Page 20 of This Love is Under Construction

“So, Penny, tell us about the moment you decided to buy a house while drunk at a charity auction!”

Adele Hutchinson, senior producer of Tiny House Transformations , beams at me through my laptop screen with the practiced enthusiasm of someone who’s heard a thousand renovation disaster stories and still manages to sound genuinely delighted by each one.

Her perfectly highlighted hair and strategic statement necklace scream “television professional,” even through the slightly pixelated video call.

I glance sideways at Owen, seated beside me at the folding table we’ve set up in the tiny house, his posture so rigid he could double as a load-bearing beam.

He agreed to join this call only after three days of careful negotiation following my email reply to the show’s interest. His conditions included: no commitment without hearing details, no personal questions, and the right to veto anything that might compromise construction quality.

“Well,” I begin, slipping effortlessly into my old PR voice, “it wasn’t so much a decision as a perfect storm of champagne, competitive bidding, and recently being dumped. Though I prefer to call it an ‘impulsive investment in personal growth opportunity.’”

This earns appreciative laughter from Adele and the two other production team members on the call. Owen remains stoic beside me, though I catch the slightest eye roll.

“That’s exactly the authentic voice we love about your social media content,” Adele gushes. “You’ve managed to document a genuine renovation journey without the staged perfection we see so often.”

“That’s because there’s nothing staged about living through construction chaos,” I reply with a smile. “My contractor here can confirm that my reactions to foundation issues were one hundred percent authentic.”

All eyes on the screen shift to Owen, who looks like he’d rather be jackhammering concrete than sitting through this call.

“Owen Carver, right?” Adele says. “Your craftsmanship is evident even in the progress photos. That foundation rebuild was impressive work.”

Owen nods once, the barest acknowledgment. “It was necessary.”

I resist the urge to kick him under the table. We agreed he’d try to be somewhat engaging during this call. Though in fairness, for Owen, a complete sentence without a grunt is practically a TED Talk.

“We’re particularly interested in the unique aspects of your renovation,” says Dave, the show’s director. “The vintage camper restoration, the window seat design element that’s become something of a signature on your account, and of course, the local craftsmanship angle.”

“The window seat is structurally integrated into the west wall,” Owen offers unexpectedly. “It creates a natural transition between interior and exterior space while providing additional storage beneath.”

I turn to stare at him, momentarily stunned by the voluntary contribution. He meets my gaze briefly, one eyebrow raised as if to say, See? I’m participating.

“That’s exactly the kind of detail our viewers love,” Adele enthuses. “The intersection of design philosophy and practical application.”

The conversation flows more easily after that, with the production team outlining their vision for the episode— focusing on the transformation from disaster purchase to thoughtful renovation, highlighting the preservation of original elements while modernizing systems, and showcasing the unique challenges of tiny house living.

“Your social media following is a huge asset,” adds Jessica, the third team member, whose title is something like “digital integration specialist.” “We’d incorporate your documentation style into the episode, creating a meta-narrative about sharing the renovation journey.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say, genuinely excited by their vision. “I’ve been trying to capture the authentic ups and downs, not just the pretty after shots.”

“Exactly what sets your content apart,” Adele agrees. “Now, let’s talk timeline.”

Owen shifts beside me, his attention sharpening. We’ve already discussed this—the show would need to film the final stages of renovation and the reveal, which aligned reasonably well with our projected completion date in about three months.

“Based on your current progress and our production schedule,” Adele continues, consulting something offscreen, “we’d need to schedule filming in approximately six weeks.”

I blink. “Six weeks? Our current timeline has us finishing in twelve, assuming no major surprises.”

Adele’s smile tightens slightly. “Unfortunately, our production schedule is pretty locked. We’re filming in the Pacific Northwest during that window, and our budget won’t allow for a separate trip later in the year.”

“Six weeks isn’t feasible for quality work,” Owen says, his tone firm but not confrontational. “We still need to install windows, complete electrical and plumbing, insulation, drywall, flooring, fixtures, exterior siding?—”

“We understand it’s an accelerated timeline,” Adele interjects smoothly. “But our viewers love the pressure of a deadline. That race-against-time element makes for compelling television. ”

“It makes for rushed construction,” Owen counters. “Which isn’t what we do.”

