Bay Drive. Close enough that, in hindsight, they could have easily walked. As Maxwell pulled into the lot, Kat couldn’t help but notice the sheer number of golf carts lined up alongside cars—a telltale sign that this was a favorite among Trailer Es- tates locals. The exterior of the Taphouse was hard to miss—a giant fiberglass shark loomed above the entrance, its gaping jaws wide open, a playful invitation for photos. A young fami- ly posed dramatically in front of it, the par- ents pretending to push their giggling kids toward the shark’s toothy maw. Kat smiled at the scene. Lighthearted. Fun. The kind of place she might not have no- ticed before but could easily grow to love. “We’re just in time to catch Happy Hour,” Maxwell observed as he cut the engine. “The outside patio has live music—best spot in the place.” True to form, he was out of the car first, rounding smoothly to her side before she even reached for the handle. A gentlemanly habit. Maxwell extended an arm under her elbow, guiding her toward the entrance—not force- ful, just assertive, like someone accustomed to being in control. The patio stretched wide beneath a protec- tive overhang, designed for comfort in any season. Tall standing heaters dotted the space for chillier nights, while oversized misting fans hung overhead, their soft hum barely noticeable above the acoustic guitar
strumming from the small corner stage.
Today, it was the fans at work, stirring the warm evening air into a gentle breeze. Kat caught a snippet of the musician’s song—a raspy, bluesy take on an old clas- sic—as Maxwell led her up the sloped walk- way.
The place was packed.
A few open tables remained, but not for long—behind them, a steady stream of pa- trons filtered in, scooping up the last availa- ble seats. Maxwell spotted one near the edge of the patio, pulled out a chair for Kat, and waited until she was seated before settling in across from her. She took in the lively atmosphere, the soft golden glow of string lights looped along the wooden beams, the gentle clink of glass- ware, the warm hum of conversation that filled the air.
And despite herself…
She felt at ease.
“But why Trailer Estates?” Kat asked a short while later, swirling her wine in her glass. “Surely there are more high-end, brick -and-mortar neighborhoods in Sarasota that would better suit an investor like you.” Maxwell’s lips curved slightly, as if amused by the question. “Granted,” she continued, “we own our own land here—no HOA fees, no lot rent. That keeps carrying costs low. But still, standard real estate should build faster equi-
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