Page 41 of This Love is Under Construction

“This certifies final inspection is complete,” she says. “Congratulations. The property is now legally recognized as a dwelling. Everything meets or exceeds county requirements.”

“Didn’t know about the violations when I bought it,” I say, signing. “Drunk auctions don’t come with disclosures. ”

The inspector cracks a smile. “What matters is what you did with it. Not many people would’ve followed through.”

Owen stands beside me, his expression professionally neutral, but I catch the quiet pride in his posture. This recognition means more to him than he’ll ever say—proof that all the late nights and structural compromises added up to something real.

“And the property name for official county records?” the inspector asks, pen hovering.

I glance at Owen. We haven’t talked about what to call it. The Sequin Shack never felt permanent—something we reclaimed more than embraced. On social media, I’ve called it the tiny house or my disaster renovation.

“Winslow Cottage,” Owen says, without hesitation.

My breath catches. I saw the name in his notebook weeks ago. But hearing it aloud, hearing it made real, written in ink on county paperwork—it lands differently.

“Winslow Cottage,” the inspector repeats, jotting it down. “Lovely name. Much better than what the town was calling it.”

“The Sequin Shack,” I offer, half-laughing.

“Not exactly official letterhead material,” she replies.

“Well, Penny, you’ve certainly transformed more than the structure,” she adds, stamping the form with finality. “The town’s been watching.”

The name jars me. Penny. It sounds off. Like someone else’s story.

I don’t feel like her anymore. I haven’t for a while.

Somewhere in this house—between demo days and blueprint arguments, between brushed knuckles and soft goodnights—I became Winslow. And not just to him. To myself.

“Thank you,” I manage, taking the stamped paperwork. My hands are less steady than I want them to be.

“As you should be,” she says. “Not everyone would’ve seen past those code violations. That takes a particular kind of vision.”

We leave the municipal building. I’m still chewing on the shift—how a nickname became the truest thing about me.

“You okay?” Owen asks, once we reach his truck. His eyes are sharp, steady. “You got quiet in there.”

“Just thinking,” I say. “It’s official now. Winslow Cottage. A real house with a real name and actual paperwork.”

He studies me. “Should I have asked before—about the name?”

“No.” My voice comes out too fast, too sure. “It’s perfect. It feels right.”

His face softens. “Good. It suits the place. And the owner.”

Me. Winslow. Not a disguise or a nickname, but a name that feels like mine.

When we pull into the driveway, it’s full. Walt’s truck is out front. Marge is on the porch, hanging curtains like she’s prepping for an HGTV close-up. Maggie Carver’s directing two guys from The Griddle, who are unloading enough plants to landscape a small park.

“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping out of the truck.

“Beautification committee,” Marge calls. “TV crew’s coming, and Maple Glen doesn’t half-do a reveal.”

“We would’ve asked,” Walt says, measuring the front steps, “but then we wouldn’t get to see the look on your face.”

“Priceless,” Maggie adds, snapping a photo. “For the historical society, of course.”

I turn to Owen. He looks remarkably unsurprised.

“You knew,” I say.

“I was told there’d be... assistance,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging. “Didn’t realize the scale.”

“Small towns,” Walt says. “No secrets.”

Inside, it’s even more chaotic. Mrs. Peterson’s arranging her pottery in the window seat like a museum curator. Doris from The Griddle is turning my kitchen into a catered buffet. Half the town is here, and I know maybe ten of them by name.

“The welcome wagon doesn’t wait for an invitation,” Marge says, handing me a glass of surprisingly good wine. “Might as well let it roll in.”

“It’s... a lot,” I say, watching as people I barely know finish the work we started. But it’s more than decoration. It’s ownership. It’s belonging.

“That’s how we do things here,” Marge replies. “Overwhelming, yes. But also exactly what you didn’t know you needed.”

The afternoon becomes a blur—hardware being installed, throw blankets appearing out of nowhere, Mrs. Peterson explaining the meaning behind her planters (apparently, each one represents part of the local ecosystem).

Owen moves through it all easily—answering questions, fixing hinges, offering quiet instructions. He’s different here. Comfortable. Known.

“He’s changed since you showed up,” Maggie says, appearing beside me. “Used to be all work, no life. Now he smiles.”

