Owen studies me for a moment, and something in his face softens. “Youareuseful. But not if you injure yourself trying to prove it.”
“Noted.” I lift my hand slightly. “I should probably add a new rule to my tiny house list. ‘No solo demolition after contractor leaves.’”
“Make it ‘No power tools after 10 PM,’” Owen says. “Covers more scenarios.”
I laugh, surprised. “That’s actually perfect. Rule number three: no power tools after 10 PM.”
“I thought rule three was ‘Prove them wrong’?”
I stare at him. “You remembered that?”
“I pay attention to most things,” he says, shrugging. “Especially safety issues.”
We stand there for a moment in the quiet, the sky shifting into twilight. I’m hyper-aware of how close he is, how his fingers brushed mine when he wrapped the bandage, how the light makes his features look softer, more... something.
“I should get back to Marge’s,” I say, voice a little too bright. “Early start tomorrow, right?”
He nods. “Foundation work begins at eight. Wear clothes you don’t mind ruining. And the work gloves I gave you.”
As I drive back to town, I can’t help replaying the moment in my head—the concern in Owen’s eyes, the gentleness of his touch as he bandaged my hand, the fact that he remembered my ridiculous tiny house rules. It feels significant somehow, though I’m not sure exactly what it signifies.
Back at Marge’s, I’m heading up to my room when her voice calls from the parlor.
“Penny? Is that you, dear?”
I detour to find her sitting with two other women I vaguely recognize from The Griddle. They all look up with identical expressions of barely contained curiosity as I step in.
“There she is,” one woman says, nudging the other. “Told you she was pretty.”
“Um, thank you?” I glance at Marge, who at least has the grace to look mildly apologetic.
“Penny, these are my friends Dorothy and Jean. They were just leaving,” she says, pointedly.
“Oh, don’t rush us out,” Dorothy protests. “We just wanted to meet the famous auction house girl. The whole town’s talking about you and Owen Carver.”
“About my house renovation,” I correct quickly, the discomfort settling in. “There’s nothing else to talk about.”
The women exchange knowing looks that make me want to sink through the floor.
“Of course, dear,” Jean says, tone suggesting she believes exactly the opposite. “Though I should warn you, there’s a bit of a... well, a friendly wager going around.”
“The betting pool,” I sigh. “Yes, I know. Walt told me. First frost is the favorite for when I’ll give up and leave town.”
Dorothy waves a hand like that’s old news. “Oh, that bet’s practically forgotten. The new pool is much more interesting.”
A sinking feeling coils in my stomach. “New pool?”
“Don’t mind them,” Marge cuts in, shooting her friends a warning look. “It’s just silly gossip.”
“About whether you and Owen Carver will kill each other or kiss each other first,” Jean says with obvious delight. “I’ve got five dollars on kiss by Thanksgiving.”
My face flames. “That’s ridiculous. We’re not—he’s my contractor. It’s a professional relationship.”
“Mmhmm,” Dorothy hums, unconvinced. “That’s why he spent twenty minutes bandaging your hand in his truck tonight? Veryprofessional.”
I stare at her, stunned. “How do you even know about that? It happened less than an hour ago!”
The three women exchange amused glances. “Small town, dear,” Jean says sympathetically. “Maggie saw you from the hardware store delivery truck. She called her mother, who told Pastor Dave, who mentioned it to me at the post office.”
