CHAPTER 14
It's the house.
The perfect two-story yellow house.
The dream house in my painting.
I stand there. Frozen and unable to believe what I’m looking at—not until the very real biker beside me squeezes my hand and says, “Come on.”
We walk through the gorgeous blue door of the house that used to only exist in my painting into a very real interior. It has all the things. Rustic gray and brown barnyard floors. Linen white walls that still smell faintly of paint. And just enough furniture to make it livable.
I spot a couch in the front room with a flatscreen TV hanging on its opposite wall as Waylon guides me through the space and into a large kitchen dotted with stainless steel appliances and a six-burner range stove. Only a single table graces the vast space, but there’s an overs
