Page 21 of This Love is Under Construction

She’s tall and slender, dressed in a crisp white blouse under a perfectly tailored blazer, slim trousers, and heels that should be a death sentence on our terrain but somehow aren’t. She glides toward us with effortless confidence, her voice carrying as she smiles at Owen.

“Owen! I was hoping I’d find you here.”

Beside me, I feel him tense. “Veronica,” he says, and that one word contains an entire history.

His ex-fiancée.

She reaches the porch, climbing the steps like she’s done it a hundred times. Up close, she’s even more intimidating— flawless makeup, delicate jewelry, bone structure you could sculpt in marble.

“I stopped by the workshop, but your father said you were here,” she says, her gaze sliding to me with polite curiosity. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

“This is Penny Winslow,” Owen says, his voice carefully neutral. “The homeowner. Penny, this is Veronica Wilcox.”

“Former fiancée,” she adds with a too-pleasant smile. “Though that was ages ago. We’re practically ancient history now, aren’t we, Owen?”

The question hangs, airless and loaded. Owen doesn’t answer. “What brings you to Maple Glen?”

“A design commission,” she replies, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “The Hendersons—you remember Thomas Henderson? They’re renovating their estate on Lake Crescent. They requested you specifically for the custom woodwork.”

Owen follows her in, and I trail behind, feeling oddly like a guest in my own project.

“I’m booked,” he says. “This build is already on an accelerated timeline.”

Veronica surveys the interior with cool precision. “Tiny house renovation? Interesting shift from your usual work.” She turns to me, smile polite and sharp. “You’re lucky to have him. His craftsmanship is unparalleled, though I’ve always felt his talent was wasted on small-scale projects.”

It lands like a precision strike. Not openly rude, but perfectly engineered to diminish.

“I’m very fortunate,” I reply, mirroring her smile. “Owen’s detail work is exactly what this house needs. I wouldn’t call it ‘wasted’ when it’s building something meaningful.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Of course. I only meant his work deserves more visibility. Which is what the Henderson project offers—high profile, creative freedom, and a budget that reflects the value of his skill. ”

She turns back to Owen, who watches the exchange with unreadable eyes. “The timeline’s flexible,” she adds. “They understand quality takes time. Unlike television production, I imagine.”

My stomach dips. “How did you?—”

“Small town,” she says, waving a hand. “Stopped at The Griddle. Your waitress mentioned something about a TV show featuring the ‘Sequin Shack.’ Took me a moment to connect the dots.”

Of course. Doris.

“I’ll need to discuss the Henderson project with my father,” Owen says, offering nothing further. “We’re fully booked.”

“Of course,” Veronica says breezily. “I’m in town until Friday.” She pulls a business card from her blazer and hands it to him. “Same number. New email. The firm made me partner last year.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She turns to me with another perfectly polite smile. “Lovely to meet you, Penny. Good luck with the renovation. And the television debut.”

“Thanks.” I match her tone. “Owen’s work speaks for itself. Even on ‘small-scale projects.’”

Her smile tightens, just a little. “Indeed. Well, I won’t keep you.” She moves to the door, then looks back. “Dinner before I leave? For old times’ sake? I’d love to hear what you’ve been working on.”

Owen pauses. “I’ll check my schedule.”

Polite. Noncommittal. Enough to end the conversation.

She nods once and exits. We watch her drive away in that too-shiny Audi, the silence she leaves behind somehow louder than the sound of her tires.

I busy myself with the timeline notes, trying not to think too hard.

“Sorry about that,” Owen says finally. “Didn’t know she was in town.”

“No need to apologize.” I aim for casual, and probably miss. “She seems... successful.”

He gives a noncommittal sound. “The Henderson job is big. Ten thousand square feet, full custom.”

“Sounds like a great opportunity,” I say, still looking at the papers I’m not actually reading. “If you need to?—”

“I don’t,” he cuts in, voice firm. “We’ve got a plan.”

I glance up, surprised by his certainty. “But she said it was flexible. And it’s exactly the kind of project she thinks you should be doing.”

His jaw ticks. “What Veronica thinks I should do doesn’t factor into my decisions.”

“Right. Of course.” I nod quickly. Too quickly. “So... back to our six-week timeline of doom?”

The tension breaks just a little, and we refocus. For the next hour, we build out the new schedule until the light outside fades.

“I should get back to Marge’s,” I say, standing. “Early start tomorrow.”

Owen nods. “The camper’s nearly ready. Basic systems are functional. You could stay on site if you want. Save time.”

The suggestion surprises me. We’ve been slowly fixing up the camper, but I didn’t think it was habitable yet.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “There’s still the water pressure thing, and the heater’s iffy.”

“It’s functional,” he says. “Not perfect. But practical. Your call.”

It makes sense. With the deadline looming, proximity matters. And maybe I’m ready to stop just visiting the site and actually move in.

“I’ll think about it,” I say. “Check with Marge about the cancellation policy.”

We wrap up for the night. I head back, thoughts spinning—not about the timeline or the camper, but about Veronica. The way she said dinner. The way she said “partner. ”

Owen and I are just colleagues. Just builder and client. Just a woman living in a camper next to a house with a half-installed window seat and a full-blown denial problem.

Except we kissed during a storm.

Except he looks at me like he’s trying to figure out a plan.

Except I kind of want to be part of that plan.

I push the thoughts aside, turning my attention to the logistics of moving into the camper.

Marge is completely understanding about the potential early departure from the B&B and promises my room will be available if things don’t work out.

The next morning, I pack the essentials and head to the property earlier than usual, determined to assess the camper’s readiness before making it official.

The sun is just cresting the trees when I arrive, casting long shadows across the clearing.

