Page 14 of Archer

I loved freckles.

Worse, she’d ditched the damn blonde wig I hadn’t realized wasn’t her real hair.

And Sarah was a redhead.

My gaze rolled briefly skyward. The universe was always testing my mettle.

Without the wig, her long red hair fell past her shoulders in waves, catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

I was so screwed. I’d have to consider this a reconnaissance mission, then turn things over to Colton. No way around it.

“Thank you for coming early.” She stepped back to let me inside.

I gripped the wooden doorframe, checking its integrity. Not bad for something this old. Of course, the workmanship of homes from that era was often superior to the new. Someone had taken good care of this place.

“I know you said five, but I’m—” She paused. “Very eager to hear your thoughts on my situation.”

“It’s fine.” I scanned the living room behind her. Modest furniture. The place appeared lived-in but loved and well-maintained. A quilt hung over the back of a tweed couch with large throw pillows. Old sheet music hung in frames on the walls, and a guitar stood in the corner. “How long have you been renting this place?”

“Two weeks.”

“From who?”

She hesitated. “The estate. The owner passed away earlier this year.”

Martha Lawson’s estate. So “Sarah” knew about the death. That was something.

“You got any paperwork? Lease agreement?”

“Why?”

“Because I need a contact for the house. I can’t do any work, add cameras, or touch this place without the owner’s consent. Or approval from whoever’s in charge.” I met her gaze, and she bit her lip.

Color flooded her cheeks. “I’m in charge.”

“Great. Then show me the paperwork.”

She glared.

I waited.

A few long moments later, she turned and walked away.

I fought a smile. Irritating people wasn’t something I did intentionally, but it seemed to happen more often to me than most people. Usually, like now, I had no idea what went wrong.

My request was completely reasonable.

Maybe I wasn’t the right team member for this role either.

I shook my head as I waited for her return. According to the obituary, the owner had been in her late seventies when she passed. The décor reflected that. Airlift this place to Fairytale, Colorado, and my Nana might’ve lived here. Swap the guitar and sheet music for Dickinson poems and a bookcase filled with first edition literature, and I’d think I was back home.

Sarah marched back into view with a manila folder and a frown. “Here.”

I accepted the folder and fanned through the contents.

“It’s my cottage. I just haven’t filed the transfer yet.”

“Transfer? Not a sale?”