"You want me to fix it?"
"You can fix a sidewalk?"
"I can fix most anything, except for that stupid truck."
"Um...no. That's okay."
"Let me fix it. I have to do something after scaring you half to death." He takes a large bandage out of his first aid kit.
"No. Really. Just forget it."
I don't want this guy hanging around my property. I still don't even know who he is or anything about him. So why did I let him in my house? I didn't. He just barged in, carrying me like I was Jane and he was Tarzan. He would make a good Tarzan with that dark hair and that body.
"There." He secures the bandage in place. "I'll leave you some extra bandages. You should change it once a day."
"Okay. Thanks." I lift my leg off him and sit up straight.
"I don't think I ever introduced myself." He holds his hand out. "Nash Wheeler."
I shake his hand. "Callista."
He smiles. "That's a nice name."
"I go by Callie."
"Also nice," he says, still smiling. "So are you home on college break?"
How do I answer that? I don't want him knowing too much about me, especially about what happened last year. I don't like talking about it, which is why I never do. In fact, nobody in this town even knows about it except Lou, my boss.
"Yeah. I'm home for the summer," I say, hoping to leave it at that.
"So you grew up here?"
"No, I'm from Chicago."
"Oh, yeah? Me too. So you just come down here for the summer?"
"Yeah."
"So where do you go to school?"
Too many questions. He needs to leave.
"I don't really have time to talk," I say. "I have some stuff to do, but thanks for your help. I'll see you around."
"Maybe we could talk later. You're the first person I've met here and I don't really know much about the town."
"There's not much to know. It's a small town. It's pretty boring."
"There must be something to do around here." He snaps the cover closed on his first aid kit.
"Not really. We have some bars downtown. And there's a state park close to here if you like to hike. That's about it."
"Drinking and hiking?" He smiles. "That's all there is to do?"
"Pretty much."
"I passed a bowling alley on my way into town. And I think I saw a golf course."
I shrug. "Well, there you go. There's all kinds of things to do. So why are you moving here?"
"I'm not moving here, at least not for good. I'm just here for a few months. I'm fixing up the house next door. It might get kind of noisy at times with the equipment, but I'll do my best to keep it down."
"And you're going to live in it while you work on it?"
"That's the plan," he says, leaning back on the couch.
I can't imagine anyone living in that thing. It's a dilapidated house with peeling paint and missing shingles. Why would anyone try to fix it up? It should be condemned.
"What are you doing to it?" I ask.
"Renovating it," he says confidently. "Top to bottom. The inside, outside. It's going to look great when it's done."
He's delusional. There's no way that house can be salvaged. It's really old, and Mr. Freeson lived there forever and never did any maintenance on it. The support beams are probably rotted out or eaten by termites. I'm surprised the house hasn't collapsed by now.
My house is just as old, but my stepdad was diligent about maintenance. He was always fixing stuff. Since the accident, I've done my best to take care of everything, but it's hard when it's just me. It's a small house on a small lot but it's still a lot to keep up, especially when you're only 21 years old and know almost nothing about home maintenance.
"I can't wait to get started." Nash nods toward the house. "As you can tell it needs a lot of work."
"Did someone hire you to do it?"
"No. I own it."
My brows rise. "You actually paid money for that?"
He laughs. A deep, easy laugh. "Come on. It's not that bad."
"It looks like it's falling apart."
"The structure's fine. It's just been neglected. I'll get it back to how it used to be."
"I think you're crazy." I blurt it out, then cover my mouth. "I'm sorry. That was rude."
He smiles. "Don't worry about it. Most people would agree with you. The house does look pretty bad. But I have a way of seeing things that other people can't. To me, it's not a crumbling old house. It's a house waiting to be saved. Waiting for someone to step in and take care of it. Breathe some life into it again." He reaches in his back pocket and takes out his wallet. He pulls out a business card and hands it to me. "That's what I do. Home renovation and construction, although we're starting to expand beyond just residential properties."
The card reads, Wheeler Construction and Renovation. Your Best Choice for Building and Remodeling.
"You own a company?"
"Sort of. My dad owns it and my brothers and I work for him, but when he retires, we'll take it over. Oh, and to answer your earlier question, I didn't buy the house. I inherited it."
"You're related to Mr. Freeson?"
"I'm his grandson."