Page 22 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

NINE

Keaton arrived at the site before the crew.

Not uncommon. He parked the truck at the far end of the lot—the one spot that didn’t look like it might swallow his tires whole—and stepped into the still-cool morning air, making a mental note to at least get some gravel in here until they were ready to repave the parking lot.

The building loomed before him, tired and forgotten, its weathered brick facade catching the light with a kind of stubborn dignity.

He stared at the structure for a long beat, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other.

This place wasn’t just a project. It was a promise to himself, to his dad, to the town.

He remembered when it was alive with tenants when he was a kid.

One of his friends had lived on the second floor at the end of the hall.

But then, the factory in town closed, and the families moved on, hoping to find a way to support themselves.

Eventually, enough apartments were vacated that the property management company simply forgot about it and let it fall into a state of disrepair.

After that, it wasn’t long before the city proclaimed the building unfit for living.

The old apartment building had sat empty for years, but Keaton saw potential behind the cracked stucco and boarded-up windows.

He’d sunk a ridiculous amount of money—and more time than he’d admit—into the purchase.

Not because he needed another job, but because he wanted to build something for his future, something to bring new blood into town through affordable housing options. Something solid.

If he could pull this off, it might finally feel like he was building toward something more permanent than punch lists and seasonal contracts.

Sure, the projects he worked on were all around town, but this was different.

This was his way of giving back to the community that had done so much for him over the years.

He took a sip of coffee and tapped through his checklist, already mentally shuffling the order of the day.

The foundation crew was scheduled to start at eight.

His heating and cooling guy would be here by nine to do a walk-through.

And somewhere in between, he needed to double-check that all the permits were in order so work could begin.

And it was about damned time. Between condition reports coming back worse than he’d anticipated and delays in pulling the permits, Keaton was starting to feel like he’d made a colossal mistake.

The sound of tires crunching gravel drew his attention. Finn’s car rolled in, followed by Luke’s, and then the slow trickle of subcontractors and employees.

“Morning, boss,” Finn called, hopping out and stretching like he hadn’t already been up for hours.

He’d beaten Keaton into the office every day for the past month, and every day he acted sketchy, shutting his laptop before Keaton reached the front office.

Something was definitely going on. If he didn’t trust Finn with his life, he’d have been worried.

“Barely,” Keaton muttered, glancing at the time. “We’re already behind. Did you bring the permits?”

Finn rolled his eyes and pulled out a manila envelope. “Oh ye of little faith. Of course. I knew you’d blow a gasket if they weren’t here before the contractors.”

“Thanks.” Keaton had been more stressed over this project than any other he could remember.

He chalked it up to needing these units to turn out nice without going over budget.

“And I’ll apologize ahead of time if I get snappy.

I slept for shit last night thinking about everything we need to get done.

The timetable is tighter than I’d like.”

Luke strolled over, sunglasses perched on his head and coffee from Sweet procrastinating to keep him close would be selfish.

Before backing out of his parking stall, he pulled his phone out to fire off a quick text.

I forgot to tell you that I’m having dinner with my family tonight. Sorry if you've already cooked.