Except he looks at me like he’s trying to figure out a plan.
Except I kind of want to be part of that plan.
I push the thoughts aside, turning my attention to the logistics of moving into the camper. Marge is completely understanding about the potential early departure from the B&B and promises my room will be available if things don’t work out. The next morning, I pack the essentials and head to the property earlier than usual, determined to assess the camper’s readiness before making it official.
The sun is just cresting the trees when I arrive, casting long shadows across the clearing. The camper sits behind the house, its aluminum shell catching the early light like a beacon. Inside, it’s small but functional—a compact kitchenette, a dining nook that converts into a bed, and a tiny bathroom with a shower that requires full-body origami to use comfortably.
I run through a systems check: water flows (though the pressure surges like it’s powered by mood), the propane stove lights, and the electrical outlets are enough to handle my laptop and phone. It’s not glamorous, but it works.
It’s not the Ritz. But it has character. And, strangely, charm.
I unpack my clothes into the shallow built-ins, set up my laptop on the fold-down table, and organize my toiletries in the miniature bathroom. When I step back, it hits me—this tiny aluminum box, cobbled together with patience and elbow grease, is mine. At least for now.
To christen the space properly, I decide to make coffee. The kitchenette has the basics—thanks to weeks of slow upgrades and supply runs—and I go through the familiar motions: fill the kettle, set it on the burner, and prep my pour-over setup. One of my few non-negotiableluxuries.
The ritual soothes me. Water warming. Grounds measured. Steam blooming as I pour in slow, concentric spirals. The scent wraps around me like comfort.
I’m so caught up in the moment I don’t hear the footsteps outside—just the soft knock at the camper door.
“Come in,” I call, assuming it’s Owen reporting for our early start.
The door opens, and Owen steps inside—then freezes.
Something in his expression shifts as his gaze sweeps the scene: me in sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt, hair piled messily on top of my head, barefoot and bathed in the soft light streaming through the camper’s windows, halfway through making coffee.
“Sorry,” he says, suddenly off-balance in a way that’s deeply un-Owen. “Didn’t realize you’d moved in already.”
“Just this morning,” I say, continuing the pour. “Thought I’d test it out. So far, so good—except the hot water decided to be cold, and the cold water decided to be molten lava. I may have screamed. Finn might have filed a noise complaint.”
Still no laugh. Not even a smile. He just watches me, the kind of look that makes me hyperaware of every inch of bare skin and the coffee-stained hem of my shirt.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, kettle hovering mid-pour. “Is it the coffee? The pajamas? My entire pre-caffeine vibe?”
He blinks, like he’s shaking something off. “No. Nothing’s wrong. I just…” He pauses. “Brought the revised material order.”
“Great,” I say, even though his tone doesn’t match the clipboard he sets on the table. “Coffee first? I made enough for two.”
“Sure,” he says, settling across from me at the camper’s tiny table. Finn follows him in and flops at my feet like he owns the place.
I finish pouring and slide a mug across. The camper’s compact size means our knees nearly brush beneath the table. It feels closer than it should. More personal than it is.
“So,” I say, sipping for courage, “materials for the Accelerated Timeline of Doom?”
He opens the folder, spreading out the paperwork. We review the list together, making small adjustments for delivery windows and supplier substitutions. On the surface, it’s all business. But underneath, something’s shifted. He’s here, but holding back. Focused, but off-kilter.
My phone buzzes. Abby.
OMG tell me everything about the ex-fiancée situation! Is she gorgeous? Is she evil? Is she trying to steal your man? (And don’t pretend he’s not your man because THE ENTIRE INTERNET sees how you look at each other)
I flip the phone face-down like it’s on fire.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Abby doesn’t really understand the concept of boundaries.”
“It’s fine,” Owen says, though something in his jaw suggests otherwise. Then, after a pause: “About Veronica showing up yesterday…”
“Totally not my business,” I cut in, too fast. “Your personal life is your personal life.”
“There is no personal life there,” he says flatly. “Not anymore.”