The camper sits behind the house, its aluminum shell catching the early light like a beacon.

Inside, it’s small but functional—a compact kitchenette, a dining nook that converts into a bed, and a tiny bathroom with a shower that requires full-body origami to use comfortably.

I run through a systems check: water flows (though the pressure surges like it’s powered by mood), the propane stove lights, and the electrical outlets are enough to handle my laptop and phone. It’s not glamorous, but it works.

It’s not the Ritz. But it has character. And, strangely, charm.

I unpack my clothes into the shallow built-ins, set up my laptop on the fold-down table, and organize my toiletries in the miniature bathroom. When I step back, it hits me—this tiny aluminum box, cobbled together with patience and elbow grease, is mine. At least for now.

To christen the space properly, I decide to make coffee. The kitchenette has the basics—thanks to weeks of slow upgrades and supply runs—and I go through the familiar motions: fill the kettle, set it on the burner, and prep my pour-over setup. One of my few non-negotiable luxuries.

The ritual soothes me. Water warming. Grounds measured. Steam blooming as I pour in slow, concentric spirals. The scent wraps around me like comfort.

I’m so caught up in the moment I don’t hear the footsteps outside—just the soft knock at the camper door.

“Come in,” I call, assuming it’s Owen reporting for our early start.

The door opens, and Owen steps inside—then freezes.

Something in his expression shifts as his gaze sweeps the scene: me in sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt, hair piled messily on top of my head, barefoot and bathed in the soft light streaming through the camper’s windows, halfway through making coffee.

“Sorry,” he says, suddenly off-balance in a way that’s deeply un-Owen. “Didn’t realize you’d moved in already.”

“Just this morning,” I say, continuing the pour. “Thought I’d test it out. So far, so good—except the hot water decided to be cold, and the cold water decided to be molten lava. I may have screamed. Finn might have filed a noise complaint.”

Still no laugh. Not even a smile. He just watches me, the kind of look that makes me hyperaware of every inch of bare skin and the coffee-stained hem of my shirt.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, kettle hovering mid-pour. “Is it the coffee? The pajamas? My entire pre-caffeine vibe?”

He blinks, like he’s shaking something off. “No. Nothing’s wrong. I just…” He pauses. “Brought the revised material order.”

“Great,” I say, even though his tone doesn’t match the clipboard he sets on the table. “Coffee first? I made enough for two.”

“Sure,” he says, settling across from me at the camper’s tiny table. Finn follows him in and flops at my feet like he owns the place.

I finish pouring and slide a mug across. The camper’s compact size means our knees nearly brush beneath the table. It feels closer than it should. More personal than it is .

“So,” I say, sipping for courage, “materials for the Accelerated Timeline of Doom?”

He opens the folder, spreading out the paperwork. We review the list together, making small adjustments for delivery windows and supplier substitutions. On the surface, it’s all business. But underneath, something’s shifted. He’s here, but holding back. Focused, but off-kilter.

My phone buzzes. Abby.

OMG tell me everything about the ex-fiancée situation! Is she gorgeous? Is she evil? Is she trying to steal your man? (And don’t pretend he’s not your man because THE ENTIRE INTERNET sees how you look at each other)

I flip the phone face-down like it’s on fire.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Abby doesn’t really understand the concept of boundaries.”

“It’s fine,” Owen says, though something in his jaw suggests otherwise. Then, after a pause: “About Veronica showing up yesterday…”

“Totally not my business,” I cut in, too fast. “Your personal life is your personal life.”

“There is no personal life there,” he says flatly. “Not anymore.”

“Right. Of course. Ancient history,” I echo, a little too brightly. “Though the Henderson project sounds amazing. Big budget. Creative freedom. No production crew breathing down your neck…”

He watches me, eyes unreadable. “Are you trying to convince me to take her project?”

“What? No!” I shake my head. “I’m just saying it sounds like a great opportunity. On paper.”

“But not one I should prioritize over this one,” he says.

“Obviously I want you to finish my house,” I admit. “Especially with the TV thing. But if it means more for your career, I wouldn’t want to hold you back.”

“This is important,” he says quietly.

And just like that, the air shifts again. The words land with weight. Not just about construction or schedules or shows.

I dodge the moment the only way I know how. “Well, good. Because I’d hate to explain to Tiny House Transformations that my contractor ditched me for a lakeside mansion and an ex-fiancée in perfect heels. That’s way too much drama, even for basic cable.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his expression softens. “That’s not going to happen.”

“I know,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I trust you.”

There’s a flicker in his gaze—surprise, maybe. Or something deeper. But instead of saying whatever’s hovering on the edge of that look, he shifts back to the material list, and the moment dissolves.

We finish the coffee and the paperwork, then head for the house. As we walk, I can’t stop thinking about Veronica. Her posture. Her presence. The way she spoke about Owen’s work like it still belonged to her.

“We should add a new rule,” I say abruptly as we approach the porch. “To the Tiny House Rule list.”

Owen raises a brow. “What kind of rule?”

“Rule Number Eight,” I say, trying to sound breezy. “No jealousy over people who aren’t ours to begin with.”

He stops walking. Turns fully to face me. “Is that a rule for me, or for you?”

“Both,” I say, holding his gaze. “Seems... practical. All things considered.”

Owen studies me, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. Then he nods. “Rule Eight. Though some rules are harder to follow than others.”

He doesn’t say which. But as he turns and steps into the house, I catch the edge of his expression in profile—unguarded, honest. A flash of something that looks a lot like longing.

Six weeks to finish the house. Six weeks until the cameras arrive. Six weeks to figure out whether I’m building something temporary… or something that might actually last.