Mr. H.O.A. by Carina Taylor (hot novels to read .txt) 📕

Snatching up the sealed envelope, I grabbed my purse off of the stained countertop and headed out of the apartment. I didn't bother to lock it. Staying in an empty apartment building had its benefits.

On the way to the store, I spotted a "For Rent" sign taped to a duplex window. I stopped my car in the middle of the street and ran up the sidewalk. I called the number on the sign. As the phone rang, the front door to the house opened, and a man stepped out.

"You calling about this duplex?"

"Yes?" I don't know why I said it like a question.

"I'm sorry, but it already rented an hour ago. I was just coming by to take the sign down."

With a heavy sigh, I trudged back to my car.

Nothing was available. Every space was rented out. I'd seen a few "room for rent" ads online, but the pictures posted were even worse than the apartment I was living in and included built-in roommates. I didn't feel comfortable moving into a stranger's home. I'd rather not be murdered in my sleep.

After parking my car at the grocery store, I hopped out and headed inside. On the way, I narrowly missed being run over by a mom driving a minivan. I'd never imagined my life being snuffed out by a cracker-mobile. Those things were dangerous—I would know since I drove a minivan myself.

I took my sweet time wandering around in the grocery store. I wasn't thrilled to head back to the empty apartment building, so I wandered the aisles. I sniffed the cilantro. It made me want some street tacos from the food carts in Portland. I thumped the watermelon—not that I'd be able to tell if it was ripe or not. Why did people knock on watermelon? Were they waiting for someone to knock back?

I picked up a few oranges and tossed them into my basket, then reached for the grapefruit. My hand brushed against something warm. Yanking my hand back, I looked up in surprise to see a face I recognized. It was Mr. Yummy who lived in the apartment below me. Or used to live there, I should say.

His thick, dark brown hair was mussed on the top of his head, and he had a little scruff on his face. I stared a beat too long into his piercing hazel eyes. I couldn't decide what his heritage was. Spanish? Maybe. Greek? Possibly. Delicious? 100%.

"Hi," I said. My voice sounded too breathy. I’d been so angry about the eviction notice the other day that I hadn’t taken the time to appreciate my fellow evictee’s good looks.

"Hello." He nodded at me. "You must have found a place in town then."

I shook my head as I tossed two grapefruit into my basket. "They haven't shut the power off to the building yet."

He scowled at me. "Wait. You're still in the apartment?"

"Yes," I said, nodding slowly.

"Are you sure you should stay there? That sounds dangerous."

"Well, it's not as if anyone's going to notice. Besides, you know how the red tape on those things are. They probably won't start demo on the building for another six months. It's not like I can find anywhere else in town. Everything gets rented so fast."

He nodded. "I know, but you shouldn’t be staying there by yourself. You could get hurt. If I hear of anything, I could let you know."

He placed a few grapefruit in his basket.

"Do you have a secret source that lets you know?"

He smiled, his white teeth contrasting his olive toned skin. "I'm a real estate agent that also manages rental properties. Today I helped three investors fill their vacant houses in a matter of an hour."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I’d already had qualified clients waiting for available rentals." He tossed a few oranges into his basket. "Besides, I didn't know you were interested."

He seemed ignorant of the potential right in front of him. I gave him a tight smile. "I am definitely interested."

He didn't glance at me but reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, holding it out towards me. "If I'm being perfectly honest with you, if anything shows up, I'm going to rent it myself."

I tugged the business card from his grasp and read the name.

Bartholomew Fox, Realtor. 

Sales and Rental Management.

"Bartholomew?" I asked, a little incredulous. Good-looking men weren't supposed to be named Bartholomew.

He glanced at me with wide eyes. He snatched the card back out of my hand. "Ugh, Darla."

"Actually, my name isn't—"

"No, not you. My office manager printed new business cards for me this week. Not Bartholomew. Everyone calls me Bane."

"Then why does it say Bartholomew?" I tapped the top of the card in his hand.

"Because my parents wanted to torture me as a child. I go by Bane now."

"Is your office manager your mother?"

"Are you always so full of questions for a stranger?"

"You're not a stranger, you're my real estate agent."

He raised his eyebrows. "You can't afford me."

"Based on what?" I began stacking a few more grapefruit in my basket, intent on keeping my hands busy so I didn’t give in to the urge to smack him.

"Based on your previous home."

"Are you judging me because of the apartment I lived in?" More grapefruit went into my basket.

"I meant no offense. I only take on clients who can afford it. People who live in The Market Street Apartments aren't my usual clients."

"You lived there. What does that make you?"

He gave me a half smile. "I can't even afford me."

"You’ve got to be making commissions like crazy in this market. Of course you could afford yourself."

"I’m putting a lot into my work right now, not that it’s any of your business." He glared at me.

My basket was getting heavy. I glance down and realized I'd filled it all the way to the top with the fruit.

"You a grapefruit fan?" He asked, a smirk on that handsome face.

"Er, yes. It's that diet. You know. The one where you lose thirty pounds in a week."

"Sounds