Page 40 of This Love is Under Construction

There’s something surreal about standing in a completed house that once tried to collapse beneath your feet.

The transformation from disaster to dwelling happens so gradually when you’re in it—measuring twice and cutting once, debating window dimensions, sweating through insulation—that you almost miss the magic.

But today, with morning light streaming through those hard-won windows and every surface finally, improbably finished, the before-and-after lands with physical force.

“I can’t believe this is the same place,” I say, running my hand along the smooth kitchen counter that replaced what used to be a tetanus trap masquerading as cabinetry. “Remember when you inspected it and basically told me to burn it down and start over?”

“The tasseled pillows remain under protest,” Owen says, that almost-smile playing at his lips again. “Final paperwork still needs filing. Permit inspection’s this afternoon.”

“And then it’s officially a real house,” I say, the words catching a little. Part pride, part disbelief that we pulled it off. “Not just a cautionary tale or social media stunt.”

“It’s been a real house for a while,” Owen says quietly. “Just needed the right person to see it.”

That lands harder than it should. We’re not just talking about the house, and we both know it.

He’s standing in the middle of the room, clipboard in hand, checking off his final inspection list with the focus of someone who sees both what is and what might go wrong.

Dark gray henley, worn jeans, expression serious—it’s the version of Owen I’ve come to recognize as his default. Quiet. Exacting. Grounded.

“I remember saying it’d be cheaper to rebuild than renovate,” he adds without looking up.

“You did,” I say. “And I insisted we save what we could. Sentimental attachment to questionable structures.”

“Good thing one of us knew what they were doing,” he says, a flicker of amusement in his voice.

“The foundation work was worth it,” he adds, moving toward the window seat. “Solid bones underneath.”

I follow him, watching as he runs his fingers along the trim, checking seals and weatherstripping. The window seat—my line in the sand, the one thing I wouldn’t negotiate—ended up the heart of the house. Cushions in that perfect blue, storage underneath, a view of the woods framed like a painting.

“It’s perfect,” I say. “Better than anything I pictured when I drunkenly waved that auction paddle.”

Owen pauses, turning from the window to look at me. His expression shifts—less contractor, more... something else.

“It’s good work,” he says. “We did good work, Winslow.”

That name from him still gets me. From anyone else, it might sound like a joke. From Owen, it’s something else entirely. Something earned.

“We really did,” I say, moving to stand beside him. “Though I still think the tasseled pillows are doing most of the heavy lifting in here.”

“The tassels serve no functional purpose,” he says, falling back into our familiar script.

“They serve an emotional purpose,” I say. “They make me happy.”

“That’s a purpose I can accept.” His voice is quiet. His eyes don’t move from mine. “Your happiness here matters.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure I could if I tried .

Six months ago, I was writing press copy for a product I didn’t care about, living in a sterile apartment I never planned to stay in, already halfway out the door before I even moved in. And now, somehow, I’m here.

“The TV crew’s going to be impressed,” I say, steering us back toward safer ground. “Adele texted—they’ll be here tomorrow by noon. Should give us time for any final polish.”

Owen nods, refocusing on his checklist. “Electrical’s solid. Plumbing’s good. Roof should hold up to a category two hurricane.”

“Let’s not test it,” I say. “Just cameras and dramatic reveal shots.”

“It was plenty dramatic,” Owen says. “Especially in the beginning.”

“I prefer to call it ‘energetically innovative,’” I reply. “Speaking of, I still need to read through the final version of Adele’s contract. The expanded show idea has some fine print I should probably understand before I sign away my renovation soul.”

That gets a reaction—barely. A flicker of tension at the corner of his mouth. Anyone else would miss it. I’ve learned to read him too well to pretend I didn’t.

“Let’s finish the inspection,” he says, heading for the bathroom. “Need to check the tile sealant and ventilation.”

I follow him. The bathroom used to be a nightmare.

Now it’s a space you’d actually want to linger in.

Salvaged sink gleaming under the light, custom tilework that Owen installed himself, perfectly framed mirror.

And beside the sink, the toothbrush holder he made—two slots, angled toward each other. His version of a question.

“The tile’s beautiful,” I say, running a hand along the grout. “Your attention to detail is a little terrifying, but I’m not complaining.”

“Sealing prevents leaks,” he says, peering into the drain. “After last time, I wasn’t taking any risks.”

