“Can I quote you on that? ‘Might work better than my original layout’?” I smile. “That’s basically a gold star.”
“I’ll revise the plans,” he says. “After we address the foundation.”
“Foundation first. Always foundation first.” I grin. “But then? Big, beautiful windows and a seat to watch the world from.”
Something like a smile flickers across his face. “You’re very persistent.”
“It’s my only redeeming quality. That and my ability to rock a hard hat.”
This time, I’m sure I see it—a real, albeitfleeting, smile.
“I need to measure the existing frame again before finalizing these revisions. You should check in with Marge—she mentioned helping you with the camper this afternoon.”
“Oh, I forgot about that. She offered to lend me cleaning supplies and teach me how to check for leaks.” I glance at my watch. “It’s already past noon.”
“You’ll survive an afternoon away from the build,” he says. “I’ve managed construction projects before you arrived, Ms. Winslow.”
“Well, I had three more impassioned speeches prepared,” I say, grabbing my bag.
“I’m devastated to miss them.”
“I’ll save them for the next design meeting.”
He nods, already returning to the plans.
I pause at the door. “Thanks for considering my ideas. I know I’m not exactly... a construction expert.”
He looks up. “Different perspectives have value. Even impractical ones.”
Coming from Owen Carver, that feels like a breakthrough.
The afternoon passesin a blur of camper cleaning and town errands. Marge proves to be a fountain of knowledge about vintage trailers, having owned one in the seventies“during my wild years,”which she refuses to elaborate on despite my curious prodding. By late afternoon, the camper is considerably less disgusting—clean windows, a functional door seal, and surfaces that no longer feel sticky to the touch.
“Not bad for a day’s work,” Marge declares, surveying our progress. “The plumbing’ll need professional attention, but the structure’s sound. These old Airstreams were built to last.”
“It’s not actually an Airstream,” I point out. “The badge says ‘SilverStream,’ which I’m pretty sure is a knockoff.”
“Knockoff or not, it’s better made than half the houses builttoday,” Marge says firmly. “A little TLC and it’ll be a perfectly good temporary home while Owen works his magic on the main house.”
Owen.I check my phone, surprised to see it’s already after six. He’d mentioned leaving around this time to check on his father. The property will be empty, but I find myself reluctant to call it a day. The window seat discussion earlier made everything feel more real. More mine.
“I think I’ll head back to the property,” I tell Marge. “There are a few more measurements I want to take for the window placement.”
She gives me a knowing look. “Just be careful out there alone. And don’t touch Owen’s tools. He’s particular about those.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I assure her, though I’m already thinking about the section of drywall we left unfinished. Just a few small cuts. Nothing dramatic. Surely Owen wouldn’t mind if I got a head start.
The property is quiet when I arrive. Owen’s truck is gone, and the house stands silent in the golden evening light. I let myself in, immediately noticing the progress he made in my absence—more damaged materials cleared, new spray-paint markings on the floor. Probably where the foundation supports will go.
I walk to the west wall, where my future window seat will be, and stand there imagining the view through wider panes. The setting sun filters through the trees, casting dappled patterns across the rough floorboards. It’s beautiful in a way I never would’ve appreciated before—the play of light and shadow, the quiet rustling of leaves, the sense of being both sheltered and connected.
My phone buzzes with a text from Abby:
Update me! Has the hot lumberjack fallen for your city girl charm yet? Or are you still pretending this is just aboutrenovation?
I roll my eyes and type back:
It IS just about renovation. And he’s a carpenter, not a lumberjack. Though he does own an alarming number of flannel shirts.
