I open and close my mouth several times, trying—and failing—to produce anything other than sputtering.
“Don’t worry,” Dorothy says kindly, patting my arm as she stands. “Most of us are rooting for you two. Owen’s been alone too long. You’re just what he needs—someone to shake up his routine.”
“I’m not—we’re not—” I try to get words out as they gather their purses.
“It was lovely meeting you, dear,” Jean says, heading for the door. “Don’t mind the gossip. It means the town likes you.”
After they leave, I turn to Marge, who at least looks a little sorry.
“I’m sorry about that,” she says. “I should’ve warned you.”
“About the town betting on my love life?” I collapse into an armchair. “Is that actually happening, or were they just teasing me?”
Her silence is answer enough.
“Great,” I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Just great. It’s not enough they’re betting on when I’ll fail and leave—now they’re inventing a romance between me and my contractor.”
“If it makes you feel better,” Marge offers, “the leaving-town bets have definitely slowed down. People are starting to think you might actually stay.”
“Wonderful. Instead, they think I’m secretly pining for Owen Carver.” I peek at her through my fingers. “Which I’m not. At all. He’s my contractor. There’s a rule about it and everything.”
Marge’s lips twitch. “Of course, dear. More tea?”
I accept the change of subject with relief, but as I help herprepare it, I can’t stop thinking about the town’s new betting pool. It’s absurd, obviously. Owen and I are barely friends. He’s frustratingly rigid, annoyingly competent, and entirely focused on the job.
So what if he has nice forearms? So what if he listened to my window seat speech and actually considered my ideas? So what if his hands were gentle when he bandaged my cut?
It doesn’t mean anything.
Itcan’tmean anything.
Because the thing about small towns no one warns you about? They’re watching. Always watching.
And apparently taking bets on whether the city girl and the hometown carpenter will kill each other or kiss each other first.
The thingabout social media success is that it feels simultaneously like validation and fraud. Like you’ve somehow tricked people into caring about your life while also feeling pathetically grateful they bothered to look.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the tiny house’s newly stabilized subfloor, morning light streaming through what will eventually become my window seat (Owen hasn’t officially approved it yet, but I’ve chosen to interpret his “I’ll consider it” as a binding contract). My phone shows the latest stats on my renovation account: 4,873 followers, up nearly a thousand since yesterday’s post about the foundation rebuild.
“What do we think, Finn?” I ask Owen’s dog, who has taken to showing up with me even on days when Owen is meeting with suppliers. “Isinfluencera natural career progression fromunemployed PR strategist who bought a disaster house while drunk,or am I having a quarter-life crisis?”
Finn, sprawled beside me in a patch of sunlight, thumps his tail noncommittally.
I scroll through the comments on yesterday’s post—a time-lapse of Owen and me (well, mostly Owen) installing the new support beams that will keep the house from eventually sliding down the hill during heavy rain.
@TinyHomeRevolution:The way you’re documenting the foundation rebuild is SO helpful! Most renovation accounts skip straight to the pretty stuff.
@DIYDisasterQueen:Living vicariously through your journey! My husband won’t let me near power tools afterThe Incident We Don’t Discuss.
@ReclaimedLifestyle:Have you considered using reclaimed timber for those support beams? We have some gorgeous salvaged old-growth Douglas fir that would be perfect. DM for collaboration opportunity!
I pause at that last one, rereading it twice. Acollaborationoffer? From an actual company with over 200K followers? I click through to their profile—a legitimate reclaimed materials supplier specializing in renovation projects.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to Finn, who lifts his head at my tone. “Someone wants to sponsor content. Like, real sponsorship. Not just my mother asking when I’m going toget a real job again.”
I snap a quick selfie with Finn, both of us surrounded by construction dust and morning light, and type out a new post:
Morning check-in from renovation central, where the foundation is finally stable enough to not immediately collapse if you sneeze too aggressively! Small victories, people.
