Page 13 of This Love is Under Construction

“Someone had to take over the family business. Dad couldn’t work, bills were piling up, and I was still finishing school.” She shrugs, but her eyes give away the weight of it. “Owen didn’t hesitate. Packed up, moved home, and took over Carver & Sons within a week.”

I think of his precision, his quiet intensity, the way he studies spaces like they’re puzzles to solve. Of course he wasn’t just a contractor. He’s a designer, forced into a box he didn’t choose.

“That’s why Walt mentioned the ‘Carver curse,’” I say aloud. “It’s not just about unfinished projects. It’s about creative ambition cut short by responsibility.”

Maggie nods, impressed. “Walt told you that? He must like you. But yeah—it’s a family pattern. Grandpa was the same. Brilliant designer, stuck in practical construction to support his kids. Dad too. Now Owen.”

“Does he still design?” I ask, remembering how seriously he took my suggestions, how he redrew the plans to include the window seat.

“Officially, no. The business keeps him too busy. But…” She hesitates. “There are sketches. Late-night ideas. Things he works on when he thinks no one’s watching.”

“He’s incorporating some of my ideas,” I offer quietly. “Especially the window seat.”

Maggie raises her brows. “The window seat? Seriously? He fought Mom for years on that. Said it was an inefficient use of square footage.”

“He said that to me too,” I laugh. “But he’s redrawing the plans. ”

“Interesting.” Maggie gives me a look that makes me want to squirm. “ Very interesting.”

“It’s just a window seat,” I say quickly, though we both know it’s not.

“Sure it is.” She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. “Just like this is just a renovation.”

Before my face can get any hotter, I change the subject. “So, your dad—how’s he doing now?”

She lets me pivot. “Much better with therapy. His speech is almost back to normal, but he still can’t work. That said, he’s taken on the role of Owen’s unofficial quality control manager—inspects everything from his wheelchair and critiques like it’s his job.”

“That explains a lot about Owen’s perfectionism.”

“It’s genetic,” Maggie says with a smile. “But there’s more. After Dad’s stroke… Owen didn’t just give up his career. He ended his engagement, too.”

I nearly spill my coffee. “Owen was engaged ?”

“For about a year. Her name was Veronica. She was a designer, too—they met in Boston. She came here with him for a while, but… small-town life wasn’t for her. She left after six months.”

That hits closer to home than I want to admit. “That must’ve been hard.”

“Harder than he lets on.” Maggie’s gaze sharpens. “Owen doesn’t trust easily. Especially not people who aren’t from here. He’s seen too many come and go.”

“Like me,” I say quietly. “City girl with a wreck of a house.”

“Exactly like you. Which is why it’s interesting that he’s letting you have input. That he’s bringing Finn to work with you. That he mentioned you made good coffee.”

I lift my head. “He said that?”

She grins. “Gotcha. No, he didn’t. But your face says everything.”

I groan and cover my face. “There’s nothing to tell. It’s a working relationship. I have a rule about it.”

“A rule?” Her eyes sparkle with delight.

“Tiny House Rule #4: No catching feelings for the grumpy carpenter.”

“You made a rule?” Maggie looks positively gleeful. “That’s like making a rule not to get wet in a rainstorm.”

“It’s preventative!” I protest. “Like emotional weatherproofing.”

“How’s that going for you?”

Before I can answer, a truck rumbles up outside. Finn perks up and trots to the door.

“Speaking of the grumpy carpenter,” Maggie says, not bothering to lower her voice.

Owen appears in the doorway, tool belt already slung low on his hips. His gaze lands on Maggie, then shifts to me.

“Maggie.” His tone is wary. “What are you doing here?”

“Bringing coffee. Checking on your progress. Dad wants updates.”

“You could’ve called.”

“And miss your sunny morning personality? Never.” She stands and brushes off her jeans. “Besides, I wanted to get to know Penny properly. We barely talked at the hardware store.”

Owen glances at me, something unreadable in his expression. “Did you?”

“Very productive,” Maggie says before I can speak. “I was just showing Penny your old treehouse photos.”

His expression darkens. “You what ?”

“Relax,” she says breezily. “No awkward phase pics. Just the impressive ones.”

He looks to me. “They weren’t that impressive.”

“They were incredible,” I say honestly. “You had serious design instincts even back then.”

He looks away, but not before I catch a flicker of something—maybe embarrassment, maybe pride .

“They were structurally unsound.”

“But beautiful,” I counter. “Form and function.”

Maggie watches us like it’s her favorite show. “Well, I’d better go. Some of us have jobs with schedules.” She starts toward the door, then pauses by her brother. “Don’t forget dinner Sunday. And bring?—”

“I know,” Owen cuts in, clearly ready for her to leave.

Maggie flashes me a smile over her shoulder. “Nice chatting, Penny. We should do it again. Without supervision.”

“Goodbye, Maggie,” Owen says flatly.

When she’s gone, silence settles like sawdust. Owen busies himself unpacking tools, more abrupt than usual.

“She just showed up,” I say. “I didn’t ask about the photos.”

“It’s fine,” he mutters. “Maggie has boundary issues.”

“If it helps, I really was impressed. The treehouse, especially. Multiple levels? A pulley system? That’s some advanced kid engineering.”

Owen doesn’t look up. “It collapsed after two winters.”

“But it lasted two winters.” I smile. “That’s impressive for a solo project by a twelve-year-old.”

