Page 10 of This Love is Under Construction

We unload the supplies in companionable silence, both of us clearly relieved to focus on physical tasks instead of emotional undercurrents. Owen starts organizing materials with his usual methodical precision. I help where I can, trying not to mess up his system.

“We’ll start excavating around the existing foundation tomorrow,” he says as we work. “Today is prep and planning. I need to finalize the structural drawings now that we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Can I see them?” I ask. “The drawings. I want to understand what we’re doing. Even if I can’t contribute much beyond manual labor and enthusiastic demolition.”

Owen hesitates. Then nods. “They’re in my truck. Let me finish setting up.”

While he arranges the tools, I wander the partially demolished interior, trying to visualize what this space could be.

Morning light filters through the existing windows—small, practical, and mostly intact despite the rest of the house falling apart.

I stand where I imagine my window seat will go, facing west, and close my eyes.

When I open them, Owen is standing in the doorway, watching me with an unreadable expression. He holds a roll of blueprints and a notebook.

“Here,” he says, spreading them across the folding table. “This is what I’m thinking for the foundation and basic structure.”

I lean in, genuinely interested. Despite my complete lack of construction knowledge, I can appreciate the precision and thought behind the designs.

Owen walks me through them patiently, pointing out how the new foundation addresses the land’s slope, where water will drain, and how it’ll all come together.

“And this is the preliminary floor plan,” he adds, unrolling another sheet. “Based on the original footprint. Adjusted for functionality.”

I study it. Efficient. Logical. And soulless .

“It’s very... practical,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

“That’s generally the goal in construction.”

“But where’s the joy? The personality?” I glance around. “May I?”

He nods, and I grab a pencil from his tool pouch. I’ve never designed a house before, but spatial flow has always been my thing—layouts, venues, events. I shift the kitchen, sketch in the window seat on the west wall, move the loft ladder. Small changes. Subtle shifts in energy.

“This,” I say, stepping back, “opens the space. The seat becomes a focal point. The kitchen gains a real flow. And you get a sightline straight through the house to the trees. It feels bigger—even if it’s not.”

Owen is quiet a beat too long.

Then: “You have a good eye for space.”

I blink. “Really?”

“These changes are... thoughtful,” he says, which from Owen might as well be shouting.

“I’ll take that as high praise.”

He studies the modified plans. “The window seat would need additional structural support. And the larger windows would affect heating efficiency. But... it might work better than my original layout. For livability.”

“Can I quote you on that? ‘Might work better than my original layout’?” I smile. “That’s basically a gold star.”

“I’ll revise the plans,” he says. “After we address the foundation.”

“Foundation first. Always foundation first.” I grin. “But then? Big, beautiful windows and a seat to watch the world from.”

Something like a smile flickers across his face. “You’re very persistent.”

“It’s my only redeeming quality. That and my ability to rock a hard hat.”

This time, I’m sure I see it—a real, albeit fleeting, smile.

“I need to measure the existing frame again before finalizing these revisions. You should check in with Marge—she mentioned helping you with the camper this afternoon.”

“Oh, I forgot about that. She offered to lend me cleaning supplies and teach me how to check for leaks.” I glance at my watch. “It’s already past noon.”

“You’ll survive an afternoon away from the build,” he says. “I’ve managed construction projects before you arrived, Ms. Winslow.”

“Well, I had three more impassioned speeches prepared,” I say, grabbing my bag.

“I’m devastated to miss them.”

“I’ll save them for the next design meeting.”

He nods, already returning to the plans.

I pause at the door. “Thanks for considering my ideas. I know I’m not exactly... a construction expert.”

He looks up. “Different perspectives have value. Even impractical ones.”

Coming from Owen Carver, that feels like a breakthrough.

The afternoon passes in a blur of camper cleaning and town errands.

Marge proves to be a fountain of knowledge about vintage trailers, having owned one in the seventies “during my wild years,” which she refuses to elaborate on despite my curious prodding.

By late afternoon, the camper is considerably less disgusting—clean windows, a functional door seal, and surfaces that no longer feel sticky to the touch.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” Marge declares, surveying our progress. “The plumbing’ll need professional attention, but the structure’s sound. These old Airstreams were built to last.”

“It’s not actually an Airstream,” I point out. “The badge says ‘SilverStream,’ which I’m pretty sure is a knockoff.”

