LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

finger impatiently, Regan waited while the images loaded. The instant they had, she brought up the pictures of the stranger.

      Clicking on his face in the first one, she enlarged the photo until she could see every detail. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared into his deep blue eyes. “Oh, my,” she murmured, pressing her hand to her chest. Her heart was pounding beneath her palm and she tried to draw a deep breath again.

      The photo showed the mist and the sunlight filtering through the trees and catching the sheen of moisture on his face and body. It all combined to produce a beautiful image of an incredibly stunning man. Regan swallowed hard as she reached out to touch her computer screen.

      In the image, he was holding his arms out, challenging her to shoot. His smile was playful, teasing...as if he knew exactly how to make her laugh. And she had laughed.

      Handsome and sexy and funny. Exactly what she looked for in a man. Since Jake, she didn’t need to worry about anything else—like fidelity or honesty or loyalty. She never allowed her relationships to reach the point where those qualities made a difference. She wasn’t looking for Prince Charming anymore. But that didn’t mean she’d didn’t want a man in her bed every now and then.

      She had twenty-four hours. Then she’d walk the road again and hope that this charming, sexy guy was a creature of habit.

      * * *

      A BRISK BREEZE sent leaves skittering across the main street of the small town of Pickett Lake. Jamie Quinn got out of his pickup and looked both ways before jogging to the opposite sidewalk. He climbed the front steps of the old hardware store, reaching into his jacket pocket for the business card of a local real estate agent.

      He’d arrived in town yesterday evening, taking a room at a local motel. After a decent night’s sleep, a great morning run, an odd encounter with a feisty photographer and a hearty breakfast, he was ready to get down to business.

      Jamie was on a strict schedule that didn’t allow for any flexibility. He had just two more weeks to find a piece of land before he was scheduled to start building his first modular home. After that, every hour would be accounted for on a time sheet that would be analyzed and discussed between him and his two business partners.

      He stepped inside the store, the old wood floors creaking beneath his feet as he searched for a friendly face. He noticed that the other patrons were simply piling their purchases on the counter, then going back through the aisles to fetch the additional items they needed.

      An elderly man nodded at him. “Can I help you find anything, sir?”

      “I’m looking for Walt Murphy,” Jamie said.

      “Can I tell him what it’s about?”

      “I’m Jamie Quinn. I called him yesterday. I’m looking to lease a lot with lake frontage.”

      “You want to rent a piece of property?” the man asked.

      “No, just the land...it’s kind of a complicated story. Can you get Walt?”

      “He’s in the back. Let me fetch him for you,” the clerk said.

      The idea for Habikit had come a few years ago, as he and two friends had gone out for beers after a hockey game. Sam Fraley, an architect, and Rick Santino, a construction contractor, had been arguing about the “tiny house” movement and the potential effects it could have on the construction industry.

      But Jamie had argued that it offered intriguing possibilities to provide prefabricated homes to the homeless. There’d been a time in his life when safe and warm housing wasn’t always a given, and he’d been searching for the opportunity to do something to help others in the same situation.

      And so the Habikit was born. The materials for a complete two-hundred-square-foot home would be packed in a box and shipped to wherever it was needed. They’d designed each kit to be a module that could be expanded to make a larger home for a reasonable price. Sam and Rick and Jamie worked to make the kit simple to construct, with a minimum of tools and equipment. They’d also focused on making the kits “green” and using recycled materials whenever possible, achieving a nearly net-zero carbon footprint.

      It had been a labor of love for the three of them, and after a year of designing, they’d built their first module together, donating it to a homeless housing project in Minneapolis. The tiny home had garnered a multitude of awards, along with the interest of investors. But those investors were looking for proof that Jamie and his friends could make a profit. So they’d devised phase two—using the concept to build a vacation home.

      The sale of modular vacation homes would provide a major source of funding for the nonprofit homeless project. But it wasn’t enough to make up a brochure with an illustration. Investors wanted to see a real home built in a natural setting and they were in danger of losing their most important investor if the project wasn’t finished within a month.

      So Jamie had set out to lease a piece of waterfront property. Once he’d obtained the proper permits, he’d build Habikit’s first multi-module home, documenting it along the way with photos and videos for the instruction manual.

      “Excuse me? Can you help me?”

      Jamie turned to find an elderly woman standing behind him. Her pale blond hair was swept into a tidy knot and her smooth skin made it impossible to guess her age. She wore a canvas coat, khakis and knee-high wellies.

      “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t work here.”

      She smiled, her blue eyes twinkling. “I don’t need your expertise. I just need your eyes. You wouldn’t think I’d have to carry a magnifying glass around with me, but I can’t read the directions.”

      “I can help you out with that,” Jamie said, taking the package of glue from her fingers. He read off the instructions, and when the woman realized it wasn’t what she was looking for, he helped her find an epoxy that would work better.

      “Thank you for your help.”

      “I was happy to come to your rescue, madam,” Jamie said.

      She held out her hand. “Celia Macintosh,” she said. “And what’s your name, young man?”

      “James Quinn. But everyone calls me Jamie,” he said.

      “Jamie, I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said. “You’re looking to lease some land?”

      “I am,” Jamie said. “And it has to have lake frontage. It’s hard to find someone willing to rent a piece of lake property. Especially for the price I can pay.”

      “Mr. Quinn?”

      Jamie turned to see a middle-aged man approach. He was dressed in a comfortable sport coat and a neatly pressed shirt. His graying hair was shaggy and he looked like he’d been taking a nap. “Mr. Murphy?”

      The real estate broker held out his hand. “Walt Murphy. What can I do for you?”

      “Nothing,” Celia said. “Mr. Quinn doesn’t need your help anymore.” She cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Mr. Quinn, I have a lovely little spot that I might be interested in leasing. To the right person.”

      “Since when do you have land to lease, Miss Celia?” Walt asked.

      “Never you mind.” She gave Jamie a coy smile. “Come along, Mr. Quinn, we have business to discuss.” She handed the package of glue to Walt. “Walter, say hello to your mother for me. And get yourself a haircut!”

      “Miss Celia, I seem to recall that your property is held in a trust. You aren’t authorized to lease it to a third party,” Walt said. “Maybe Mr. Quinn should talk to your granddaughter before you make any decisions. Miss Regan knows best.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous,” Celia said. “I can make these decisions on my own. I don’t need Regan’s help. And I do have property of my own. I have Maple Point.”

      Walt frowned. “You’d consider selling

Скачать книгу