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He replies, “From your lips to God’s ear, ma’am. I don’t want my mother to struggle on her own when she gets too old to care for herself. Especially when she could be getting the support she needs from me.”

I chew on the end of my pen cap for a second as I think through the situation. “You’ll want something compact but functional.”

He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “I want it to feel like a place someone could actually live in and be happy. You know what I mean?” This man is smart and knows what he wants. I like that. Wishy-washy clients are the worst.

“Yes. I understand. It’ll be the difference between light bookings with no repeat business and being booked solid with lots of repeat business.”

“Yeah, I hadn’t thought about that, but you’re right,” he responds thoughtfully.

I move towards the far end of the garage, where there’s a little partitioned-off area with a rough utility sink, an equally rough stand-up shower, and a toilet that still flushes by some miracle.

“It will probably need the plumbing inspected, and the building is not wired to code—I can see that already.”

“We’ll need to factor that into the renovation costs,” he replies.

His eyes track me curiously as I make my way around the empty space.

I take measurements with the laser tool clipped to my belt.

Ghost doesn’t follow me, hover, or interrupt.

He just stands there and lets me do my job.

It’s refreshing—and much appreciated. I’ve worked for men who want to micromanage every detail.

Some even try to flirt at every turn in the conversation. Ghost just lets me work.

I crouch near the old workbench and tap the wood. “This is salvageable. We could strip it down and repurpose it. Maybe find something useful to do with it.”

“You’re the boss,” he says. “Whatever you come up with will probably be amazing.”

I look up at him with my eyebrows raised. “So, does this mean I’m hired?”

He smiles down at me. “Yeah, you seem extremely competent. Of course, we would need to work up a floor plan that makes sense and get approval by the planning commission. There are a lot of details to a renovation like this.” This man has the most alluring smile.

“Yeah, we’ll need a structural engineer’s report before we get started,” I tell him.

“Of course. I want everything to be done by the book.”

“Did you have any other ideas you wanted me to incorporate into the plan?”

“I was thinking a stand-up shower,” he says, gesturing to the back left corner. “I was thinking about skipping the bathtub because I plan to build a little deck out there eventually. Something private, with a two-person hot tub.”

I give him a look, deadpan. “A hot tub? Your mom is a lucky lady.”

His grin becomes broader and more genuine. “I was thinking more about that for the short-term rental guests. Not everyone comes out here to hike and drink herbal tea. But there’s no reason to suspect my mom wouldn’t like to use it when she moves in.”

I nod, all smiles, because he’s not wrong about that.

A short silence spins out between us. But it isn’t uncomfortable. We’re both clearly comfortable with not filling every minute with mindless chatter.

“Have you ever done a build like this before, besides the one I saw in your portfolio?” Ghost finally asks.

“Yeah, I’ve done three or four. I even did one with less square footage than this one.

In that renovation, every square inch counted, but we still managed to fit in a loft bed and kitchenette.

Of course, the plumbing got complicated, but problems like that crop up from time to time.

Sometimes I get strange requests, like one guy wanted a Japanese soaking tub and an indoor pizza oven. ”

Ghost chuckles. “Spoiled fucker.”

“That thought occurred to me as well.”

I add one final note and then clip my pen to the first few pages of my sketchbook.

Turning to Ghost, I tell him, “I’ll draw up a couple of floor plan options for you to choose from. I’ll gather up some paint swatches and finishing samples.”

“Any idea about a timeline yet?” he asks.

“It’ll take me a couple of days to get the sketches ready. You’ll have them by Thursday. Once you decide for certain what you want, we can plan out a reasonable timeline.”

“That works for me,” he says.

We walk back outside. The sunlight is gearing up to be a scorcher. I flip to a clean page in my notepad as we make our way towards the driveway.

“Let’s talk budget,” I suggest, stopping at my truck. “I just need ballpark numbers for right now,” I explain. “I’m not asking you to commit to a budget, but I do need to understand what I’m working with before I sketch out anything too ambitious.”

He gives a sharp jerk of his chin and rakes one hand through his hair.

I can tell he’s thinking up a storm about how much he wants the renovation to set him back.

Finally, he says, “I’d like to keep it under fifty grand.

Preferably closer to forty. I’ve got some cushion if it goes over, but I’d rather keep it tight. ”

A quick mental calculation—appliances, plumbing, insulation, electrical updates, finishes, framing, flooring—tells me fifty grand isn’t going to be nearly enough.

“I don’t think that’s going to even come close to making this renovation happen.”

“I’ll probably be doing most of the labor myself.

My club brothers will probably want to pitch in, and I can call up half a dozen men at a moment’s notice for general labor along the way.

