“I’m with Northside Rebuild,” he said, voice low. “Here to assess the place.”
“You’re here from Northside?” I blinked. “You’re unannounced.”
“You need wider doors, lower counters… right? Didn’t think kindness had to call ahead.” He arched an eyebrow as if my comment irritated him.He’s rude.
“Uh,… yeah, it does.” I glanced behind me. The house wasn’t ready for strangers. I wasn’t ready.
“I’m just here to check what needs to be done before we approve the repairs. Won’t take long.”
I hesitated. It wasn’t his attitude or the fact that he was here unannounced. It was the idea of someone stepping into my mess. Seeing what I’d patched, what I couldn’t fix. How’d I been living the past four years. It was embarrassing. Teagan’s voiceechoed in my head.Stop doing everything alone, Noa. You need this.I exhaled and opened the door wider.
“Come in.” I sighed. He stepped inside without a word, scanning the room like he was used to appraising things, not in a nosy way, just quick and efficient. He didn’t force a smile. There was no pity in his eyes. It was the first thing I liked about him.
“Where’s the worst of it?” he asked, turning back to me.
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t you think introductions come before inspections?”
He smirked and then grinned, showing all thirty-two teeth and dripping arrogance.
“You already opened the door. Bit late to ask who I am, don’t you think?”
Wow. Rude. And kind of fine as fuck.
“I’d still like to know who’s in my house,” I snapped.
“JaQuade,” he said simply, like it was enough.
That name clicked immediately, and my eyes widened, connecting the face to the name.
“Wait… JaQuade? As in Quae Lo?”
“Used to be.”
Oh, my God!I couldn’t stop staring. Quae Lo was the hometown hero, the first rapper out of Azalea County to get signed. He looked… different, older than the last time I saw him in a video. He was more fit. His slender frame was replaced with muscles and wide shoulders. He had a beard now, too. It had been years since he got locked up. I didn’t keep up with celebrity gossip, but everyone in the city remembered when he got sentenced. It was a whole mess. Local rapper accused of attempted murder. And now he was here, standing in my living room, talking about widening my doorways like everything was normal.
“What?” he asked, catching my stare.
“Nothing.” I turned my chair around fast, annoyed at myself for being so obvious. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Kitchen’s to the left. That door’s too narrow. I get stuck there damn near every day.”
“Mhm,” he muttered, following behind. “You live here alone?”
“Is that on the checklist, or are you just nosy?”
“Damn,” he muttered, scribbling something on a clipboard. “You real defensive.”
“And you’re real rude.”
That made him glance at me, something almost like a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t need me to be sweet. You need your house fixed.”
I hated that he was right. And I hated how something about the way he talked to me without babying me, without walking on eggshells, had a fire brewing in my chest.
“You’re right. Kitchen counter’s too high. I have to lean halfway out of this chair to reach anything.”
“I’ll note it.” He didn’t argue, didn’t offer any sympathy, just wrote my concerns. By the time he finished walking through the house, we’d exchanged more snippy comments and passive-aggressive silence than most people did in a week. And yet, when he turned to leave, I almost asked when he’d be back.
“Alright,” he said, heading toward the front door. “I’ll submit the assessment. Someone’ll call you. No more unannounced popups.”
I leaned back in my chair, staring at him.
