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

planks. After drying off, I wrapped it around my waist, and stepped outside the shower to grab a shirt out of my backpack.

"Oh, hello! You must be the new owner!"

I spun around as I pulled my shirt over my head. A woman somewhere in her forties stood in the yard holding a plate of cookies.

She smiled and began talking rather loudly. "My name is Carol. I live just across the street, and I noticed your car this week."

"Oh, did you?" I cleared my throat and clenched my hands around the towel. "How long have you lived across the street?"

I stalled for time, wondering how long I would have to stay there wrapped in a towel while the neighbor woman grinned at me. Using the backyard shower was supposed to be a safe thing. My backup plan to pretend be a hired property manager wasn’t going to work. Handing out my business card now would be a little suspicious. She glanced at the hammock with the pillow on it. I muffled a groan.

"Oh, I see you've been enjoying your patio. This house has the most beautiful backyard in the whole neighborhood."

I cleared my throat as I shifted closer to the chair where my jeans were hanging. "Did you know the previous owners?"

"No, I poked my head over the fence to look. You know what they say about curiosity!"

I tried to smile, but I was afraid it came out like a grimace. Just what I needed; a nosy neighbor who had noticed my coming and going. How long was she going to stand here and chat? Did she not realize I was pants-less?

"Anyway, I wanted to stop by and introduce myself and bring you this plate of cookies. I'll have to bring you a schedule of all the neighborhood activities."

Oh, no—there were activities? I didn't want to be included in those. What I wanted was to get out of there before someone recognized me.

"Our HOA meeting is this Thursday. We’re electing a new president soon, so this might be an important one to be at. Anyway, great to meet you." She turned to leave then stopped and glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, silly me. I forgot to ask your name."

I hesitated to tell her, given the fact that she stood there chatting with me like it was normal to talk to a man with a towel wrapped around his waist. But lying felt too risky—not to mention I was terrible at it.

"My name is Bane Fox."

"Well, Mr. Fox," she purred. "Welcome to the neighborhood, and I hope you'll be able to come over for my special barbecue meatballs someday soon. I have a secret sauce." She winked as she turned to go.

No, I didn't think I could handle any secret sauce right now. Instead, I said, "I'll see you on Thursday, Carol!" I smiled and waved as she walked out of the backyard leaving the gate open behind her.

Carol had to wonder why I was in the backyard instead of inside. Well, I guess that was my welcome to the neighborhood. I'd have to risk sleeping in my car at the office.

I wondered if moving to Florida was far enough from Oregon that this disaster wouldn’t follow me.

CHAPTER SIX

Homeowners Association Rule #12:

No on street parking.

Sitting in my apartment felt eerily quiet—until a loud crash made me think that someone was trying to break in. Maybe it was a pipe bursting; maybe it was someone planning to kill me.

I reached my hand into the side pocket of my purse that sat next to me on my couch, fingering the pepper spray I always kept there. There were no more sounds, so I released the can. My fingers brushed against a stiff paper. Pulling it out, I remembered that I had tucked Bartholomew Fox’s business card in there when I took it from him at the store.

Bartholomew. Bane. He seemed to be everywhere. In my apartment building. At the grocery store. Near the park. On my mind.

Flipping open my laptop, I googled his name. A website popped up pointing me to a home page with pictures of all the real estate agents in the office.

A picture of Bane was at the top with his polite—not real—smile. Bartholomew Fox was a fine figure of a man, and if the housing market ever fell through, he could pick up work as a male model. The way he carried himself—the clothes he wore. It was all part of the package that was Bane Fox. I clicked on his profile picture to read his bio.

It purported him to be the top agent in the county, and in the top ten in the state. What was a man of those talents doing living in a condemned apartment building? I knew real estate agents made bank, especially if they sold as many properties as he did. Maybe he had a gambling problem on the side, and that’s where all of his money went.

After spending an hour reading the rave reviews about his work—and frantically searching for his social media profiles, I decided he was clearly some type of a unicorn in the real estate business. A rising star. I would have written him off as a soon-to-be real estate mogul like Sebastian Mercier except for two things: one, he helped people find affordable properties within their budget. (I knew this from about forty-five glowing reviews.) And two, he gave back to the community. (I knew this based on his bio saying he volunteered at a couple different nonprofits in town.)

If I were being honest with myself, I was attracted to Bane.

I couldn’t deny it. He was charming. He was kind. I would even go so far as to say protective—evidenced by his morning drive-by routine to make sure I was still alive.

I wondered what it would be like to date a man like him. I’d be the envy of many a woman.

Known in the community, a great real estate agent, obsessed with his image, but eccentric for living at The Market Street Apartments. He