He glances at the numbers, expression unreadable. “That’s significant.”
“It’s crazy is what it is,” I say, scrolling through comments. “People are asking about visiting Maple Glen, wanting to know where to stay if they come see the area. Marge might need to expand the B&B.”
“The town could use the business,” Owen observes, returning to his work. After a moment, he adds, “You’re good at this. The documentation. The storytelling.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “Thanks. It’s basically my PR background but applied to something I actually care about for once.”
Our eyes meet again, and this time neither of us looks away immediately. There’s something in his expression—a warmth, an assessment, a question I can’t quite decipher.
“You’ve found your audience,” he says finally. “That’s rare.”
“I’ve found my authentic voice,” I correct gently. “That’s rarer.”
The moment hangs between us, weighted with significance that extends beyond social media metrics. Then Finn barks at something outside, breaking the spell, and we return to our careful professional dance.
By lunchtime, I need a break from the tension. “I’m going to grab food from The Griddle,” I announce. “Want anything?”
“I’m fine,” Owen says, predictably. Then, less predictably: “But thanks.”
“I’ll bring you something anyway,” I decide. “Contractor can’t work on an empty stomach. It’s Rule Number Five.”
The corner of his mouth twitches in what might almost be a smile. “I thought Rule Five was ‘Label all paint cans after The Closet Incident.’”
The word “closet” hangs in the air between us, suddenly charged with new meaning after the storm. Our eyes meet, and I know we’re both thinking of the same thing—pressed against shelving, his hands in my hair, the taste of coffee and rain and something uniquely Owen.
“Right,” I say, my voice slightly strangled. “That was definitely Rule Five. This can be... Rule Six, then.”
I flee before the blush burning my cheeks becomes too obvious, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us and the increasingly thin pretense that everything is normal.
The Griddle is bustlingwhen I arrive, the lunch crowd in full swing. Heads turn as I walk in, conversations pausing before picking up again with extra animation. I catch fragments as I make my way to the counter—”social media,” “renovation,” “put Maple Glen on the map.”
Doris spots me from behind the counter, her usual efficient demeanor giving way to a genuine grin. “There she is! Our local celebrity!”
More heads swivel. I feel my cheeks flush. “Hardly a celebrity,” I say, sliding onto an empty stool. “Just a tiny house renovation people seem weirdly invested in.”
“Twenty-five thousand people,” says a voice to my left.
I turn. Jean. One of Marge’s friends from the infamous betting pool conversation. “Dorothy’s granddaughter checked your numbers this morning,” she adds. “Said you’re ‘trending’—whatever that means.”
“It’s just a burst of attention,” I say, though I’m secretly pleased. “People love a good disaster-reno story.”
“And a good romance,” says another voice—Dorothy herself, appearing like Beetlejuice summoned by name. “The comments on your posts are very interested in you and Owen.”
My blush deepens. “We’re not—it’s professional.”
Dorothy gives me a look that could dry flowers. “Honey, I’ve been married fifty-three years. I know ‘professional.’ Whatever’s between you two? Isn’t that.”
Before I can respond, Doris slides a coffee across the counter. “On the house, celebrity. What’ll you have for lunch? Owen’s usual too?”
That Doris knows Owen’s “usual” without me specifying feels... significant. How many times have I picked up lunch for us? When exactly did that become a thing?
“Yes, please,” I say, ordering sandwiches. “To go.”
As Doris turns to prepare them, I feel the weight of conversations and sideways glances from every corner of the diner. The attention isn’t unfriendly—it’s curious. Eager. But after years in PR, building narratives for others while keeping myself in the wings, it’s... a lot.
“Don’t mind them,” Jean says. “Small town excitement. We don’t get many celebrities.”
“I’m really not?—”