I shouldn’t have to pay for delivery because the prospects from my club will pick up materials and unload them wherever we tell them to.

Outside of that, I have almost all the equipment we’ll need.

My father left me his when he passed, but I haven’t had a minute to pick it up. Will that put me in the ballpark?”

“Yeah, if you have the kind of resources you’ve mentioned and you and your friends are willing to do the lion’s share of the labor yourselves, I think we can make that number work,” I tell him.

Ghost’s expression perks up. “Are you being serious? You think that’s really doable for under fifty grand?”

“Yeah, I think we can come really close to the fifty grand budget you mentioned.”

“That would be really great,” he says, relief etched on every inch of his face.

I speak up to sweeten the deal. “I’m between leases,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I enjoy the hands-on stuff almost more than sitting behind a desk drawing floor plans. If you let me stay on site, I’ll help you with the renovations for ten bucks an hour, cash.”

His eyes fly open. “That’s low. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you.”

I tell him carefully, “I’m not concerned about the money so much. I just like being hands-on with my renovations, and the hotel I’m staying at is stifling.”

Ghost looks at me for a long, hard moment, his gaze assessing. I know the deal I’m offering is kind of out of pocket, and not the sort of thing I would usually propose to a new client. But there’s something different about Ghost and it would solve a huge problem for me.

“You sure about this offer?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah, I’m used to living on work sites. I’d be available for the structural engineer’s visit and for all the inspections. It would save you from taking time off your day job to meet with inspectors and such.”

“I don’t know how I feel about having you in what is essentially a shed. My mom would skin me alive for not inviting you to stay in the house. I’ve got five fuckin’ bedrooms. Bet one of ‘em would suit you.”

I snort a laugh. “No offense, but you’re still a complete stranger wearing a biker cut. My mom would skin me alive if I took you up on that deal. She’d be terrified of me ending up being featured on a Dateline episode.”

His mouth twitches into an almost smile. “We could always give them each other’s numbers and let them fight it out between themselves.”

I laugh at the thought of our mothers fighting it out. “Trust me, the garage is fine,” I tell him. “I’ve got a cot in my truck, a travel camp stove, and my own supplies. If you clear a corner for me and run a power strip, I’ll be good.”

He looks towards the garage, then back at me. “Alright,” he says finally. “But if you change your mind, just come into the house and pick a bedroom, alright?”

“Alright,” I say, thinking to myself that it’ll never happen in a million years. When we shake on the deal, his hand is warm, rough, and calloused. The contact lasts a second too long, but neither of us pulls away too fast. When our hands part, I turn towards my truck, flipping the sketchpad shut.

I get into my truck and tell him, “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. The hotel’s not far. I just need to pack up and check out.”

He nods, looking like he’s none too happy about putting me in less-than-generous lodging. “I’ll get to work cleaning out a place for you to set up your cot.”

I pull the door to my truck shut and look at him through the open window.

He’s still standing there, hands on his hips, staring at me like he doesn’t know what else to say to convince me to stay in the house with him.

I realize it probably makes him feel like I think he’s untrustworthy or psycho.

I don’t know what to say to make him feel better about the situation either.

When he doesn’t say anything, I just pull away, glancing back at him in the rear-view mirror as I drive off.

***

I make short work of packing up my stuff and signing out of the hotel.

Pulling out of the parking lot feels great, like I’m finally moving my life forward in a new and better direction.

Truth be told, my hot new employer isn’t taking advantage of me.

Not at all. If anything, I’m having it all my own way.

I’ve got a good-paying job designing the renovations, a free place to stay, and forty hours of weekly pay at ten bucks an hour.

In my book, this is a fantastic deal. I turn on the radio to a country channel and enjoy the ride back to my new temporary home.

By the time I get back two hours later, the garage looks very different.

Ghost has pulled out most of the junk, old tools, and rotten plywood, and stacked them into a burn pile out back.

He’s hooked up a large attic fan and placed it in a window to pull out all the stale air and dust. He’s got a shop vac and is in the process of vacuuming up all the sawdust. He’s also set up a folding table along one wall, freshly wiped down.

There’s a drip coffee maker, snack box, cooler with water bottles, and a neatly folded wool blanket and pillow.

He’s run an extension cord wound along the floor from the main house, feeding a plug strip that now powers a shop light and a small space heater.

He doesn’t say much when I step inside. He just gestures at the setup and ducks out of the garage.

I get the feeling he still isn’t happy with me staying in the garage, but he’s done everything he can think of to make me comfortable.

And that tells me everything I need to know about the kind of man he is.

Looking around, I decide it’s not a fancy setup. But it’s enough for me in this moment.