Page 7 of This Love is Under Construction

I glance down at my outfit—leggings and an oversized sweater. Fine for eating pie in a window seat, less fine for meeting a contractor who already thinks I’m a walking liability.

I change quickly into jeans and a long-sleeved tee, tug on my hiking boots, and toss my laptop, notebook, and paperwork into a canvas tote.

Downstairs, Marge is elbow-deep in dough .

“Off to face the tiny house?” she asks, glancing up with a knowing smile.

“And the tiny house’s keeper,” I reply. “Owen’s bringing paperwork.”

“Ah, the official beginning.” She nods. “Take these.” She gestures to a paper bag on the counter. “Maple scones. Still warm. Construction runs on sugar and caffeine.”

I take the bag, touched despite myself. “Thanks, Marge. For everything.”

“Just doing my part to help you win me fifty dollars in the betting pool,” she says with a wink. “I’ve got you lasting until Thanksgiving.”

I laugh, oddly flattered. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

“That’s all any of us can do, dear.” She turns back to the dough, humming softly. “That’s all any of us can do.”

Owen’s truck is already at the property when I arrive, parked in the same spot as yesterday. He’s standing near the front porch, jotting notes in a small notebook, a pencil tucked behind one ear. He looks up as my rental crunches over gravel, his expression unreadable.

I grab my things—and the bag of scones—and head toward him, trying to project confidence I’m not entirely feeling.

“Morning,” I call, lifting the bag. “Brought reinforcements.”

He gives a small nod, pocketing his notebook. “You’re prompt. That’s good.”

Not exactly effusive praise, but I’ll take it. “One of my few virtues,” I say, carefully climbing the porch steps. They still creak ominously, but they hold. “That and a disturbing ability to function on very little sleep.”

Something flickers across his face—amusement? Hard to tell. It vanishes too quickly to be sure.

“We should talk inside,” he says, gesturing toward the door. “I rechecked the structure this morning. The main room’s stable enough for now.”

“Comforting,” I mutter, but follow him in.

The house looks different in the morning light—still a disaster, but somehow less hopeless.

Sunlight streams through the unbroken windows, catching the dust in golden slants.

I notice details I missed before—exposed beams, a small woodstove in the corner, windows on three sides.

There’s potential here, even if it’s buried beneath years of rot and bad decisions.

In the center of the room, Owen’s set up a folding table and two chairs—clearly brought from his truck, the only things in here not threatening tetanus.

“You came prepared,” I say.

“Always.” He sets a folder on the table and gestures for me to sit. “Walt says you’re planning to stay. Through Christmas?”

News really does travel at warp speed here.

“That’s the plan,” I say, sitting down. “Unless the house collapses first.”

“It won’t collapse.” He’s matter-of-fact. “Not if we do it right.”

We. The word hangs there, heavier than it should be.

I open the bag and offer him a scone. “Peace offering. Or bribery. Depending on how this meeting goes.”

He hesitates, then takes one with a nod. “Marge’s?”

“How’d you guess?”

“The maple glaze. It’s her signature.” He takes a bite, and his expression—just for a second—softens. “Nobody makes them like Marge.”

It’s such a simple, human moment that it throws me a little. I take a scone for myself and focus on the buttery pastry, not the man across from me who just smiled at a baked good like it whispered secrets.

Owen opens the folder. “I’ve put together a preliminary timeline and scope of work,” he says, all business again. “Based on the inspection, we’re basically rebuilding from the ground up. Salvaging what we can, but structurally, we start over.”

He slides a document across the table. A detailed timeline broken into phases—foundation repair, structural framing, roofing, systems install, interior finishes. Estimated costs. Decision deadlines.

“This is... incredibly thorough,” I say, scanning the page. “And slightly terrifying.”

“It’s realistic,” he replies. “Foundation is priority one. We’ll need to jack the structure, pour new footings, replace sill plates before anything else.”

I nod like I understand what sill plates are, mentally flagging it for a Google search later.

“And the six-month timeline?” I ask. “Is that doable, or aspirational?”

“It’s tight,” he says, “but feasible. If decisions are made promptly—and there are no major surprises.”

“In my experience, there are always surprises,” I mutter, still reading. The numbers make me wince, but they’re not disaster levels. The labor-at-cost agreement is saving me thousands.

“I built in fifteen percent contingency,” Owen says, tapping a section of the spreadsheet. “Time and budget.”

I glance up. “You’re... very thorough.”

“I have to be. Especially on a project like this.” He hesitates. “And given the local expectations.”

“You mean the betting pool about how fast I’ll give up?”

