Of course. Doris.
“I’ll need to discuss the Henderson project with my father,” Owen says, offering nothing further. “We’re fully booked.”
“Of course,” Veronica says breezily. “I’m in town until Friday.” She pulls a business card from her blazer and hands it to him. “Same number. New email. The firm made me partner last year.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She turns to me with another perfectly polite smile. “Lovely to meet you, Penny. Good luck with the renovation. And the television debut.”
“Thanks.” I match her tone. “Owen’s work speaks for itself. Even on ‘small-scale projects.’”
Her smile tightens, just a little. “Indeed. Well, I won’t keep you.” She moves to the door, then looks back. “Dinner before I leave? For old times’ sake? I’d love to hear what you’ve been working on.”
Owen pauses. “I’ll check my schedule.”
Polite. Noncommittal. Enough to end the conversation.
She nods once and exits. We watch her drive away in that too-shiny Audi, the silence she leaves behind somehow louder than the sound of her tires.
I busy myself with the timeline notes, trying not to think too hard.
“Sorry about that,” Owen says finally. “Didn’t knowshe was in town.”
“No need to apologize.” I aim for casual, and probably miss. “She seems... successful.”
He gives a noncommittal sound. “The Henderson job is big. Ten thousand square feet, full custom.”
“Sounds like a great opportunity,” I say, still looking at the papers I’m not actually reading. “If you need to?—”
“I don’t,” he cuts in, voice firm. “We’ve got a plan.”
I glance up, surprised by his certainty. “But she said it was flexible. And it’s exactly the kind of project she thinks you should be doing.”
His jaw ticks. “What Veronica thinks I should do doesn’t factor into my decisions.”
“Right. Of course.” I nod quickly. Too quickly. “So... back to our six-week timeline of doom?”
The tension breaks just a little, and we refocus. For the next hour, we build out the new schedule until the light outside fades.
“I should get back to Marge’s,” I say, standing. “Early start tomorrow.”
Owen nods. “The camper’s nearly ready. Basic systems are functional. You could stay on site if you want. Save time.”
The suggestion surprises me. We’ve been slowly fixing up the camper, but I didn’t think it was habitable yet.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “There’s still the water pressure thing, and the heater’s iffy.”
“It’s functional,” he says. “Not perfect. But practical. Your call.”
It makes sense. With the deadline looming, proximity matters. And maybe I’m ready to stop just visiting the site and actually move in.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “Check with Marge about the cancellation policy.”
We wrap up for the night. I head back, thoughts spinning—not about the timeline or the camper, but about Veronica. The way she said dinner. The way she said “partner.”
Owen and I are just colleagues. Just builder and client. Just a woman living in a camper next to a house with a half-installed window seat and a full-blown denial problem.
Except we kissed during a storm.