“Our weatherproofing game has improved,” I say. “Protecting what matters, letting the right things in.”

He looks up at that—his own words, echoed back—and there’s something unspoken between us in the pause that follows.

“Exactly,” he says.

We finish the inspection in quiet, working in sync. I hand him the tester without being asked. He shifts just in time for me to access a cabinet. Every move is easy now, efficient, like we’ve found our pattern and settled into it.

“Final verdict?” I ask when he closes his clipboard.

“Structurally sound. Functionally efficient. Aesthetically...” He pauses. “Satisfying.”

I laugh. “Coming from you, that might be the most glowing review I’ll ever get.”

“The tasseled pillows remain under protest,” he says, but there’s the familiar pull at the corner of his mouth. “Final paperwork’s at the county. Permit inspection’s this afternoon.”

“And then it’s officially a real house,” I say, a strange tightness catching in my chest—part pride, part disbelief. “Not just a renovation nightmare or a viral curiosity.”

“It’s been a real house for a while now,” Owen says. “Just needed the right person to see it.”

We both know he’s not just talking about the house.

The updated TV contract lands in my inbox while Owen’s out filing the paperwork. I settle into the window seat with my laptop and a stubborn determination to read every word.

What started as a one-off episode—”girl buys crumbling house at auction, chaos ensues”—has evolved into a pitch for a recurring series.

The new title: Reclaiming Space . It highlights the renovation, the town, and Carver Custom Designs as a boutique firm focused on smart, beautiful small-space living .

It’s everything I could’ve hoped for: national exposure, a platform for our business, a chance to pivot my career into something I believe in. But halfway through the contract, a clause stops me cold:

Talent (P. Winslow) agrees to participate in on-location filming at future renovation sites as directed by Production, including but not limited to sites in Pacific Northwest, California, and East Coast regions as determined by network programming needs.

Minimum commitment of 6–8 weeks travel annually required.

I reread it. It doesn’t get better the second time.

This isn’t just about showcasing what we’ve built. It’s about filming future projects in other towns. Other states. It means leaving Maple Glen. Leaving Owen. Six to eight weeks every year.

Six months ago, I’d have jumped at this setup—freedom with structure, movement with meaning. A home base I could conveniently escape when things got too real. That used to be my version of balance.

Now the thought of leaving makes my chest tighten.

My phone rings. Adele Hutchinson.

“Penny! Got the revised contract?” she asks, already mid-pitch. “It’s a great expansion. The network’s loving the angle—small-town craftsman with hidden architectural chops, PR exec turned design partner, building something together. It’s authentic and aspirational.”

“It’s definitely a shift,” I say. “I was reviewing the travel section.”

“Oh, that’s the beauty of the format,” Adele continues, breezing past my hesitation.

“We’d use your place as the kickoff, then follow you to other sites—Seattle, Charleston, Sedona, you name it.

You and Owen are the hook, but the real draw is applying your model to new markets. It’s a lifestyle brand in the making.”

I stay silent.

“But it’s not a full relocation,” she adds. “ You keep your small-town anchor. You just expand the reach. Home base and national platform—it’s the best of both worlds.”

Six months ago, I’d have called it perfect. Now, it feels like a step in the wrong direction.

“I need to talk it through with Owen,” I say. “The business is still new, and travel might affect our local plans.”

“Of course,” she says. “Just get back to me by tomorrow morning. We need to lock the contract before cameras roll.”

When the call ends, I close the laptop. Afternoon sun filters through the windows. The house is quiet.

It used to be that quiet meant empty. Now, it feels like pause. Like space. Like the house is waiting for me to figure it out.

This deal would’ve been the dream—mobility, visibility, built-in distance. But that version of me doesn’t fit anymore. I don’t want to bounce between cities and relationships and temporary work. I want coffee from Marge’s. I want dinner at the small table we picked out. I want to stay.

I hear a truck outside. Owen’s back.

Finn jumps from the passenger seat and bolts for the porch. Owen follows, as steady and sure as always.

That’s it. That’s the answer. I just need to find a way to keep what matters.

“Ms. Winslow? Please sign here, and initial next to the date.”

The county inspector slides the form across the counter. We’re standing in Maple Glen’s municipal building—one office, three desks, and a wall of finger-painted sunflowers.