“Well, well,” he says, stepping inside. “The famous Sequin Shack. Looks like you’re making progress, Carver.”
“Blake,” Owen says coolly. “What do you want?”
“Just being neighborly.” Blake’s gaze swings to me. “You must be Penny. The city girl brave enough to take on this place.”
“That’s me,” I say, self-conscious of my sweaty tank top and dust-covered jeans. “Penny Winslow.”
“Blake Reynolds.” He offers a suspiciously clean hand. “Reynolds Custom Homes. I’m theotherbuilder in town. Though I lean more high-end.”
We shake hands. I notice Owen step closer.
“I’ve heard about you,” Blake says, not letting go right away. “Word is you’re doing the work yourself. Impressive.”
“Blake,” Owen says tightly, “did you need something?”
“Just dropping in.” Blake’s smile turns sharp. “Offering my professional opinion, if needed. Always good to have options.”
“We’ve got it covered,” Owen says.
Blake looks at me. “If you ever want a second opinion—or a real design consultation—I just finished a lakeside property with some... innovative space solutions.”
“She’s not interested,” Owen says, stepping between us.
Blake raises an eyebrow. “We,huh? Owen Carver collaborating on design? The rumors must be true.”
“What rumors?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Blake’s smile turns smug. “That this project is different. Special attention from Maple Glen’s most dedicated bachelor.Walt says he hasn’t seen Owen this invested in a renovation since… well, ever.”
Owen’s jaw tightens visibly. “Don’t you have your own projects to manage?”
“Always,” Blake replies, unbothered. “But none as interesting as this one.” He turns back to me. “My offer stands. If you want a second opinion on anything—design, materials, timeline—I’m just a call away.”
He produces a business card like some kind of magician. I take it automatically, aware of Owen watching the exchange with a jaw set tight enough to crack stone.
“Thanks,” I say evenly. “But Owen and I have a good system going.”
“I’m sure you do.” Blake’s tone is coated in innuendo. “Still, options are always good. Especially when you’re new in town.”
“We need to get back to work,” Owen cuts in, voice flat. “The subfloor won’t install itself.”
“Of course.” Blake steps toward the door, then pauses like he can’t help himself. “Oh, by the way—I saw one of your birdhouses on Elm Street yesterday. The new design with the copper roof? Nice touch. You should sell those instead of leaving them around town like some kind of carpenter vigilante.”
Owen goes utterly still.
Birdhouses?
I glance at him, confused. It’s the first I’ve heard of them, though something clicks—Walt mentioning Owen “leaving things behind.” I’d assumed it was tools or random lumber, not handcrafted little homes for birds.
“Goodbye, Blake,” Owen says, his tone flat enough to kill small talk in a ten-mile radius.
Blake lifts a hand in mock farewell. “Always a pleasure.”
The door swings shut behind him, and the silence he leaves behind is thick and uncomfortable.
I want to ask about the birdhouses. I want toask abouta lotof things. But Owen’s tension is radiating so intensely I half expect it to short-circuit the power tools.
“So,” I say, aiming for light, “I’m guessing you two aren’t in the same bowling league.”
