calculating repair costs in his head.
The place smells faintly of mildew. The cramped entryway opens to a wide living room with too-small salt-caked windows, made even worse by some terrible curtains.
I turn slowly, taking it all in. I’m trying very hard not to freak out.
The visions I had in my head aren’t quite matching the reality, but I try to stay focused on making plans: knock down the wall between the living room and kitchen, refinish the hardwood floors, paint the whole thing a warm white to brighten it up.
Tall, energy-efficient windows. Maybe cathedral the ceilings. Add some beams. A fireplace.
“Careful,” Zach says right into my ear from behind me.
I jump. “What?” Frantic, I look down and all around, expecting there’s a giant spider somewhere.
“You’re smiling. You wouldn’t want to tip your hand.”
I shoot him a look. “I can smile at the lack of a popcorn ceiling without it meaning anything.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says, brushing past me toward the kitchen.
I follow, noting the cheap veneer peeling from the cabinets, the electric range with rust along the front edge, and the fridge in a similar state.
The counters are faded laminate. It’s ugly.
A total gut job. A glorious, fixable disaster.
I can’t wait to put on my safety glasses and get out a sledgehammer.
“This could be amazing,” I say before I think to shut the hell up.
Zach glances over his shoulder, grinning. “I’m not surprised you like it.”
“I said could be.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed.
“Look, I know you want this place. I could see it on your face yesterday, and I can see it now. But you’ve got to admit—it’s a big job, and we haven’t even looked at the bathrooms and the bedrooms. And judging by the amount of tools in the back of your car, I’m guessing you plan to do a lot of the work yourself? ”
“I’m very handy. And I’m not afraid of work.”
“I didn’t say you were. I just—” He stops, and it’s like he’s studying me now. It makes me anxious. And ever-so-slightly turned on. “I’m just thinking you might want to start with something smaller. Less intense.”
I bristle. If I were a chicken, I’d be running around the barnyard, squawking my head off. “We talked about this in the car. I specifically told you that I do not want you to talk me out of this.”
“I know, but…”
“Look. I don’t want smaller. I want this.”
“You’ll need to hire someone. The third rule of flipping is don’t do everything yourself. The fourth rule is that you shouldn’t rush into things. Both apply.”
This time, I roll my eyes, even though I feel childish for doing it. “You and your rules.”
“I’ve done this a few hundred times. I’m not just offering this advice for fun. I know what I’m doing and I know what I’m saying.”
I need him to understand that I’m not disagreeing for the sake of a good argument. I have reasons for wanting this house. Needing it. “I spent the last eighteen years selling houses. I need this challenge.”
“Why? You’re accomplished. You’ve won awards. You’ve been top five in the state for sales. Everyone says your clients love you.”
“But I’ve never built anything.” The words come out so thin that it’s like I’m trying to illustrate how badly this hurts, even though the truth is that I want to hide the pain.
Squash it down into nothing. Even so, I want to explain.
“I took things that someone else built and I sold them. Hundreds of times. But I have nothing to show for it. Just like I spent nearly two decades in a marriage that failed. If I died tomorrow, nobody would even know I was here.” It sounds sad, but it’s true.
For a moment, his expression softens in a way I didn’t expect, like he understands exactly what I mean. I don’t know how that’s possible. “Well,” he says finally, “that’s as good a reason as any.”
“That’s it? No more arguments?”
“Not for now.”
“Okay,” I say, unsure what that means.
We move on, climbing the creaky staircase to the second floor. The bedrooms are cramped with slanted ceilings and paint colors that make it seem like this house is stuck in time. But again, everything is fixable. If only life was that simple.
In the largest bedroom, at the front of the house, there’s a fogged-up sliding glass door that leads to a second porch with a one-eighty view of the beach.
I unlock the door and tug on the handle, but it sticks, so I can only get it open enough to hear the faint crash of the waves.
“This would make a great primary suite,” I say.
Zach steps closer—so close that I can smell his shampoo.
Judging by the fragrance, he’s not using something cheap from the grocery store.
Makes sense, since his hair is frustratingly amazing.
Chaotic, thick, and suspiciously shiny in the sunlight.
When he says annoying things, I can imagine combing my fingers through it and not being gentle.
When he says nice things… well, I only imagine doing it more. “Obviously needs French doors.”
“I can hear buyers now,” I say. “They’ll say this porch is the perfect place to have their morning coffee.”
“It’s funny how much people fixate about nice places to drink coffee.”
“I know. I was living the dream this morning on the beach.”
“I saw. You looked like a commercial for AARP.”
I can feel how unreasonably giant my eyes go. I smack his arm. “Hey. That’s not nice. I just turned fifty. I’m a long ways away from retirement.”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult. I meant a super hot AARP commercial of course. Plus, I’m fifty-three, so I can’t say shit.”
I laugh, thinking my nickname could now be Little Ms. Face-on-fire. “Nice save.” My watch starts to vibrate on my wrist. “That’s fifteen.”
Downstairs, I step out onto the porch while Zach locks up. I shield my eyes from the sun. “Thank you,” I say. “For being a good sport and bringing me along.”
“Anytime.”
I give him a skeptical look. “You say that like we’re not still both planning to bid.”
“Oh, we are,” he says easily. “But I figure it’s more fun when the competition knows what they’re up against.”
“You have a very messed up idea of fun.”
“Maybe,” he says, heading down the steps toward my car. “But I think we just made this a fair fight.”
As I follow him, I realize something I’m not sure I like: the struggle for this house has gotten even more personal, at a time in my life when I’d really like to avoid messy things like feelings.
But I’m not about to back down now.
I climb into the car and start the engine. “Where are we headed for lunch, oh, maker of the rules? I can put it into the GPS.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Take a left on Oak Island Drive. I’ll show you the way.”