“Once,” I say. “Let’s not exaggerate.”

“You turned his plans upside down.”

“I call it strategic disruption,” I reply. “It tests durability.”

Maggie laughs, the sound remarkably like her brother’s rare chuckle. “Whatever you want to call it, it’s working. I haven’t seen him this invested in anything—or anyone—since before Dad’s stroke.”

Before I can respond, Walt taps a spoon against his wine glass, calling for attention with the confidence of someone who’s made plenty of impromptu speeches at community events.

“Now that our guest of honor has officially passed final inspection,” he begins, holding up a copy of the permit paperwork I don’t recall handing over, “I think it’s time we settle accounts.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the crowd. Owen steps beside me, his expression neutral, but there’s a flicker of knowing in his eyes.

“Accounts?” I ask quietly.

“The betting pool,” he murmurs. “Apparently there’s a winner.”

“As most of you know,” Walt continues, “we’ve had a little community wager going around our newest resident and her charming fixer-upper. At first, the pool was about how long she’d last before packing up and heading back to the city.”

More laughter. And to my own surprise, I laugh too. What once would have felt like judgment now feels like affection.

“But,” Walt says, pausing for effect, “the bet evolved. The real question became: When would she and our own Owen Carver stop pretending they were just working on a house?”

The flush creeps up my neck. They weren’t betting against me—they were betting on us.

“There were some strong contenders,” Walt adds. “Marge had her money on Thanksgiving. Doris said the Maple Festival. I personally felt confident in a classic Christmas confession.”

I glance at Owen, expecting a grimace, but find him watching me with quiet amusement—and something more honest underneath.

“But the winner, with the closest prediction of ‘after the foundation is rebuilt but before the windows are installed,’ is none other than Maggie Carver.”

Cheers and groans follow as Maggie steps forward, accepting what looks like a jar of cash with a smug grin.

“Inside information,” someone calls.

“Not my fault I know him better than the rest of you,” she fires back. “He was gone the second she insisted on that ridiculous window seat.”

I shake my head, but the teasing doesn’t sting. If anything, it feels like something slotting into place.

“Speech!” someone shouts, and all eyes land on me.

I take a breath. I look at these faces—people who were strangers not long ago and now somehow part of the fabric of my life. The words come easier than I expect.

“When I bought this house drunk at auction, I thought I was getting a weekend project and a good story for awkward networking events.” That gets a laugh. “Instead, I got a disaster. Structurally speaking.”

More laughter, then quiet.

“I also got something I didn’t plan on,” I continue, letting my eyes find Owen’s. “A community that kept showing up, even when I was still figuring out whether I wanted to stay. A partner who saw what this place—and maybe what I—could be. And a home I didn’t know I needed.”

It’s not a grand speech. But it lands.

“Thank you,” I finish simply. “For the betting pool. For the casseroles. For giving me a reason to stay.”

Walt clears his throat. “Well, I think that deserves another toast. Someone check on Doris’s meatballs before they become a fire hazard.”

The gathering shifts back to casual conversation. Owen steps beside me, something unreadable in his eyes.

“You meant it?” he asks, his voice low. “About staying?”

I think of the TV contract sitting in my inbox. The travel schedule. The clause that would take me away from this place—and him—for weeks at a time. The decision feels easy now.

“I did. I’m calling Adele tonight. I’ll consult remotely when needed, but my base is here. I’m thinking of starting a PR business—small clients, local makers. There’s so much talent here. Someone should tell their stories.”

Owen exhales, just slightly. The tension I hadn’t realized he was carrying leaves his shoulders.

“You’re staying.”

“I’m staying,” I say, steady. “Apparently I’m not great at leaving anymore.”

“Maybe,” he says, “you found something worth keeping.”

“That too.”

We don’t hug. We don’t kiss. We don’t say anything else. We don’t need to.

Later that night, after the food has been packed away and the porch has emptied, I sit in the window seat alone. The lights are off, the house is quiet. Through the windows, the stars come into focus, one by one.

This started as a flip. A throwaway project, something I thought I could fix and leave behind.

But it became a person I couldn’t stop thinking about. A town I couldn’t picture walking away from. A future that finally made me want to stay.