“Knockoff or not, it’s better made than half the houses built today,” Marge says firmly. “A little TLC and it’ll be a perfectly good temporary home while Owen works his magic on the main house.”

Owen. I check my phone, surprised to see it’s already after six. He’d mentioned leaving around this time to check on his father. The property will be empty, but I find myself reluctant to call it a day. The window seat discussion earlier made everything feel more real. More mine.

“I think I’ll head back to the property,” I tell Marge. “There are a few more measurements I want to take for the window placement.”

She gives me a knowing look. “Just be careful out there alone. And don’t touch Owen’s tools. He’s particular about those.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” I assure her, though I’m already thinking about the section of drywall we left unfinished. Just a few small cuts. Nothing dramatic. Surely Owen wouldn’t mind if I got a head start.

The property is quiet when I arrive. Owen’s truck is gone, and the house stands silent in the golden evening light.

I let myself in, immediately noticing the progress he made in my absence—more damaged materials cleared, new spray-paint markings on the floor.

Probably where the foundation supports will go.

I walk to the west wall, where my future window seat will be, and stand there imagining the view through wider panes.

The setting sun filters through the trees, casting dappled patterns across the rough floorboards.

It’s beautiful in a way I never would’ve appreciated before—the play of light and shadow, the quiet rustling of leaves, the sense of being both sheltered and connected.

My phone buzzes with a text from Abby:

Update me! Has the hot lumberjack fallen for your city girl charm yet? Or are you still pretending this is just about renovation?

I roll my eyes and type back:

It IS just about renovation. And he’s a carpenter, not a lumberjack. Though he does own an alarming number of flannel shirts.

Her response is immediate:

Same difference. Does he have the forearms? They always have the forearms.

I think of Owen’s rolled-up sleeves, the muscles in his forearms as he worked, the way he handles tools with ease.

No comment on the forearms,

I reply, already feeling my cheeks warm.

HA! I knew it. You’re totally into Lumber Owen.

CARPENTER Owen. And I’m not “into” him. He’s my contractor. There’s a whole rule about it.

Your rules are made to be broken. Like your house.

I laugh despite myself, then tuck my phone away and scan the room again. There’s still daylight left, and I’m itching to do something productive. I spot the section of drywall marked with Owen’s blue tape—prepped for removal.

How hard could it be? I’ve watched Owen do it at least three times. Careful cuts. Slow prying. Nothing aggressive.

I find a utility knife in the tool area, remembering how he used it to score along the studs. I approach the marked section, visualizing the steps. Score, pry, remove. Simple.

The first cut goes clean. The second, just as smooth. I get bolder on the third—apply more pressure.

The knife slips .

Pain flares across my palm as the blade nicks skin. A bright line of red appears almost instantly. “Shit!” I drop the knife, clutching my hand.

It’s not deep, but it’s bleeding. I glance around for something to press against it and grab the cleanest rag I can find near Owen’s tools, applying pressure as best I can.

“This is fine,” I mutter. “Totally fine. Just a minor flesh wound. No one needs to know.”

I’m so focused on my hand that I don’t hear the truck pull up outside. Don’t register the footsteps on the porch. Don’t realize I’m no longer alone until?—

“What are you doing?”

I spin around, rag still clutched in one hand, to find Owen standing in the doorway, his expression caught between concern and exasperation.

“I, um, thought I’d get a head start on today’s demolition?” It comes out more question than statement. “Just the section you marked. Nothing fancy.”

His eyes drop to my hand, where blood is seeping through the fabric. “You’re bleeding.”

“Barely,” I say quickly. “Just a scratch. The knife slipped.”

Owen crosses the room in three long strides, gently taking my hand and peeling the rag back to examine it. His touch is steady and warm.

“It’s not deep,” he says, “but it needs cleaning. First aid kit’s in my truck.”

He leads me outside and grabs a well-stocked kit from behind the seat. With a precision that should be annoying but is oddly comforting, he cleans the cut (ow), applies ointment (sting), and wraps it in gauze.

“Thank you,” I say when he’s done. “I swear I wasn’t trying to destroy anything important. Just that one section of drywall.”

“With a utility knife and no gloves,” he notes, voice flat but his expression gentler than expected.

“In my defense, I’ve watched you do it at least three times.”