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.
There’ssomething quietly magical about morning light through windows you fought to include. Not the dim hum of corporate fluorescents or the filtered glow of apartment blinds—but real, full-bodied sunlight pouring through glass you insisted on, despite all practical objections about heat loss and inefficient use of square footage. The kind of light that turns floating dust into tiny galaxies and makes a plain wooden desk look like a catalog spread—no filter required.
I’m sitting at that desk now, tucked into the corner beside my hard-won window seat, laptop open to a marketing campaign I’m building for Mrs. Peterson’s ceramic studio. The contrast hits me harder than expected: six months ago, I was writing polished nonsense about juice cleanses that promised transformation but mostly delivered digestive regret. Now I’m helping a seventy-four-year-old artist with real talent reach customers beyond the Maple Glen farmers market.
The plants on the windowsill are alive—not the dusty corporate fakes from my LA office, but actual greenery that needs water and care. My coffee is Marge’s blend, not some overpriced chain. The walls are painted in shades I fought for, compromised on, or earned after long debates with a particularly stubborn carpenter.
My phone buzzes with a text from Abby:
T-minus 2 hours until TV fame! Are you going full fabulous or embracing your authentic renovation chic? And has Lumber Owen perfected his stoic-but-secretly-emotional on-camera face?
I grin and type back:
Authentic chic, of course. TV crew is bringing “touch-up” makeup which I’m sure won’t make me look like a wax figure. Also, CARPENTER Owen is pretending not to care while quietly worrying about his hair. It’s weirdly endearing.
She replies instantly:
Still can’t believe you’re actually living together in that tiny box. The woman who once needed a separate bathroom just for skincare. How many square feet again?
400. Beautifully designed, perfectly functional square feet. Plus the camper for emergency alone time. But we haven’t needed it yet. Turns out the right person makes a small space feel exactly right.
I set my phone down and return to Mrs. Peterson’s site. Her whole collection is inspired by Maple Glen—each piece tied to a specific trail, field, or landmark, with a percentage of sales going to local conservation. It’s the kind of story that used to get filtered out in meetings about “market breadth” and “brand clarity.”
“You need to be more practical,” Diana had told me once, fingers clacking against her tablet. “These emotional appeals are limiting our scalability.”
Back then, I winced. Now, I smile. She wasn’t wrong—for her world. But I was never built for that one. Sometimes it takes adisaster house purchased while drunk at a charity auction to realize where you actually belong.
I’m mid-adjustment on a product page when I hear the front door open. A kiss lands lightly on the top of my head before I even register that I’m no longer alone.
“Working already?” Owen asks, setting a coffee beside me and resting his hand briefly on my shoulder. “It’s barely seven.”
I lean back into his touch, tilting my head to look up. “Says the man who was probably hand-planing artisanal lumber at dawn.”
“Cabinet handles,” he says. The corner of his mouth lifts—his version of a smile. “Custom order for the Thompsons.”
“Ah, yes. The sacred Thompson handles that apparently can’t be sourced from a store like normal people.” I turn in my chair and accept the coffee with exaggerated reverence. “My hero. Delivering caffeine and handcrafted hardware to the masses.”
“Someone’s got to maintain standards.” He glances at my screen, zeroing in on the updated photos with his usual precision. “The glaze colors look better in this version.”
“Professional photography instead of iPhone pics under kitchen fluorescents,” I say. “Plus some light editing that doesn’t make her blue series look like it’s radioactive.”
“She’ll appreciate that. Her work deserves to be shown properly.” He moves toward the kitchen, Finn trotting after him in search of breakfast. “How’s the Richardson project?”
“Finalizing the logo today. They loved the concept—locally sourced timber with modern lines. It’s aligned with your last few builds.”
I swivel to watch him move around the kitchen, making coffee and feeding Finn with effortless rhythm. “Speaking of which—have you decided about the design school workshop?”
Owen pauses just briefly, back turned as he measures out coffee grounds. “Still considering it.”
Translation from Owen-speak to English: he wants to do it, but the idea of stepping into a teaching role makeshim twitchy. The invitation had come last week—an offer to lead a weekend workshop on innovative small-space design at a prestigious architecture school in Seattle. The kind of recognition he deserves but has always quietly sidestepped.
“You should do it,” I say, keeping my tone easy even though I mean every word. “Your tiny house designs are exactly what they need—practical, innovative, sustainable, and actually beautiful. Plus, I could tag along, wander the city, scout new clients for Carver Custom Designs...”
“You just want better coffee shops,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. There’s the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth.
“A tragic but accurate reading of my motives.” I cross to the kitchen. “But seriously—you’d be incredible. They’d be lucky to learn from you.”
He doesn’t answer right away, focusing a little too intently on grinding coffee beans. “It would mean leaving Dad for the weekend. And rescheduling the Thompson install.”
