Because of course I wore platform sandals to inspect a construction site. In the rain. Because I am, apparently, committed toaesthetic over practicalityeven during a breakdown.
I squelch toward the house, umbrella tilted against the sideways rain, trying to channel HGTV optimism.Just look at those trees... and that sky. Very atmospheric.
The porch stairs groan as I climb, testing each step like it might be my last. The small covered porch offers minimal protection from the rain, which has now entered itsbiblicalera.
I peer through the window. One room. A kitchenette in the corner. A single folding chair like it’s been placed there for dramatic effect.
I try the door. Locked.
“Keys would be helpful,” I mutter, rummaging through my bag until I find the envelope Marcus gave me. I pull out the tarnished key, slide it into the lock, and turn.
The door creaks open like a horrormovie sound cue.
The interior is somehow worse.
The ceiling is water-stained in multiple places. The floor hasgive,which floors are not supposed to have. The smell is a blend of mildew, regret, and something that might once have been alive.
“Cozy,” I announce to no one. “Open concept. Very...minimalist murder cabin.”
I take a few cautious steps inside. The kitchenette is a rusted sink and a splintered countertop. A ladder leads to a loft I willnotbe climbing. There’s a bathroom off to the side—I glance in and instantly wish I hadn’t.
“Sustainable living at its most authentic,” I say, quoting the auction listing, then laugh. It comes out more like a bark.Uh-oh.
A drop of water hits my head. Then another.
I look up.
The ceiling is leaking.
That’s when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel.
I steponto the porch just as a mud-splattered pickup truck pulls in behind my rental. The rain has downgraded frombiblicaltomerely apocalyptic.A man climbs out.
And immediately, my brain short-circuits.
Tall. Henley. Work boots. Tool belt.
Dark hair pushed back like he’s been running a hand through it.
Gray-blue eyes that cut right through the drizzle.
He looks up, sees me, and his face shifts. Surprise? Judgement? Mild concern that I might be squatting?
He strides toward the porch like he owns the woods and maybe the weather, too.
“You must be Ms. Winslow,” he says, stopping at the bottom step. His voice is deep, low, and slightly gravelly—like it got rained on and never fully dried out.
“Penny,” I say. “Just Penny is fine. And you’re...?”
“Owen Carver. Carver & Sons.”
Oh.
The contractor.
The lumberjack Abby may or may not be thirst-following on Instagram.
“The renovation guy! Great. Thanks for... coming. I was just, you know, getting acquainted with my new... investment.”
