"It's not as bad as it looks," King says finally, though we both know he's lying.
"Yes, it is." I take a sip of coffee and try to find something positive to focus on. "But the bones are good, right? That's what they say about old houses. Good bones."
He sets down his coffee and runs a hand along one of the built-in bookcases, testing its stability. His fingers are long and surprisingly gentle for someone who looks like he could crush a man's windpipe without breaking a sweat.
"Victorian construction was built to last," he agrees. "Solid wood, real plaster, foundations that could survive an earthquake. The damage is mostly cosmetic."
"Mostly?"
"Well, you'll need a new roof. And the electrical system is probably older than both of us combined. The plumbing..." He trails off...
"The plumbing is fucked?"
His mouth quirks up at the corner—not quite a smile, but close. "I was going to say 'challenging,' but yeah. Pretty much fucked."
Despite everything, I laugh. There's something liberating about having someone acknowledge the full scope of the disaster instead of trying to blow sunshine up my ass.
"So… What you're telling me is I've inherited a very expensive pile of kindling that happens to be shaped like a house."
"I'm telling you that you've inherited a project." King moves to the front window and peers out through a gap in the boards. "Question is, do you want to take it on?"
Do I? Three years ago, when the lawyers first contacted me, this house represented hope. A chance to start over somewhere new, to build the life I'd always imagined for myself. Now it represents about fifty thousand dollars worth of repairs I can't afford and a town that seems to be dying a slow, painful death.
But it also represents Grandma Emma, who believed I was strong enough to handle anything life threw at me. Who used to tell me that the best things in life required work, patience, and a willingness to see potential where others saw problems.
"I want to try," I say quietly. "I know it's crazy. I know it would probably be smarter to sell it for whatever I can get and move on. But this place... it's all I have left of her."
"Then we fix it," he says simply.
"We?"
"You think I'm going to let Emma Hartwell's granddaughter tackle this alone?" He shakes his head. "She'd come back from the grave and haunt my ass if I didn't make sure you had help."
The casual way he talks about helping me, like it's the most natural thing in the world, makes my chest tight. When was the last time someone offered to help me with anything? When was the last time someone looked at my problems and said "we" instead of "you"?
"I can't afford to pay you," I warn him. "Or anyone else, for that matter. My savings account is pretty much tapped out from the legal fees."
"Did I ask for money?"
"No, but—"
"Then stop worrying about it." He finishes his coffee and sets the cup on the mantelpiece. "I've got guys who know construction, plumbing, electrical. Most of them owe me favors anyway."
I want to argue, to insist that I can't accept such a massive gesture from someone I barely know. But the truth is, I need help. Desperately. And something about the way King looks at me, not like I'm a charity case, but like I'm someone worth investing in, makes it feel less like accepting handouts and more like building something together.
"Why?" I ask, echoing the question I asked him last night. "You don't know me. For all you know, I'm a terrible person who kicks puppies and cheats on her taxes."
His laugh is low and rough, like whiskey poured over gravel. "Somehow I doubt that. Besides, I'm a pretty good judge of character. Comes with the territory."
"What territory is that?"
The laughter fades from his face, replaced by something harder and more guarded. "Running things around here. Making decisions about who to trust and who to watch. It's kept me alive this long."
There's a story there, layers of meaning I don't understand yet. But I can sense the weight of it, the responsibility he carries like armor that never comes off.
"And you trust me?"
"I trust that you're exactly who you appear to be," he says, "Which is more than I can say for most people."
