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Swinging around, I frown down at him, nearly losing my balance when I see he’s waited at the bottom of the staircase and is staring out over the yard. “Oh. Yeah, my father was better at keeping it maintained.”
“Your mom didn’t keep up the yard?”
“No. That was my father’s job.”
“How sexist.”
Huffing my frustration, I damn near slam through the door to the in-law apartment, and I stand in the center of it, arms crossed, waiting for him to enter. Once inside, his eyes scan over everything. And I do mean everything, as he opens the cupboards, the closets, and ventures into the bedroom.
“Nice. I’m sorry I didn’t claim it first.”
“Well, better luck next time.”
“You did disclose that you have a massive water leak, right?”
“What?”
He points above me, toward where an enormous brown spot discolors the once stark-white ceiling. “That’s going to be a problem later. Expensive one. You also have seal failure going on in the windows. That’s why there’s condensation inside the panes. The insulation out here feels a little thin, as well. No renter is going to want to deal with a potential disaster. I’m guessing he, or she is aware and doesn’t have an issue with all these things, though.”
Shit. I haven’t spent any significant time out here, aside from a quick cleaning I did before posting the ad for a renter, and I guess I failed to notice the maintenance it needed. Doesn’t help that my husband didn’t do shit for home repairs, when he was alive.
“Thanks. I’d have taken it, in spite of all that, but I suppose that ship has passed. Nice meeting you, Star Wars.”
Star Wars. Indignation needles me in the gut, as I watch him exit the apartment, my mind rapidly contemplating my options. If I don’t rent it out, Oliver’s going to get whatever is left after bills every month for Christmas presents, which is little more than zero. I could use the two hundred Jonah and Diane gave me, but that’ll leave us eating ramen noodles, when the gas bill comes due at the end of the month.
Which means I could rent it out to someone who’ll probably swindle me down, once they see all the shit that needs repair.
Or I could let Mafia Man pay me four times the rent and skate comfortably into the New Year.
Goddamn it, Nola.
“Wait.”
He’s already halfway down the stairs, when I hustle toward the door to catch him.
“Wait.” With a contemplative huff, I scratch the back of my head. “What’s the suit all about? What do you do?”
“I work in securities.”
“Like a mall cop?”
“Like stocks and bonds.”
“Oh! Right. Those kind of securities.” Not that I’d know the first thing about that. “And the tattoos are … not gang related?”
“No.”
Whatever piss poor interview I’m conducting right now, he’s at least humoring me with decent answers.
“What does a businessman like yourself want with some old, rundown, in-law apartment with a leaky roof? It doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t you be living it up at the Ritz-Carlton downtown?”
“I’m a man who values his privacy, above all else. My stay in the Chicago area is temporary. I’m hoping to concentrate on work without the distraction of the city.”
“And you’re not some creep who keeps bottles of Jergens to put the lotion on it’s skin.”
“Do you have something against Jergens?”
“What I have is a son. And I’ve really struggled to hold my faith in humanity over the last few years. Please don’t make me regret changing my mind and letting you take the apartment. You’re still willing to pay double?”
