Page 24 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“I’ll make some popcorn,” I say.
“Don’t bother. It expired in 2015.”
My appointment with the property manager, Daniel McKinnon, is at nineA.M.Over coffee, Gramps had given me a Pebble Cottage primer of sorts. I drive up Gulf Boulevard, mentally repeating what he’d told me about the house.
New roof, 2006. Exterior painted, 2015. Needs gutters cleaned. Sump pump is—shoot, what did he say about the sump pump?
As I drive up to the house, I’m nervous, like there’s going to be a test. Really, I’m just worried about exposing how little I know about home maintenance.
There’s a white van parked in front of the lawn. An older man wearing coveralls is leaning against it, talking on the phone. Hegives me a wave. I’m unsure if he’s the contractor or Daniel, the property manager.
As I pull into the carport, another man rides up on a bike. That’s right, Daniel was riding a bike during my first phone call with him. I notice with mild amusement that he’s wearing a skintight cycling outfit, black with neon-yellow accents. I guess that passes as professional when it’s eighty degrees out and you commute on your bike.
I give him a friendly and, I hope, confident wave as I turn off the car.
“Hey, Daniel,” the contractor calls, walking over to him and pocketing his phone. “Morning, Ms. Rosen.”
“Good morning,” I call back.
But the property manager hasn’t said anything. He’s just standing there, staring at my red Toyota Yaris.
“Morning,” he finally says, and his voice doesn’t sound confident at all. As I start across the yard toward the two men, it’s just dawning on me that Daniel’s face looks familiar. And then he takes off his bike helmet, revealing a head full of tousled hair. Tousledredhair. I stop in my tracks.
Okay, so small towns have their downsides.
Chapter 11
Hi. Hello, Mr. McKinnon.” Before I know what I’m doing, I stick out my hand to shake his.
“Morning, Ms. Rosen.” He speaks slowly, like he thinks he might be in a nightmare, or onPunk’d. The contractor doesn’t seem to notice a thing.
“Nice to meet you.” The man shakes my hand, too. “Alan Gregson.”
I mumble a polite greeting, unable to tear my gaze away from Daniel, whose face is flaming red. He’s fumbling in the pannier bag on his bike, searching for something.
I’m feeling a combination of stunned embarrassment and a mad desire to laugh. So I made out with the property manager. The person who’s supposed to manage my property for me. Maybe he makes out with all his clients. Maybe that’s why he’s so highly recommended.
At this thought, a snort escapes me.
“What?” Daniel says, a touch sharply. He’s found what he was looking for, a small iPad that he’s now clutching like his life depends on it.
I glance from his miserable, strained face, to the obliviously polite face of Alan Gregson. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” I flash my most winning smile. “Shall we get started?”
I unlock the front door, and then Alan leads the way. I gatherthat he was the person who had done the initial inspection, using Trish’s spare key. He points out the areas that need structural reinforcements and the plumbing problems in the spare bathroom. As we walk, Daniel scrawls notes and snaps photos with his iPad. He doesn’t look at me once.
“Of course, the pool needs to be treated and most likely needs new filters. From what I saw last time, the HVAC is in good shape,” Alan concludes as we finish our loop and end up back in the kitchen.
All the unfamiliar terms tumble around in my brain. That, and sheer terror at the idea of how much all this will cost. But before I can say anything, Daniel dives in with his own spiel.
“Alan covered all the necessary repairs. But there are a lot of optional, aesthetic things to consider as well. The living room, for example.”
“The brown room,” I say.
“Right. It’s brown. If you make it less brown—paint the walls and pull up the carpet, maybe replace it with a light, bright flooring, maybe a bamboo—it would make a huge difference. Now, if you were to repaint and refloor the bedrooms as well, you could significantly raise the rent. And this kitchen.”
“What about it?” I’m feeling defensive. I know the kitchen is hideously outdated. I know people want updated kitchens. But it’s always been like this, and the idea of ripping it all out makes me sad.
“It’s…” Daniel glances around the room. I can tell he’s trying to be diplomatic, which I appreciate. “It could use new appliances, for a start. Maybe a coat of paint.”