Finally, he turns. His expression has softened. “You’re easily impressed.”

“Or maybe you’re overly critical of your younger self.” I add, “Thanks again for considering the window seat. Maggie mentioned it was a sore subject.”

“What else did Maggie say?” he asks warily.

I hedge. “Just about your dad. Boston. That you came back.”

He nods once, accepting that. I’m grateful he doesn’t press—because I’m not sure how much he’d want me to know.

“The subfloor materials arrived,” he says, pivoting away from the personal. “If we start now, we can finish today.”

“Just tell me where to start.” I stretch my arms. “I’ve been practicing my hammer technique.”

We fall into rhythm, the tension thinning as we work side by side.

Around noon, a sleek black pickup pulls up outside, gleaming like it’s never seen a dirt road.

“Expecting someone?” I ask, wiping sweat from my forehead.

Owen looks up—and instantly stiffens. “No.”

A tall man strides up to the doorway. Sandy hair. Clean jeans. Button-down sleeves perfectly rolled. Smile like he’s auditioning for a beer commercial.

“Well, well,” he says, stepping inside. “The famous Sequin Shack. Looks like you’re making progress, Carver.”

“Blake,” Owen says coolly. “What do you want?”

“Just being neighborly.” Blake’s gaze swings to me. “You must be Penny. The city girl brave enough to take on this place.”

“That’s me,” I say, self-conscious of my sweaty tank top and dust-covered jeans. “Penny Winslow.”

“Blake Reynolds.” He offers a suspiciously clean hand. “Reynolds Custom Homes. I’m the other builder in town. Though I lean more high-end.”

We shake hands. I notice Owen step closer.

“I’ve heard about you,” Blake says, not letting go right away. “Word is you’re doing the work yourself. Impressive.”

“Blake,” Owen says tightly, “did you need something?”

“Just dropping in.” Blake’s smile turns sharp. “Offering my professional opinion, if needed. Always good to have options.”

“We’ve got it covered,” Owen says.

Blake looks at me. “If you ever want a second opinion—or a real design consultation—I just finished a lakeside property with some... innovative space solutions.”

“She’s not interested,” Owen says, stepping between us.

Blake raises an eyebrow. “ We, huh? Owen Carver collaborating on design? The rumors must be true.”

“What rumors?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Blake’s smile turns smug. “That this project is different. Special attention from Maple Glen’s most dedicated bachelor. Walt says he hasn’t seen Owen this invested in a renovation since… well, ever.”

Owen’s jaw tightens visibly. “Don’t you have your own projects to manage?”

“Always,” Blake replies, unbothered. “But none as interesting as this one.” He turns back to me. “My offer stands. If you want a second opinion on anything—design, materials, timeline—I’m just a call away.”

He produces a business card like some kind of magician. I take it automatically, aware of Owen watching the exchange with a jaw set tight enough to crack stone.

“Thanks,” I say evenly. “But Owen and I have a good system going.”

“I’m sure you do.” Blake’s tone is coated in innuendo. “Still, options are always good. Especially when you’re new in town.”

“We need to get back to work,” Owen cuts in, voice flat. “The subfloor won’t install itself.”

“Of course.” Blake steps toward the door, then pauses like he can’t help himself. “Oh, by the way—I saw one of your birdhouses on Elm Street yesterday. The new design with the copper roof? Nice touch. You should sell those instead of leaving them around town like some kind of carpenter vigilante.”

Owen goes utterly still.

Birdhouses?

I glance at him, confused. It’s the first I’ve heard of them, though something clicks—Walt mentioning Owen “leaving things behind.” I’d assumed it was tools or random lumber, not handcrafted little homes for birds.

“Goodbye, Blake,” Owen says, his tone flat enough to kill small talk in a ten-mile radius.

Blake lifts a hand in mock farewell. “Always a pleasure.”

The door swings shut behind him, and the silence he leaves behind is thick and uncomfortable.

I want to ask about the birdhouses. I want to ask about a lot of things. But Owen’s tension is radiating so intensely I half expect it to short-circuit the power tools.

“So,” I say, aiming for light, “I’m guessing you two aren’t in the same bowling league.”

There’s a beat. Then Owen exhales—just enough to let the tightness in his shoulders slip a notch. His mouth tugs, just slightly.

“We were partners once,” he says. “It didn’t end well.”

“Business partners?” I blink. That… wasn’t what I expected.

“Briefly.” He picks up his hammer, signaling the conversation is over. “It was a mistake.”

I want to press—about the partnership, about their whole Alpha Contractor energy—but Owen’s back is already to me, his posture stiff and final.

So I grab my gloves and return to the subfloor, letting the rhythm of work ease the tension neither of us will name.

Later, as we’re cleaning up for the day, the silence between us feels less like a wall and more like a space we’ve both agreed to respect. Still, my thoughts spin.

Maggie’s stories. The childhood treehouse. Boston. The fiancée who left. The late-night sketches. The birdhouses he doesn’t tell anyone about.

Each new detail feels like a light turning on in another room of a house I thought I’d already walked through. And now I’m realizing I’ve barely made it past the foyer.

I came to Maple Glen to rebuild a house—not to care about a man who keeps his blueprints close to his chest and his past even closer. But as I think back to the photo of twelve-year-old Owen standing in front of his treehouse, beaming with pride, I feel it again—that unexpected shift.

Like I’ve found a corner of this place that wasn’t in the original plans.

But now, I don’t want to leave it.