Page 18 of This Love is Under Construction
@RenovationNation mentioned you in a post
“What the hell?” I mutter, thumbing through to find the source of the avalanche.
It hits me as soon as I see it: Renovation Nation, one of the biggest home renovation blogs—two million followers big—has featured my tiny house project in their “Transformations to Watch” series.
They’ve shared before-and-after shots of the foundation with a glowing caption about honesty and charm.
While most renovation accounts focus on the pretty ‘after’ shots, @ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction takes followers on the entire journey—foundation repairs, structural challenges, and all.
Penny Winslow’s candid documentation of her impulse-purchase tiny house in Maple Glen, WA (bought at auction after one too many glasses of champagne!) is equal parts informative and entertaining.
Her ongoing collaboration with local craftsman Owen Carver showcases traditional building techniques alongside modern design solutions.
We’re especially charmed by her advocacy for an impractical-but-perfect window seat.
This is renovation content that feels real in a sea of staged perfection.
I read it three times. My heart’s doing something between racing and stalling.
They get it. They like it.
My phone buzzes again—Abby.
OMG YOU’RE FAMOUS!!! Renovation Nation feature?! I’m screaming! Also your follower count is exploding! Also also did you kiss Lumber Owen yet because the tension in your posts is THICK
I type back:
1. Just saw it. In shock.
2. Almost 20K followers now
3. NO COMMENT on the Owen situation
Abby, naturally, replies instantly:
“NO COMMENT” = SOMETHING HAPPENED!!! I KNEW IT!!! SPILLLLLL
I ignore her and scroll through the comments.
They’re overwhelmingly positive—people asking smart questions, complimenting the honesty, and, of course, speculating about “the undeniable tension” between me and “the hot contractor.” If only they knew about the kiss in the supply closet during a storm three days ago. The internet would combust.
Not that I’ve been thinking about that kiss. Much. Hourly. Whatever.
Since then, we’ve kept things strictly professional. We’ve worked together to repair storm damage and finish the framing. The conversation we had that night—about why he stayed and why I run—still hangs between us. Acknowledged, not addressed. Like the kiss.
But I try to focus on the present. I take a screenshot of the follower count, then open my laptop to draft a post:
Woke up to find @RenovationNation featured our tiny house disaster-turned-project! Thank you for the kind words about our “refreshingly honest” approach—which is really just me documenting my questionable life choices in real time. To all the new followers: welcome to the renovation rollercoaster!
Yes, I really did buy this place drunk at auction.
Yes, the foundation was actually that bad.
And yes, the window seat is non-negotiable despite being “impractical.”
#ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TinyHouseHugeFeelings #ViralForMyBadDecisions
I hit post, then flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. Should I text Owen? He’s made it clear he wants to stay out of the social media spotlight, but this feels like the kind of heads-up he deserves.
Before I can decide, my phone rings. Marge.
“Hello?” My voice is still hoarse from sleep.
“Penny! Have you seen it? You’re famous!” Her usual calm innkeeper tone has been replaced with bubbling excitement.
“I just saw. It’s wild.”
“The whole town’s talking! Dorothy saw it on her granddaughter’s Instagram, and Walt’s already had three calls asking if we have vacation rentals nearby.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “This could be big for Maple Glen, dear. Really big.”
“I mean... maybe. It’s just a blog feature.”
“Don’t underestimate it. Remember Hickory Falls? That baking show turned them into a destination. Sometimes all it takes is a little exposure.”
Exposure.
The word lingers, weighted. The house project, newly exposed to an audience of strangers. My feelings for Owen, uncomfortably exposed to myself. And the night of the storm—every charged second of it—exposed something neither of us is ready to name.
“I should get to the site,” I tell her, glancing at the time. “Still lots to do.”
“Of course! I made apple cinnamon muffins to celebrate. Come down when you’re ready.”
When we hang up, I finally text Owen:
Heads up—our project got featured on Renovation Nation. Followers jumped overnight. Nothing to worry about, but wanted you to hear it from me first. Still keeping you out of all posts.
His reply comes faster than expected:
Thanks for the heads-up. See you at 8.
No emojis. No extra words. Just classic Owen.
