Page 11 of This Love is Under Construction

“Watching isn’t the same as knowing,” he says, snapping the kit shut. “These tools are dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Properly chastised, I glance down at my hand. “I know. It was dumb. I just wanted to feel useful.”

Owen studies me for a moment, and something in his face softens. “You are useful. But not if you injure yourself trying to prove it.”

“Noted.” I lift my hand slightly. “I should probably add a new rule to my tiny house list. ‘No solo demolition after contractor leaves.’”

“Make it ‘No power tools after 10 PM,’” Owen says. “Covers more scenarios.”

I laugh, surprised. “That’s actually perfect. Rule number three: no power tools after 10 PM.”

“I thought rule three was ‘Prove them wrong’?”

I stare at him. “You remembered that?”

“I pay attention to most things,” he says, shrugging. “Especially safety issues.”

We stand there for a moment in the quiet, the sky shifting into twilight. I’m hyper-aware of how close he is, how his fingers brushed mine when he wrapped the bandage, how the light makes his features look softer, more... something.

“I should get back to Marge’s,” I say, voice a little too bright. “Early start tomorrow, right?”

He nods. “Foundation work begins at eight. Wear clothes you don’t mind ruining. And the work gloves I gave you.”

As I drive back to town, I can’t help replaying the moment in my head—the concern in Owen’s eyes, the gentleness of his touch as he bandaged my hand, the fact that he remembered my ridiculous tiny house rules. It feels significant somehow, though I’m not sure exactly what it signifies.

Back at Marge’s, I’m heading up to my room when her voice calls from the parlor.

“Penny? Is that you, dear? ”

I detour to find her sitting with two other women I vaguely recognize from The Griddle. They all look up with identical expressions of barely contained curiosity as I step in.

“There she is,” one woman says, nudging the other. “Told you she was pretty.”

“Um, thank you?” I glance at Marge, who at least has the grace to look mildly apologetic.

“Penny, these are my friends Dorothy and Jean. They were just leaving,” she says, pointedly.

“Oh, don’t rush us out,” Dorothy protests. “We just wanted to meet the famous auction house girl. The whole town’s talking about you and Owen Carver.”

“About my house renovation,” I correct quickly, the discomfort settling in. “There’s nothing else to talk about.”

The women exchange knowing looks that make me want to sink through the floor.

“Of course, dear,” Jean says, tone suggesting she believes exactly the opposite. “Though I should warn you, there’s a bit of a... well, a friendly wager going around.”

“The betting pool,” I sigh. “Yes, I know. Walt told me. First frost is the favorite for when I’ll give up and leave town.”

Dorothy waves a hand like that’s old news. “Oh, that bet’s practically forgotten. The new pool is much more interesting.”

A sinking feeling coils in my stomach. “New pool?”

“Don’t mind them,” Marge cuts in, shooting her friends a warning look. “It’s just silly gossip.”

“About whether you and Owen Carver will kill each other or kiss each other first,” Jean says with obvious delight. “I’ve got five dollars on kiss by Thanksgiving.”

My face flames. “That’s ridiculous. We’re not—he’s my contractor. It’s a professional relationship.”

“Mmhmm,” Dorothy hums, unconvinced. “That’s why he spent twenty minutes bandaging your hand in his truck tonight? Very professional.”

I stare at her, stunned. “How do you even know about that? It happened less than an hour ago!”

The three women exchange amused glances. “Small town, dear,” Jean says sympathetically. “Maggie saw you from the hardware store delivery truck. She called her mother, who told Pastor Dave, who mentioned it to me at the post office.”

I open and close my mouth several times, trying—and failing—to produce anything other than sputtering.

“Don’t worry,” Dorothy says kindly, patting my arm as she stands. “Most of us are rooting for you two. Owen’s been alone too long. You’re just what he needs—someone to shake up his routine.”

“I’m not—we’re not—” I try to get words out as they gather their purses.

“It was lovely meeting you, dear,” Jean says, heading for the door. “Don’t mind the gossip. It means the town likes you.”

After they leave, I turn to Marge, who at least looks a little sorry.

“I’m sorry about that,” she says. “I should’ve warned you.”

“About the town betting on my love life?” I collapse into an armchair. “Is that actually happening, or were they just teasing me?”

Her silence is answer enough.

“Great,” I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Just great. It’s not enough they’re betting on when I’ll fail and leave—now they’re inventing a romance between me and my contractor.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Marge offers, “the leaving-town bets have definitely slowed down. People are starting to think you might actually stay.”

“Wonderful. Instead, they think I’m secretly pining for Owen Carver.” I peek at her through my fingers. “Which I’m not. At all. He’s my contractor. There’s a rule about it and everything.”

Marge’s lips twitch. “Of course, dear. More tea?”

I accept the change of subject with relief, but as I help her prepare it, I can’t stop thinking about the town’s new betting pool. It’s absurd, obviously. Owen and I are barely friends. He’s frustratingly rigid, annoyingly competent, and entirely focused on the job.

So what if he has nice forearms? So what if he listened to my window seat speech and actually considered my ideas? So what if his hands were gentle when he bandaged my cut?

It doesn’t mean anything.

It can’t mean anything.

Because the thing about small towns no one warns you about? They’re watching. Always watching.

And apparently taking bets on whether the city girl and the hometown carpenter will kill each other or kiss each other first.