The acknowledgment warms something in me I hadn’t realized needed it.
“So we’re doing this?” I ask. “Tiny House Transformations featuring the Sequin Shack?”
The corner of his mouth lifts—his version of a full-body grin. “We’re doing this. But we’re doing it right. Cameras or no cameras.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from Owen Carver, perfectionist carpenter extraordinaire.”
He gives me a look that’s half exasperation, half something warmer. “We’ll need to revise the entire schedule tonight. Map out every phase, every deadline.”
“I’ll bring coffee and sustenance,” I promise. “And my exceptional color-coding skills for the new timeline.”
We spend the next hour talking through the logistics of the accelerated schedule—materials we need to order immediately, which tasks can run concurrently, potential subcontractors for the specialized work. The conversation stays focused and professional, but under the surface, there’s a hum of excitement. At least on my part. This is really happening. My tiny disaster house is going to be on actual television.
Owen is mid-sentence, explaining why the windows have to go in before we finalize the exterior siding, when we hear the crunch of tires on gravel outside.
“Expecting someone?” I ask, glancing toward the door.
He shakes his head, already moving to check. I follow, curious.
A sleek silver Audi has parked beside Owen’s truck, looking utterly out of place on our dusty construction site. The driver’s door opens, and a woman steps out—poised, polished, and completely incongruous with our half-built house.
She’s tall and slender, dressed in a crisp white blouse under a perfectly tailored blazer, slim trousers, and heels that should be a death sentence on our terrain but somehow aren’t. She glides toward us with effortless confidence, her voice carrying as she smiles at Owen.
“Owen! I was hoping I’d find you here.”
Beside me, I feel him tense. “Veronica,” he says, and that one word contains an entire history.
His ex-fiancée.
She reaches the porch, climbing the steps like she’s done it a hundred times. Up close, she’s even more intimidating—flawless makeup, delicate jewelry, bone structure you could sculpt in marble.
“I stopped by the workshop, but your father said you were here,” she says, her gaze sliding to me with polite curiosity. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
“This is Penny Winslow,” Owen says, his voice carefully neutral. “The homeowner. Penny, this is Veronica Wilcox.”
“Former fiancée,” she adds with a too-pleasant smile. “Though that was ages ago. We’re practically ancient history now, aren’t we, Owen?”
The question hangs, airless and loaded. Owen doesn’t answer. “What brings you to Maple Glen?”
“A design commission,” she replies, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “The Hendersons—you remember Thomas Henderson? They’re renovating their estate on Lake Crescent. They requested you specifically for the custom woodwork.”
Owen follows her in, and I trail behind, feeling oddly like a guest in my own project.
“I’m booked,” he says. “This build is already on an accelerated timeline.”
Veronica surveys the interior with cool precision. “Tiny house renovation? Interesting shift from your usual work.” She turns to me, smile polite and sharp. “You’re lucky to have him. His craftsmanship is unparalleled, though I’ve always felt his talent was wasted on small-scale projects.”
It lands like a precision strike. Not openly rude, but perfectly engineered to diminish.
“I’m very fortunate,” I reply, mirroring her smile. “Owen’s detail work is exactly what this house needs. I wouldn’t call it ‘wasted’ when it’s building something meaningful.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Of course. I only meant his work deserves more visibility. Which is what the Henderson project offers—high profile, creative freedom, and a budget that reflects the value of his skill.”
She turns back to Owen, who watches the exchange with unreadable eyes. “The timeline’s flexible,” she adds. “They understand quality takes time. Unlike television production, I imagine.”
My stomach dips. “How did you?—”
“Small town,” she says, waving a hand. “Stopped at The Griddle. Your waitress mentioned something about a TV show featuring the ‘Sequin Shack.’ Took me a moment to connect the dots.”