I try not to read too much into it as I get dressed and gather my things, but it’s hard not to wonder. The kiss. The things we said. The silence afterward. Now a spotlight on our project threatens the balance we’ve been pretending still exists.
We agreed not to talk about what happened. We decided to be professional. But as my phone continues buzzing beside me and I think about the feel of his mouth on mine, the way he looked at me afterward... I’m not sure either of us meant it.
The tiny house looks different in the morning light—more like a real structure and less like the disaster zone I purchased two months ago.
The foundation is solid, the framing nearly complete, and the roof even has actual shingles on one section.
My window seat is taking shape on the west wall, the framing creating a perfect nook that will eventually hold cushions and, I hope, me with a book and coffee on quiet mornings.
Owen’s truck is already parked in its usual spot when I arrive. I find him inside, measuring and marking the bathroom wall framing with his usual methodical precision. Finn greets me enthusiastically, trotting over for his morning pets while his owner offers a more restrained acknowledgment.
“Morning,” Owen says, glancing up briefly before returning to his measurements. His voice is perfectly normal, his expression professionally neutral. Only the slight tension in his shoulders suggests he might be as hyperaware of my presence as I am of his.
“Morning,” I reply, aiming for casual and probably missing by several octaves. “Brought muffins. Marge made them to celebrate the blog feature.”
“Thoughtful of her.” He makes a mark on the wood, movements precise and controlled.
I set the muffin bag on the workbench and busy myself organizing materials, hyperconscious of the few feet of space between us. This is ridiculous. We’ve worked side by side for weeks without this awkward tension. One kiss in a closet during a storm shouldn’t change everything.
Except it has.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence that’s becoming uncomfortable, “what’s on the agenda today?”
“Finishing the bathroom framing,” Owen replies, still focused on his measurements. “Then electrical rough-in if we have time.”
“Great. Sounds great. Very... construction-y.” I wince at my own awkwardness. “I can start bringing in the electrical supplies from the truck?”
Owen nods, and I escape outside, grateful for the momentary distance. The cool morning air helps clear my head as I gather boxes of electrical components from his truck bed. When I return, Owen has moved to a different section of wall, creating a buffer of space between us that feels deliberate.
We work in relative silence for the next hour, the only sounds our movements and occasional brief exchanges about measurements or materials.
It’s not our usual comfortable quiet—it’s loaded with unspoken words and carefully maintained distance.
Every accidental brush of hands when passing tools creates a jolt of awareness we both pretend not to notice.
“Can you hold this level?” Owen asks, gesturing to a section of framing.
I move beside him, taking the level and holding it against the wood. We’re standing close enough that I can smell the now-familiar scent of coffee and sawdust that clings to him, can feel the heat radiating from his body in the cool morning air.
“Like this?” I ask, my voice betraying me by dropping to a near-whisper.
“Perfect,” he says, and our eyes meet for a fraction too long before we both look away.
The moment stretches, laden with everything we’re not saying. I focus intently on the level’s bubble, as if it holds the secrets of the universe rather than just confirming whether a piece of wood is straight.
“It’s level,” I announce unnecessarily, stepping back to create distance.
Owen nods, returning to his work with renewed focus. I retreat to my own task, organizing electrical boxes with more attention than the simple job requires.
This pattern continues throughout the morning—careful orbiting around each other, hyperawareness of every movement, moments of accidental eye contact that linger just long enough to acknowledge what we’re both trying to ignore.
Around eleven, my phone buzzes with another flood of notifications.
I check it to find my follower count has surpassed 25,000 and continues to climb.
The comment section on my latest post has exploded with questions about renovation techniques, tiny house living, and yes, multiple inquiries about “the hot carpenter” glimpsed in background shots.
“More social media stuff?” Owen asks, noticing my distraction.
“Yeah, it’s kind of snowballing,” I admit, showing him the screen. “Over twenty-five thousand followers now.”
He glances at the numbers, expression unreadable. “That’s significant.”
“It’s crazy is what it is,” I say, scrolling through comments. “People are asking about visiting Maple Glen, wanting to know where to stay if they come see the area. Marge might need to expand the B&B.”
“The town could use the business,” Owen observes, returning to his work. After a moment, he adds, “You’re good at this. The documentation. The storytelling.”