Warm Nights in Magnolia Bay by Babette Jongh (best fantasy books to read TXT) 📕

The sound of garbage trucks in the distance promised an even more terrifying situation if she didn’t get the kitten into the house soon. She held Georgia in one hand and clutched the covered-up kitten with the other, jiggling both of them in a hopefully soothing motion. “You’re okay. You’re both okay.”

The loud motorbike idled near the estate’s rusted-out mailbox. The rider put both booted feet down on the gravel drive. Tall, broad-shouldered, he wore motorcycle leathers and a black helmet with a tinted visor.

Georgia licked Abby’s chin, a plea to hurry back to the house before the garbage trucks ravaging the next block over ushered in the apocalypse.

“Shh. I want to go home, too, but…” If she fled from her hiding place, the motorcycle dude would notice a flash of movement when Abby’s yellow robe flapped behind her like a flag. What was this guy doing before 8:00 a.m. parking his motorcycle in a lonely driveway on this dead-end country road?

The rider got off the motorcycle and removed his helmet. His light-brown hair stood on end, then feathered down to cover his jacket collar.

His hair was the only soft thing about him. From his tanned skin to his angular face to his rigid jaw, from his wide shoulders to his bulging thighs to his scuffed black boots, the guy looked hard.

He waded through the tall weeds to the center of the easement and pulled up the moldy For Sale sign that had stood there for years. He tossed the sign into the weed-filled ditch and stalked back to his motorcycle. The beast roared down the potholed driveway to the old abandoned house, scattering gravel.

* * *

Quinn Lockhart sped down the long drive, a list of obstacles spinning through his head:

1. Cracked brick facade: possible foundation problems.

2. Swimming pool: green with algae and full of tadpoles, frogs—probably snakes, too.

3. Overgrown acreage: ten acres of out-of-control shrubs choked with vines and weeds.

He’d seen all this on his first and only inspection; he knew what he was getting into. Though he had never attempted to renovate and flip a long-abandoned house before, he knew he possessed the necessary skills to do it successfully. Hell. Even JP—his ex-business-partner and ex-friend he’d known since high school—had made a fricking fortune flipping houses. If all-talk, no-action JP could do it, Quinn could roll up his sleeves and do it ten times better. The sale of this polished-up diamond would provide the seed money he needed to start his own construction business in Magnolia Bay and, maybe even more important, prove his talent to future clients.

When his lowball offer was accepted, he hadn’t known whether to whoop or moan. The hidden gem of this dilapidated estate could only go up in value. Located on a remote back road several miles outside Magnolia Bay and an easy hour to New Orleans, the place was a rare find he wouldn’t have known about if he hadn’t been dating the local real-estate agent who helped him find an apartment here after his divorce. But the next-to-nothing price and a small stash of cash for renovations had consumed every penny of the equity he’d received in the divorce. And he still hadn’t quite convinced himself that leaving New Orleans to follow his ex and their son to her hometown was the best decision he’d ever made.

He reminded himself that moving to Magnolia Bay was the only way he could spend enough time with his teenage son. After years of working more than he should and leaving Sean’s raising to Melissa, Quinn knew this was his last chance to rebuild the relationship between him and his son. Quinn was hoping they’d bond over the renovation, if he could convince Sean that helping out would be fun. So it wasn’t just a business decision; it was a last-ditch effort to be the kind of father Sean deserved.

When Delia Simmons—his real estate agent—showed him this estate, a thrill of excitement and hope had skittered through him. This old place had good bones. Putting it back together again would be the first step toward putting his life back together again.

And when she told him the rumor she’d heard around town that the adjacent acreage between this road and the bay might soon become available as well… Maybe it wasn’t a sign from God, exactly, but it sure lit a fire under his butt. With the right timing, he could use the money from the sale of this place to buy the strip of Magnolia Bay waterfront land that ran behind all five estates on this dead-end road.

He could subdivide the bayside marshland along the existing estates’ property lines, then sell each parcel to its adjoining estate. If he had enough money, he could build nice elevated walkways from each estate to the marsh-edged bay; maybe even haul in enough sand to make a community beach complete with boat docks and shaded pavilions.

Maybe he was dreaming too big. But he couldn’t stop thinking that with perfect timing on the sale of the estate and the availability of the waterfront land, he could make an easy-peasy fortune for not too much work. And—dreaming big again—the ongoing maintenance for five private boat docks would give him a steady stream of income doing seasonal repair work that he could depend on from here on out.

Quinn parked his bike on the cracked patio around back of the sprawling bungalow-style house and killed the engine. Expecting silence, he was assaulted by a loud racket of braying, mooing, and barking.

“Are you kidding me?” He walked to the hedge separating his property from the annoying clamor. When he’d toured the property with Delia, it had been as peaceful as a church. She hadn’t warned him it cozied up to Old McDonald’s farm.

Or, maybe more accurately, Old Ms. McDonald’s farm. He’d glimpsed the crazy-looking woman hiding in the shrubbery with her wild mane of honey-brown hair, ratty bathrobe, and cowboy boots. How the hell