Page 19 of This Love is Under Construction

The compliment catches me off guard. “Thanks. It’s basically my PR background but applied to something I actually care about for once.”

Our eyes meet again, and this time neither of us looks away immediately. There’s something in his expression—a warmth, an assessment, a question I can’t quite decipher.

“You’ve found your audience,” he says finally. “That’s rare.”

“I’ve found my authentic voice,” I correct gently. “That’s rarer.”

The moment hangs between us, weighted with significance that extends beyond social media metrics. Then Finn barks at something outside, breaking the spell, and we return to our careful professional dance.

By lunchtime, I need a break from the tension. “I’m going to grab food from The Griddle,” I announce. “Want anything?”

“I’m fine,” Owen says, predictably. Then, less predictably: “ But thanks.”

“I’ll bring you something anyway,” I decide. “Contractor can’t work on an empty stomach. It’s Rule Number Five.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in what might almost be a smile. “I thought Rule Five was ‘Label all paint cans after The Closet Incident.’”

The word “closet” hangs in the air between us, suddenly charged with new meaning after the storm. Our eyes meet, and I know we’re both thinking of the same thing—pressed against shelving, his hands in my hair, the taste of coffee and rain and something uniquely Owen.

“Right,” I say, my voice slightly strangled. “That was definitely Rule Five. This can be... Rule Six, then.”

I flee before the blush burning my cheeks becomes too obvious, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us and the increasingly thin pretense that everything is normal.

The Griddle is bustling when I arrive, the lunch crowd in full swing. Heads turn as I walk in, conversations pausing before picking up again with extra animation. I catch fragments as I make my way to the counter—”social media,” “renovation,” “put Maple Glen on the map.”

Doris spots me from behind the counter, her usual efficient demeanor giving way to a genuine grin. “There she is! Our local celebrity!”

More heads swivel. I feel my cheeks flush. “Hardly a celebrity,” I say, sliding onto an empty stool. “Just a tiny house renovation people seem weirdly invested in.”

“Twenty-five thousand people,” says a voice to my left.

I turn. Jean. One of Marge’s friends from the infamous betting pool conversation. “Dorothy’s granddaughter checked your numbers this morning,” she adds. “Said you’re ‘trending’—whatever that means. ”

“It’s just a burst of attention,” I say, though I’m secretly pleased. “People love a good disaster-reno story.”

“And a good romance,” says another voice—Dorothy herself, appearing like Beetlejuice summoned by name. “The comments on your posts are very interested in you and Owen.”

My blush deepens. “We’re not—it’s professional.”

Dorothy gives me a look that could dry flowers. “Honey, I’ve been married fifty-three years. I know ‘professional.’ Whatever’s between you two? Isn’t that.”

Before I can respond, Doris slides a coffee across the counter. “On the house, celebrity. What’ll you have for lunch? Owen’s usual too?”

That Doris knows Owen’s “usual” without me specifying feels... significant. How many times have I picked up lunch for us? When exactly did that become a thing?

“Yes, please,” I say, ordering sandwiches. “To go.”

As Doris turns to prepare them, I feel the weight of conversations and sideways glances from every corner of the diner. The attention isn’t unfriendly—it’s curious. Eager. But after years in PR, building narratives for others while keeping myself in the wings, it’s... a lot.

“Don’t mind them,” Jean says. “Small town excitement. We don’t get many celebrities.”

“I’m really not?—”

“You’re on the board,” Dorothy cuts in, gesturing toward the back hallway.

“What board?” I ask, though a part of me already knows.

They exchange a glance that screams she’s not ready , then Jean sighs. “Might as well show her. She’d find out eventually.”

They lead me to a corkboard tucked beside the restrooms, half-hidden behind a potted plant—like someone tried to be discreet but didn’t really commit. It’s covered in color-coded sticky notes arranged in a rough calendar grid, with names, dates, and dollar amounts.

“The betting board,” I say aloud, stomach sinking. “For when I’ll leave town.”

“That one’s old,” Jean says, waving off a faded corner section. “This is the current pool.”

I step closer. My eyes scan the notes—and yep.

These are organized around relationship milestones.

Me and Owen. First public display of affection.

Official couple status. First town event together.

There’s even a “Marriage Proposal Timeline” section, with guesses ranging from Christmas to next summer.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “This is... wildly inappropriate.”

“It’s tradition,” Dorothy says primly. “We’ve had relationship pools since Walt and his wife got together in ‘72. It’s how the town shows it cares.”

“By gambling on people’s personal lives?”

“By caring enough to pay attention,” Jean corrects. “And all the money goes to the community center fund.”

I scan the board again, horrified and weirdly fascinated:

Maggie – $20 – First public kiss at Maple Festival (October)

Walt – $15 – Official dating by Thanksgiving

Marge – $25 – ‘Accidental’ overnight stay at tiny house before windows installed

“Marge is in on this?” I ask, betrayed.

“Marge started it,” Dorothy says, beaming. “Said she hasn’t seen two people fight their feelings this hard since that Hallmark movie we watched at Christmas.”

I press my fingers to my temples. “So the entire town is... watching us? Waiting?”

“Not the entire town,” Jean offers. “Pastor Dave refuses to participate officially. But his wife put five dollars on a New Year’s Eve kiss.”

“Too late for that one,” someone mutters behind me .

I turn. Doris, holding my takeout bag with the kind of knowing look you only get after thirty years of serving coffee in a town like this.

