Is that it? That can’t be it.
But I already knew it had to be it.
I sat in the car for a long moment, engine running, wipers slapping against the windshield.
The mailbox canted to the side, its metal pole knocked askew. I couldn’t see the house. Just a narrow gravel drive that led behind a thick copse of cedar.
Turning into the drive, the house came into view.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
What I would give for a Homewood Suites right now.
Or a Hilton Garden Inn.
Or, be still my beating heart, a Courtyard by Marriott.
There was a reason I tried not to do independent listings. Hotel chains were generic, sure. But for a traveling business professional, they were all delightfully similar.
And what I craved in my nightly accommodations was a place that felt safe and clean. I didn’t need a quirky, cute Airbnb designed in somebody’s personal rendition of cottagecore, or contemporary modern or… heaven forbid, something cutesy, like athemedrental.
My worst stay had been at a Barbie Dream House themed rental. The amount of hot pink I’d been forced to ingest had given me nightmares. And I was the type wholikedpink.
Nope. Giving me a boring chain rental any day of the week over any of these independently run disaster rentals.
But this place. Oof.
It might go down in my list of worsts, overtaking the Barbie Palace I’d encountered in Richmond, Virginia.
An old, rusted-out pickup truck sat in the driveway, looking like the kind of thing an alpha man would drive.
The house was… well. It was a house.Technically.
The porch looked like it had been assembled from scrap lumber.
Mismatched boards fitted together in a way that was functional but would never pass any of my inspections. The siding was weathered, the gutters were patched, and the whole structure had a cobbled-together look of something built by someone who had more skills than money.
I’d seen places like this before. Back in my hometown as well as on the job. There were cash-strapped homeowners who did their own repairs with whatever materials they could scavenge, cutting corners to save costs.
But they ignored the nightmare of liability issues that would haunt them when something inevitably failed. Homeowners like this were the ones who found their claims denied, and they often were the ones whoreallyneeded an approval. It always broke my heart.
This was exactly the kind of property that made my job difficult.
Who would have guessed I’d end up staying in one?
But it was this or sleep in my car, and the temperature was dropping fast.
I grabbed my bags and ran for the porch, ducking my head as if that would protect me from the rain.
My heels sank into the mud with every step and by the time I reached the door, I was shivering so hard my teeth chattered.
I knocked, and when the door swung open, every coherent thought I’d ever had scattered straight out of my brain.
Two big dogs barked loudly and swirled around my feet. But I ignored them because a hulking mountain beast opened the door, wearing worn flannel and surly good looks.
He filled the door frame, sporting a thick, burly beard with the scent of cedar and sawdust clinging to him. Small-town living had never looked so good.
Hi, Clay-baby. Damn, you look fine.
