Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
I nod, still surveying the scene. The greenhouse looks to be in poor condition, with raggedy plastic walls and a hole in the roof. The shanty is even worse. It’s run down and saggy, with a small porch that’s missing a step. The windows look brand new, like they were put in recently, but it’s a stark contract to the rotting wood of the walls, and the shingles falling off the roof.
I pause for a moment.
“Have you fireproofed this place?” I rumble.
Grace perks up, her eyes bright, and she looks beautiful with her blonde ponytail bouncing and a smile on her lips.
“Yes, after the Tahoe Fire, my brother and dad came by and did a huge retrofit. They put in the new fire-safe windows, and replaced some of the shingles on my roof with new ones. Everything’s Class A rated now.”
I nod slowly, studying the design.
“Okay, but wood shake roofs generally aren’t fire-proof on their own. You have a shake roof, not a shingle one, Grace. Shingles are typically machine-sawn, with cuts varying from being along the grain and against the grain. Meanwhile, shakes are hand-split, ensuring that one of its sides is always along the grain. Shakes are generally more wind and water resistant, but when it comes to fire, the shakes need to be treated with retardant just like any wood-based roof covering. Are the new ones treated? How about the old ones?”
Grace looks confused but then pushes out her bottom lip.
“I’m sure all the shakes are treated,” she says quickly. “My brother and dad know what they’re doing. They’re pros at this.”
I nod, still surveying the roof which shows obvious patches of new work. Still, I shake my head.
“Yeah, but to be Class A, shakes generally need to be installed with special sheathing to increase their fire resistance in addition to being fire-treated. That shit is done by specialists, and not home handymen. Did your family hire professionals to take care of this?”
Grace’s bottom lip juts out even more.
“No, because my brother and dad are plenty handy themselves. They’ve always taken care of all our home repairs, and they’re good with cars too. My dad has always changed his own oil, and my brother practically built his hot rod from scraps from the junk yard! I’m sure it’s fine.”
I nod again, but inside I’m disgusted because what man would let his daughter live in such a shit place that’s obviously not fireproof? Besides, I don’t care how good these dudes are with their hands. Fire-readiness is a big deal in our part of the world, and it’s best done by professionals. Pros have the tools, knowledge, and experience to make sure people stay safe. This is obviously a shoddy install, given the misaligned shingles and patchy exterior.
I survey the windows then. They look like eyes in a haunted house, with their metal lined frames and thick, dual panes.
“Okay, so the windows are new.”
Grace nods happily, her ponytail bouncing again.
“Yeah, my dad took out the old ones and put in double-paned ones that are resistant to fire. Of course, windows can’t stop a fire altogether because glass doesn’t do that, but the double panes provide protection against wind-blown embers, and help with energy conversation and insulation too. It’s toasty in my cabin during winter,” she brags. “So hot that sometimes I walk around naked!”
I have a brief vision of the young woman prancing around nude in her small house, her big breasts bouncing and a sweet smile on her face. Her bottom is round and full, and fuck, but she’d look amazing on all fours, waiving that sweet puss at me.
But I have to stop because Grace obviously isn’t a temptress trying to lure an unsuspecting man into her home. Instead, she’s living like a church mouse, with probably only the most basic of amenities at her disposal. My guess is that she’s got one tiny bathroom inside, connected to a sump pump to handle sewage. Her water probably comes out of the faucet in a dribble, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s heating water over a stove for her baths.
Fuck. Who lives like this? Who treats their daughter like an impoverished Cinderella, letting her reside halfway up a remote mountain by herself? This shanty fucking sucks, and there’s no way I’d let my daughter spend one night in these shitty digs.
Plus, the curvy girl looks poor. Don’t get me wrong because she’s a vision of good health with shiny, bouncy blonde hair, clear skin, and a plush pink pout. But the woman is dressed in what most people would consider rags. Her sweater’s patched at the elbows, and I see how her jeans are frayed at the hem. Her hair smells good, but it’s that homemade shit that women make with their own hands when they don’t have access to fancy salon treatments. Plus, her shoes are scruffy, beat-down sneakers with a hole in the toe. Is this for real? Do I have a young woman stricken by poverty living next door to my multi-million dollar lodge?