“How did you—we didn’t?—”

Doris raises an eyebrow. “Honey. I know the difference between ‘professional colleagues’ and ‘we kissed but we’re pretending we didn’t.’”

I take the bag in stunned silence, my carefully constructed bubble of plausible deniability popping like a weak tarp in a storm.

“Don’t look so embarrassed,” Dorothy says, patting my arm. “It’s a good thing. Owen hasn’t looked at anyone like that since Veronica.”

Her name hits like a pin to a balloon. “We’re just working on the house,” I insist, though it sounds weak even to me. “It’s temporary.”

The three of them exchange a look so loaded it could short-circuit a polygraph. But, mercifully, they let it drop as we return to the front counter.

I pay for the food despite Doris’s protests (“Local celebrities eat free!”) and retreat to the safety of my car. My heart’s pounding. My hands are shaking.

There’s an entire board dedicated to speculating about us . Sticky notes charting milestones in a relationship we won’t even admit to. And apparently, the town’s confidence in our chemistry is high enough to warrant a community-center fundraiser.

Are we really that obvious?

Or have we just been lying to ourselves while everyone else saw it from a mile away?

When I return to the tiny house, Owen is exactly where I left him, focused on the bathroom framing with Finn dozing nearby. He looks up as I enter, his expression softening just slightly at the sight of the food bag.

“Told you I’d bring something,” I say, setting the bag on the makeshift table. “Doris says hi, by the way. As does half the town. I’m semi-famous now.”

“I heard,” Owen replies, setting down his tools and washing his hands in our temporary utility sink. “Walt called. Said your renovation account is ‘putting Maple Glen on the map,’ whatever that means.”

“It means people are asking about visiting,” I say, unpacking the sandwiches. “Apparently tiny house renovation content creates tourism interest. Who knew?”

We sit across from each other, the familiar rhythm of shared lunch offering a brief pause in the morning’s tension. I consider telling him about the betting board but hold back. The last thing we need is another awkward layer on top of... everything.

“How’s the bathroom framing coming?” I ask instead.

“Almost done,” Owen says between bites. “We can start the electrical rough-in this afternoon.”

We eat in a silence that’s no longer strained, but not quite settled. I check my phone. The follower count has climbed past 30,000.

“This is surreal,” I mutter. “Two months ago I was running PR for overpriced juice cleanses. Now people actually care about my authentic content.”

“It’s good content,” Owen says simply. “You’re documenting something real.”

That lands deeper than I expect. “Exactly. For the first time, I’m not spinning a story—I’m telling the truth. Disasters and all.”

“People respond to authenticity,” he says, wiping his hands. “Even when it’s messy.”

Our eyes meet. And I wonder, just for a moment, if we’re still talking about social media .

Before I can ask, my phone pings with a new email notification. I glance down, then freeze.

Tiny House Transformations Productions

I open the message, heart pounding.

Dear Ms. Winslow,

I’m a producer with Tiny House Transformations, a renovation series on the Home & Hearth Network. We recently discovered your renovation account through the Renovation Nation feature and are very impressed with your project’s authenticity and unique story.

We’re currently planning our upcoming season and would be interested in featuring your tiny house renovation in an episode.

Our show highlights innovative small-space transformations with compelling personal narratives, and your journey—from impulsive auction purchase to thoughtful rebuild—checks all our boxes.

If you’re interested, we’d love to connect in the next few days. We’re aiming to film within 4–6 weeks depending on your timeline.

Looking forward to hearing from you,

Adele Hutchinson

Senior Producer, Tiny House Transformations

I read it twice. Maybe three times.

“What is it?” Owen asks, catching my expression.

“A TV show,” I say, barely managing to get the words out. “They want to feature the renovation. They want to film within the next month.”

His expression shifts—a slight tension in his jaw, the kind that’s easy to miss unless you’ve been watching him as closely as I have.

“A TV show,” he repeats, carefully neutral.

“It’s not reality drama,” I clarify quickly. “It’s a legit renovation series. They highlight craftsmanship and story. It could be huge exposure—for the project, for your work.”

“My work doesn’t need exposure,” he says quietly. “I already have more local jobs than I can take.”

It’s not an unexpected response, but it still lands with a thud. “I wouldn’t agree to anything without talking to you first. You’re part of this, too.”

Something flickers in his expression at the word part . Too quick to interpret.

“It’s your house,” he says finally. “Your decision.”

“But it’s our project,” I say, the words out before I can overthink them. “I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. If there’s recognition, it should be shared.”

He turns back to his tools, movements a little sharper now. “Think about what you want,” he says. “Not what you think I need.”

That hits deeper than the TV offer—echoes of storm conversations, of patterns and choices. Of building homes for others while never letting yourself have one.

“I’ll think about it,” I say quietly, returning to the work table.

The rest of the afternoon unfolds in quiet focus.

We move through tasks—finishing the framing, starting the electrical layout—with that familiar sync that neither of us names.

Our rhythm is back, but the undertone has shifted.

Every brush of hands, every glance that lingers a second too long, holds something we’re both trying to keep buried under studs and wiring.

At one point, while I’m bent over the floor plans, I catch him watching me. He thinks I don’t notice, but I do. There’s something in his expression that stops me—a look that’s curious, quiet, and full of something I can’t yet name. A blueprint not for a house, but for something harder to build .

Fame isn’t the exposure that scares me.

It’s the way Owen looks at me when he thinks I’m not looking back—like he’s already mapped out every possibility, and just isn’t sure which version of us we’re brave enough to build.