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 werestrangers 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 worthkeeping.”
“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.
