Page 35 of This Love is Under Construction

There’s a different kind of courage required for walking toward someone than for walking away.

I’ve mastered the latter—the careful packing of emotional baggage, the practiced casual goodbyes, the forward momentum that keeps me from looking back.

But standing at the edge of Owen’s property, business presentation tucked under my arm like armor, I’m realizing that moving toward someone requires muscles I’ve never learned to flex.

The morning has broken unexpectedly clear after days of rain.

Sunshine spills across the workshop roof, catching on the weathered blue paint that matches Owen’s truck exactly—an intentional detail that doesn’t surprise me.

Finn spots me first, his head popping up from where he’s sprawled on the porch steps.

His tail starts thumping, but he doesn’t rush to greet me.

He glances back at Owen, waiting for permission.

And there’s Owen. Sitting on those same steps, elbows on knees, head bowed as he studies something in his hands.

The posture hits me like déjà vu—it’s how I sat on my tiny house porch after our first inspection, stunned by what I’d just signed up for.

The symmetry isn’t lost on me. We’ve traded places: him facing impossible choices, me arriving with a plan.

He looks up as I reach the edge of the gravel driveway, his face shifting from distraction to surprise.

The light softens the sharper angles I know too well.

He’s wearing the gray henley I privately think of as his armor, sleeves shoved up, forearms exposed.

The ones that feature in more of my thoughts than I’ll ever admit.

“Winslow,” he says. The nickname is a small victory after the formal “Ms. Winslow” from our fight. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

“That was the idea,” I reply, stepping closer with more confidence than I feel. “Surprise attacks limit retreat options.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—his version of amusement. “I’m not retreating.”

“No, you’re sitting on your steps looking like someone stole your favorite level.” I pause, just shy of the porch. “Bad time?”

He glances down at the notebook in his hands—his leather-bound sidekick for sketches and measurements. “Just reviewing ideas for the house.” He tucks it into his back pocket as he stands. “What’s that?”

I tighten my grip on the folder. “A proposition.”

Finn, apparently satisfied I’ve passed inspection, trots over. I crouch to scratch behind his ears, grateful for the momentary distraction. “Hey, buddy. Missed you yesterday.”

“He was confused when you didn’t show up,” Owen says. I look up to find him watching us, that unreadable expression hovering just shy of something else.

“I was busy,” I say, standing again. “Plotting a coup.”

His brow lifts. “Against?”

“Inertia. Fear. The Carver curse.” I take a breath. “Can we talk? Inside the workshop, where your dog won’t sabotage my argument with his face?”

Finn whines at the accusation, deeply offended.

Owen studies me for a beat, then nods. “Coffee first?”

“Already caffeinated to dangerous levels,” I confess. “Any more and I might vibrate out of this plane of existence.”

That almost-smile again. “Noted.”

He leads the way into the workshop, Finn trailing like a chaperone.

The space feels different in morning light—less like I’m trespassing, more like I’ve been invited in.

Tools gleam on pegboards. Sunlight catches the curls of wood shavings along the floor.

The wall of birdhouses looks like a miniature town—part gallery, part love letter to unnoticed beauty.

Owen clears space at his workbench, carefully moving a half-built project I don’t recognize. “So,” he says, arms crossing, “a proposition.”

“A business proposition,” I clarify, laying the folder down. “Though it veers dangerously close to personal. In the general neighborhood of life-changing.”

He doesn’t react outwardly, but I see it—the shift in posture, the subtle tilt that means he’s listening harder than he lets on.

“I’m listening,” he says. It’s all the encouragement I need.

I take a breath, channeling every pitch I’ve ever given—only this time, I believe in what I’m selling. I open the folder and spread out the materials: market research, projections, visual mockups. Everything organized, strategic, airtight.

“Carver Custom Designs,” I begin, my voice steady. “A specialized design firm focused on innovative small-space architecture. Sustainability. Beauty. Function. Everything you already do—just finally getting credit for it.”

He says nothing, but his arms uncross. He leans in slightly, studying the documents. The gears are turning. I know that look.

I walk him through the research—tiny house growth stats, market gaps, demand curves.

I lay out a business model built around his skills: consults, custom designs, a curated portfolio.

