“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 heisridiculously 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.
