His voice is low but tight, and I try to look like I’m not listening while absolutely listening.
“Let me know when you have a firm delivery date,” he finishes, ending the call with a sharp flick of his thumb.
“Problem?” I ask, though the answer is obvious.
“Custom window order’s delayed. Supplier issues.” His jaw ticks. “Two, maybe three weeks.”
I exhale slowly. “That pushes everything back, doesn’t it? We can’t do siding, drywall, insulation—basically anything—until those windows are in.”
“Exactly.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it messily damp in a way that should not be as distracting as it is. “We’ll have to rearrange the schedule.”
“I’m game to work weekends. Nights. Whatever we need to do.”
He glances at me, surprised. Not the what-can-you-do kind of surprise, but the you-didn’t-even-hesitate kind.
“We can shift some tasks, start interior elements that don’t rely on the windows. But yeah, longer hours would help.”
“I’m in,” I say, no hesitation.
Something unreadable flickers across his face—respect, maybe. Recalculation.
“It’ll mean late nights. More precision, less brute force.”
“Are you implying I’m not precise?” I feign offense. “I’ll have you know I am very good at holding things. At specific angles. While standing very still.”
He huffs a breath of a laugh. “Your holding skills are... adequate.”
“Wow. Careful, Owen. You keep complimenting me like that and I might faint.”
His mouth twitches again. I’ll call it a win.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ve got supplier meetings until four. Back here by five. We can work till ten or eleven.”
“Perfect.” I mentally cancel my solo dinner plans and remind myself to pick up food. “Any preferences?”
“Something with protein.”
“So, not black coffee and pure grit?”
“I said protein. Not flavorless.”
I grin. “Burgers it is.”
By 5:30 PM,we’ve turned the tiny house into a night shift construction zone. I’ve brought burgers from The Griddle (with fries and unsolicited dating advice from Doris), queued up the Beams & Bangers playlist, and angled the work lights to create a kind of industrial ambiance.
Owen arrives on the dot, freshly showered, in a new henley and jeans that somehow still manage to look like he rolled out of a workwear catalog. Finn trots in behind him like he owns the place.
“Honey, I’m home,” I say, holding up the takeout bags.
Owen lifts a brow. “Productive sarcasm.”
“Is there any other kind?”
We eat at the makeshift table, Finn settling between us and slowly, inevitably, conning me out of a fry or two.
“Don’t encourage him,” Owen says, though he doesn’t stop me.
“He looks at me like I’m his last hope for happiness. I’m only human.”