I show him how it can start lean, out of this very workshop.

How I can handle the marketing, the outreach, the scaling.

“The projections are conservative,” I say, flipping to the spreadsheet. “Low overhead. No need to abandon the family business overnight. A phased transition. Respectful of your reality.”

He looks up sharply. “You thought about that.”

“I thought about all of it.” I meet his gaze. “It’s what I do—anticipate objections, address them before they’re spoken.”

“PR skills.”

“Applied to something real. For once.”

I keep going—target clients, branding, sample campaigns. Mixed in are pieces of his own designs, the ones from his notebook, the ones too good to keep hidden in graphite and paper.

He picks up one of the pages. “This is mine.”

“Your vision,” I say. “It’s already here. I’m just offering you the blueprint to build it.”

He looks at the drawing again, his hand resting on the page like it’s something alive. He’s quiet for a moment, studying the materials with the same meticulous attention he brings to structural challenges.

“This is... thorough.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a compliment,” I say, trying to lighten the moment even as my heart drums against my ribs.

“It is.”

He looks up, eyes locking with mine—clear, direct, serious.

“Why are you doing this, Penny?”

The question catches me off guard, even though I should’ve seen it coming. I’ve prepped market data, projections, strategies—but not this. Not the one answer that matters most.

“Because you’re a designer, not just a contractor,” I say, the truth spilling out before I can shape it.

“Because you’ve been hiding your talent behind practical obligations and small-town expectations.

And because every time you talk about architecture or sketch something new, you come alive in a way that makes it impossible to look away. ”

His expression shifts—something flickering beneath the surface. A vulnerability I’ve only glimpsed in the quietest moments.

“And selfishly,” I add, “because I think we could build something amazing together. Your vision, my marketing. Your roots in this town, my connections outside it. Your practical knowledge, my completely impractical enthusiasm.”

“It’s a significant risk,” he says finally, though not dismissively. “Career shift. Financial uncertainty. No guarantees.”

“Most things worth building come with risk,” I counter. “You taught me that with the window seat. Structural compromises, square footage inefficiencies, potential for leaks—still worth it because of what it adds to the space.”

That almost-smile tugs at his mouth. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“To more than you realize.”

I reach for the final piece of the presentation—the one I’ve been both excited and terrified to share.

“There’s one more thing.”

I pull out a rendering—not one of his, but a sketch I commissioned based on his designs and my notes. It shows the house completed, subtly reimagined. Not just finished, but elevated. Not just functional, but intentional.

“The first official project of Carver Custom Designs,” I say. “This house—our house—reimagined as a showcase for your work. A portfolio piece that shows exactly what you’re capable of.”

Owen takes the paper, eyes scanning the image with a concentration so complete, I don’t dare speak. His fingertips graze the page like it might vanish if he touches it too hard.

“This is... different from our current plans.”

“Enhanced,” I say gently. “The same structure, elevated. The window seat becomes your signature. The open layout shows your space-efficiency philosophy. The custom built-ins? That’s your woodworking.”

He’s still quiet, still staring. Then, slowly, he sets down the sketch and reaches for his notebook—the one he tucked away earlier. He flips to a page and lays it beside mine.

My breath catches.

It’s his own rendering of the house. The same enhancements. The same philosophy. And at the top, in his clean architectural script:

Winslow Cottage – Final Design Concept

Not “Penny’s Project.” Not “The Sequin Shack. ”

Winslow Cottage .

A name. A place. A declaration.

“You renamed it,” I whisper.

Owen meets my eyes. There’s no deflection in his face now, just quiet truth.

“It evolved. Like its owner.”

The words land with a force I didn’t expect. Because he’s seen it—the shift in me. From impulsive buyer to intentional builder. From runaway to someone trying to stay.

“When did you start calling it that?”

“After the beam came down,” he says. “When the space opened up and became something else. Something with... potential.”

Like us.

The thought echoes, but I don’t speak it.

“I like it,” I say instead, fingers brushing the lettering. “Winslow Cottage. It sounds like somewhere you might actually stay.”

Our eyes meet again, and for once, the subtext doesn’t press down between us. It lifts.

I take a breath. The most important part of my pitch isn’t in the folder—it’s in what I say next.