“Your dad has therapy appointments scheduled through the next decade. He’ll be fine. Maggie has backup spreadsheets for her backup spreadsheets. And the Thompsons will survive a slight delay for something like this.”
He turns, eyes locked on mine. “You really think I should do it.”
“I think you should do whatever lights up that part of your brain I love watching when you’re sketching at midnight,” I say. “Cabinetry, tiny houses, teaching—whatever sparks it. I’ll be the one cheering way too loudly from the sidelines.”
His expression shifts. He reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, a gesture that still makes my breath catch.
“My impractical ideas are your favorite part of this house,” I remind him.
“Your impractical ideas are my favorite part of this house,” he says quietly. “The window seat. The reading nook. The ridiculous tasseled pillows that serve no purpose.”
The words land deeper than I expect. Coming from Owen, it’s practically a love letter.
“I’m framing that the next time you veto my decorative vision board,” I say, stepping into his space. “Possibly in calligraphy.”
“I maintain that the copper pot rack is still excessive for someone with three pans,” he counters, sliding his arms around me.
“It adds vertical interest and creates an aspirational cooking environment,” I say, resting my hands on his chest. “You’re welcome.”
“Practically therapeutic,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
We stand there, tucked into our too-small kitchen like we were always meant to fit. Six months ago, this would’ve made me claustrophobic. Now, it feels like peace.
“The TV crew’ll be here by nine,” Owen says finally. “Adele sent a full shot list.”
“Part of my master plan to make you famous against your will.” I step back, grab my coffee. “Next year: your own flannel line and signature hammer.”
The horror on his face makes me laugh. “Relax. I negotiated ironclad privacy clauses. Your mysterious contractor aura is safe.”
“It’s not about privacy,” he mutters, distracted by the coffee again. “It’s about the work standing on its own. No distractions.”
“But people care about the story behind the work. That’s why the renovation posts resonated—because it wasn’t perfect. It was real.”
He makes a noise that means he knows I’m right but doesn’t want to admit it. “As long as they stick to the construction and design. Not... all the rest.”
“You mean our epic renovation romance that started with me drunkenly buying a house and you trying tocondemn it?” I grin. His wince is everything. “Don’t worry. I’ve been clear—this is about Carver Custom Designs and small-space innovation. Not our love life.”
“Good,” he says, but I see his shoulders loosen.
I watch him move around the kitchen, comfortable and precise, and think how different this is from everything I knew before. With Tyler, everything had felt like performance—like we were always staging something. With Owen, there are no parts to play.
And just like that, I realize I haven’t checked Tyler’s social media in months. That “forever home” announcement that once hit like a sucker punch now reads like a press release from someone else’s life.
“What?” Owen asks, catching my look.
“Just thinking,” I say, smiling at him. “I used to think a ‘forever home’ meant a perfect person who had it all together. Move-in ready.”
“And now?” he asks, setting his coffee down, giving me his full attention.
“Now I think it’s about finding someone who wants to build with you. Someone who sees the cracks and leans in anyway.”
His gaze softens. “Renovation’s a lifelong job,” he says. “Maintenance never stops.”
“Good thing I’ve got an expert on call,” I say, matching his tone. “Foundation work is your specialty, after all.”
The moment holds. Then Finn bumps into Owen’s leg with the subtlety of a freight train, demanding breakfast.
I laugh, brushing Owen’s arm. “Apparently, some members of this household have unmet needs. I should finish Mrs. Peterson’s site before the cameras arrive.”