The silence that follows is uncomfortable. I can feel the opportunity teetering. My PR instincts kick in—bridge the gap, find the compromise, keep the door open.

“What if,” I offer, “we aim for substantial completion in six weeks? Essential systems, major finishes, key design elements done. Some final details can come after filming.”

Adele brightens. “That could work! We’ll focus on the transformation journey and the reveal, with a brief mention of finishing touches still to come.”

Owen doesn’t immediately object, which from him is practically a glowing endorsement. “We’d need to revise the entire schedule,” he says at last. “Prioritize certain phases, possibly bring in help.”

“The show would cover reasonable acceleration costs,” Adele adds. “Within our budget parameters, of course.”

I watch Owen calculating—measuring standards against pressure, expectations against integrity. Finally, he gives a single nod. “We’ll need to discuss specifics after the call.”

“Of course!” Adele beams. “We’ll send over our standard contract and production requirements today. If you’re comfortable, we’d plan a site visit in two weeks for technical setup and camera placement.”

The call wraps with exchanged contact info and upbeat goodbyes. The moment I close my laptop, Owen stands and moves to the window opening—the one that will frame my beloved window seat—his back to me as he stares out across the property.

“Six weeks,” he says, and the words land with weight.

“I know it’s tight,” I say, joining him. “But you heard them. The show won’t work with the original timeline.”

“Quality shouldn’t be sacrificed for television,” he says, not angry— just weary.

“It won’t be,” I promise. “You’re too stubborn to let that happen.”

He turns to face me, expression serious. “This matters to you. The show.”

It’s not quite a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes. It’s validation that I’m building something worthwhile. That this impulsive disaster purchase is becoming something real.” I hesitate. “And it’s exposure for your work, whether you want it or not.”

“My concern isn’t exposure,” Owen says, running a hand through his hair—his signature move when things get complicated. “It’s doing the job right. Rushing leads to mistakes. Mistakes stick.”

“I get it,” I say. “And I’m not interested in shortcuts either. It’s my house—I’ll be the one living with the results after the cameras leave.”

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. Or reassessment. “You’re planning to stay in it? Not flip it after?”

The question catches me off guard. We’ve never said the words aloud, but I realize my intent has shifted somewhere between the foundation pour and the window seat layout.

“I think so,” I say. “At least for a while. I’ve gotten attached to the little disaster.”

Owen nods, absorbing that. “Six weeks is possible,” he says finally. “Not ideal, but doable. We’ll need longer days. Maybe weekends.”

“I’m in,” I say. “Whatever it takes. I’m getting better at actual construction, I swear.”

“You’re already more help than that,” he says quietly.

The acknowledgment warms something in me I hadn’t realized needed it.

“So we’re doing this?” I ask. “Tiny House Transformations featuring the Sequin Shack?”

The corner of his mouth lifts—his version of a full-body grin. “We’re doing this. But we’re doing it right. Cameras or no cameras. ”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from Owen Carver, perfectionist carpenter extraordinaire.”

He gives me a look that’s half exasperation, half something warmer. “We’ll need to revise the entire schedule tonight. Map out every phase, every deadline.”

“I’ll bring coffee and sustenance,” I promise. “And my exceptional color-coding skills for the new timeline.”

We spend the next hour talking through the logistics of the accelerated schedule—materials we need to order immediately, which tasks can run concurrently, potential subcontractors for the specialized work.

The conversation stays focused and professional, but under the surface, there’s a hum of excitement.

At least on my part. This is really happening.

My tiny disaster house is going to be on actual television.

Owen is mid-sentence, explaining why the windows have to go in before we finalize the exterior siding, when we hear the crunch of tires on gravel outside.

“Expecting someone?” I ask, glancing toward the door.

He shakes his head, already moving to check. I follow, curious.

A sleek silver Audi has parked beside Owen’s truck, looking utterly out of place on our dusty construction site. The driver’s door opens, and a woman steps out—poised, polished, and completely incongruous with our half-built house.