Mr. H.O.A. by Carina Taylor (readera ebook reader .TXT) 📗

onto Willow Loop, I passed the brick pillars and wrought iron archway that sat over the neighborhood entrance. It was not a gated community, but it had very clear signs posted saying, "no thru traffic."

The homes were all white, cream, and pastel colors. The sidewalks lining the street had patches of grass between them and the road. SLOW signs were posted at every side street. The posted speed limit was ten miles per hour.

Every lawn was green and clipped short. Mailboxes sat at the end of each drive with the house number painted in a scripted font. The mailboxes matched the color of each house.

The streets were quiet. I passed only two cars.

There was a man in his front yard holding the leash to a large white dog. The dog seemed to be dragging the man around the yard. He looked young enough to handle the situation, so I didn’t bother stopping.

When I turned off Willow Loop onto Cypress Avenue, I began looking for number 268.

Three houses down, I found the mailbox painted 268. It sat in front of a tall white house, surrounded by a cedar wood fence.

All the houses had tall wood fences surrounding them, only this one had a darker stain than the other houses on the street.

It looked as though the power was turned on, with a porch light on even in the middle of the day.

Glancing both ways, I made sure no one was watching when I pulled into the drive and parked in front of the garage.

Obviously the neighbors would notice the vehicle, but I hoped they would assume it was the owners coming back to live here. I’d helped people move who never met their neighbors even after living in the same house for ten years. I hoped this neighborhood had similar personal boundaries.

Climbing out of my car, I scanned the front yard. No one was outside the house. Next I studied the two-story, white house. A large bay window afforded a nice view into the downstairs. No movement inside.

But I knew I would rest easier if I made sure no one was around. I went to the front door and knocked. No answer. I went to the side gate and slipped a pen through to help me unlatch the hook. The gate swung open with ease, and I stepped into a backyard oasis. A green yard, a patio, furniture set, and an outdoor kitchen. A gazebo sat in one corner of the yard, and a bonfire pit in the other. Walking further along the yard, I spotted an outdoor shower on the side of the house closest to the backdoor. Wide wood planks walled it in, creating privacy. The rock floor connected to the stamped concrete patio. A hammock hung on a stand, swinging in the light afternoon breeze.

Parking here was definitely going to have its benefits.

I knocked on the back door to double check if there was anyone in the home. I didn’t want to rely on one measly front door knock. No one answered. Next, I knocked on the glass door and waited a moment before I peered through the glass.

No sign of life.

Nola had been right. The house was deserted. I was only half-surprised that she wasn't staying here. It wasn't good that she was staying in that building all by herself. Besides the fact that the health board had condemned the house, there was the matter of her being there by herself and possible vandalism or break-ins happening. I had driven by earlier that morning—the third time this week—to make sure she was okay. I’d witnessed her walking out to her car—presumably heading to work.

I'd drive by first thing in the morning again and make sure she was all right. I only did it because I was a concerned citizen. I wasn’t interested in her. I couldn’t be. I had too much going on to be interested.

I looked around the covered patio. Looked like I would be enjoying a night sleeping in a hammock.

I slept in the hammock two nights in a row.

On the way to the office, I detoured to the store and bought a mosquito net. Sleeping in the hammock was remarkably more peaceful than sleeping in my car, but some ornery bug tried to make a meal out of me the night before.

I’d discovered the outdoor shower even had hot water plumbed to it.

Being able to use the warm shower made the world seem brighter, and the chance to sleep in a pair of shorts instead of my suit kept me wrinkle free.

Today had been another long day. I'd helped connect a client with a contractor and architect. They paid for the lot with cash. They handed me a check for my commission. Those were my favorite types of people to work with. All very cut and dried. Unfortunately, it meant I made a smaller commission, but I slept well at night when I knew people weren’t overextending themselves.

After work, I drove to the bank, got my cashier’s checks in order, then headed back to the Cypress house, where I parked in the driveway, and slipped into the backyard again. Two more nights. The foreclosed house would go to auction sooner than I originally thought, and I wouldn't have to worry about using a deserted house's outdoor shower.

My checks were ready for the auction. Hopefully, no one else wanted it—or knew of it. It would require an extensive remodel, but I had the cash on hand ready to tackle the project.

After parking my car, I hurried to the outdoor shower and shucked my suit. It was ridiculously hot and in need of a cleaning. I stood under the shower spray feeling better about life than I had in a while. Was I homeless? Yes. Was I trespassing? Technically, yes. But it in a few short days, I'd be paying cash for my first home, and no one would be the wiser.

I shut off the water and grabbed the towel hanging over the wide wood