His eyes flicker, surprised. “You know about that.”

“Hard to miss. The Griddle isn’t exactly soundproof. Apparently I’m this season’s cautionary tale.”

That almost-smile is back. “What’s your counter-strategy?”

“Spite,” I say simply. “Also, I made a list.”

He blinks. “A list?”

“Tiny House Rules.” I pull out my phone and show him the note. “Rule one: Don’t buy houses while drunk. Rule three: Prove them wrong.”

“What happened to rule two?”

“Still under development,” I lie. Because the real rule two is no power tools after 10 PM , which feels too basic to say out loud.

Owen smirks—just barely—then sets another paper in front of me. “Speaking of rules, I’ve drafted some for the renovation. Safety protocols. Communication guidelines. Decision timelines.”

“Sensible.” I nod, opening my notes app again. “Very adult.”

“Ironic, considering the house’s structural integrity,” he says, almost smiling.

“Rule one,” he begins, “safety equipment required any time you’re on-site during active work. No exceptions.”

“Stylish hard hats included?”

“Standard-issue only,” he says, deadpan.

“Shame.” I type it in anyway.

“Rule two: no impulsive decisions on structural elements. Every major choice gets 24 hours for consideration.”

“That feels like a personal attack, but okay,” I mutter.

“Rule three: notify me of any changes to budget or timeline expectations in writing.”

“Rule four,” I add, “no work before 7 AM or after 7 PM. We respect neighbors and sleeping patterns.”

He nods. “Except in emergencies. Rule five: weekly progress meetings, Monday mornings.”

I type that in, too. As the list grows, so does a strange sense of calm. I know this feeling. I’ve lived in meetings, built brands, crafted order out of chaos. The context may be new, but the structure is familiar.

“One more thing,” Owen says, glancing at his phone. “I saw your Instagram.”

I freeze. “You... saw that?”

“Walt showed me.”

Of course he did.

“I just want to be clear,” Owen continues. “This isn’t a reality show. I don’t want my work process documented for content. ”

“It’s not about entertainment,” I say quickly. “It’s about accountability. And maybe helping other people avoid my mistakes.”

“Noble,” he says, not unkindly. “But keep me—and my crew—off-camera.”

“Camera shy?”

“Privacy conscious.”

“Fair enough.” I nod. “The house is the focus. Not the people fixing it. Although... Walt mentioned you bring a dog to some jobs?”

“Finn,” Owen says, guarded.

“I promise not to photograph him without permission,” I say, holding up one hand solemnly. “Even if he is ridiculously photogenic.”

Owen doesn’t answer. Instead, he whistles softly, and a moment later, a medium-sized dog trots up the porch steps. Floppy ears. Mottled brown and white coat. Eyes like melted chocolate.

“This is Finn,” Owen says.

Finn stops at the door and waits for a nod from Owen before stepping inside.

“Hi, buddy,” I say, crouching a little. I hold out my hand, palm down. Finn sniffs it cautiously, then pushes his head under my palm like we’re old friends.

“He likes you,” Owen says, surprised. “He’s usually slow to trust.”

“I’m very likable,” I say, as Finn leans his head into my thigh. “Especially when not wearing sequins or making terrible real estate decisions.”

A pause.

Then—finally—a real smile from Owen. Small, subtle. But real.

“Speaking of which,” he says, turning toward the back of the house, “there’s something else. ”

More bad news?

“There’s an old camper behind the property,” he says. “Covered by brush. Could be repurposed for temporary housing.”

I stare. “A camper?”

“Vintage knockoff Airstream. Needs work, but it’s there.”

We step outside, Finn trailing us, and make our way through the overgrowth. And there it is—a silver capsule of a camper under the maple trees, like a forgotten movie set.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “It’s Wes Anderson’s fever dream.”

“It needs seals, cleaning, system checks,” Owen says, pulling back the tarp. “But it’s structurally intact.”

“Can I see inside?”

He tests the steps first, then opens the door and offers me his hand. Calloused. Steady. Warm.

The interior smells like dust and old vinyl, but it’s all there—green upholstery, paneled walls, a tiny kitchen.

“This is amazing,” I say.

“It’s salvageable,” Owen replies. “Give me a few days. I’ll let you know what it needs.”

“Thank you,” I say, and mean it.

We return to the house and finish the paperwork, finalizing the schedule. Finn rests at my feet. Owen marks up blueprints. And I add another rule to my list:

Rule #4: Don’t catch feelings for the grumpy carpenter.

That one, I’m absolutely sure I can follow.

Probably. Maybe.