They get it. They like it.
My phone buzzes again—Abby.
OMG YOU’RE FAMOUS!!! Renovation Nation feature?! I’m screaming! Also your follower count is exploding! Also also did you kiss Lumber Owen yet because the tension in your posts is THICK
I type back:
1. Just saw it. In shock.
2. Almost 20K followers now
3. NO COMMENT on the Owen situation
Abby, naturally, replies instantly:
“NO COMMENT” = SOMETHING HAPPENED!!! I KNEW IT!!! SPILLLLLL
I ignore her and scroll through the comments. They’re overwhelmingly positive—people asking smart questions, complimenting the honesty, and, of course, speculating about “the undeniable tension” between me and “the hot contractor.” If only they knew about the kiss in the supply closet during a storm three days ago. The internet would combust.
Not that I’ve been thinking about that kiss. Much. Hourly. Whatever.
Since then, we’ve kept things strictly professional. We’veworked together to repair storm damage and finish the framing. The conversation we had that night—about why he stayed and why I run—still hangs between us. Acknowledged, not addressed. Like the kiss.
But I try to focus on the present. I take a screenshot of the follower count, then open my laptop to draft a post:
Woke up to find @RenovationNation featured our tiny house disaster-turned-project! Thank you for the kind words about our “refreshingly honest” approach—which is really just me documenting my questionable life choices in real time. To all the new followers: welcome to the renovation rollercoaster!
Yes, I really did buy this place drunk at auction.
Yes, the foundation was actually that bad.
And yes, the window seat is non-negotiable despite being “impractical.”
#ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TinyHouseHugeFeelings #ViralForMyBadDecisions
I hit post, then flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. Should I text Owen? He’s made it clear he wants to stay out of the social media spotlight, but this feels like the kind of heads-up he deserves.
Before I can decide, my phone rings. Marge.
“Hello?” My voice is still hoarse from sleep.
“Penny! Have you seen it? You’re famous!” Her usual calm innkeeper tone has been replaced with bubbling excitement.
“I just saw. It’s wild.”
“The whole town’s talking! Dorothy saw it on her granddaughter’s Instagram, and Walt’s already had three calls asking if we have vacation rentals nearby.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “This could be big for Maple Glen, dear. Really big.”
“I mean... maybe. It’s just a blog feature.”
“Don’t underestimate it. Remember Hickory Falls? That baking show turned them into a destination. Sometimes all it takes is alittle exposure.”
Exposure.
The word lingers, weighted. The house project, newly exposed to an audience of strangers. My feelings for Owen, uncomfortably exposed to myself. And the night of the storm—every charged second of it—exposed something neither of us is ready to name.
“I should get to the site,” I tell her, glancing at the time. “Still lots to do.”
“Of course! I made apple cinnamon muffins to celebrate. Come down when you’re ready.”
