“Right. Of course. Ancient history,” I echo, a little too brightly. “Though the Henderson project sounds amazing. Big budget. Creative freedom. No production crew breathing down your neck…”
He watches me, eyes unreadable. “Are you trying to convince me to take her project?”
“What? No!” I shake my head. “I’m just saying it sounds like a great opportunity. On paper.”
“But not one I should prioritize over this one,” he says.
“Obviously I want you to finish my house,”I admit. “Especially with the TV thing. But if it means more for your career, I wouldn’t want to hold you back.”
“This is important,” he says quietly.
And just like that, the air shifts again. The words land with weight. Not just about construction or schedules or shows.
I dodge the moment the only way I know how. “Well, good. Because I’d hate to explain to Tiny House Transformations that my contractor ditched me for a lakeside mansion and an ex-fiancée in perfect heels. That’s way too much drama, even for basic cable.”
He doesn’t laugh, but his expression softens. “That’s not going to happen.”
“I know,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I trust you.”
There’s a flicker in his gaze—surprise, maybe. Or something deeper. But instead of saying whatever’s hovering on the edge of that look, he shifts back to the material list, and the moment dissolves.
We finish the coffee and the paperwork, then head for the house. As we walk, I can’t stop thinking about Veronica. Her posture. Her presence. The way she spoke about Owen’s work like it still belonged to her.
“We should add a new rule,” I say abruptly as we approach the porch. “To the Tiny House Rule list.”
Owen raises a brow. “What kind of rule?”
“Rule Number Eight,” I say, trying to sound breezy. “No jealousy over people who aren’t ours to begin with.”
He stops walking. Turns fully to face me. “Is that a rule for me, or for you?”
“Both,” I say, holding his gaze. “Seems... practical. All things considered.”
Owen studies me, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. Then he nods. “Rule Eight. Though some rules are harder to follow than others.”
He doesn’t say which. But as he turns and steps into thehouse, I catch the edge of his expression in profile—unguarded, honest. A flash of something that looks a lot like longing.
Six weeks to finish the house. Six weeks until the cameras arrive. Six weeks to figure out whether I’m building something temporary… or something that might actually last.
There’sa special kind of chaos that emerges when you compress three months of renovation into six weeks. It’s not the slow burn of a typical construction site—it’s renovation on amphetamines. Every task overlapping. Every decision instant. Every mistake a potential derailment.
Two weeks into the accelerated timeline, the house has gone from skeleton to almost-structure. Windows: installed. Electrical: roughed in. Plumbing: run. Insulation: tucked into every crevice. The kind of progress that usually takes months is now crammed into days with the help of caffeine, grit, and panic.
I’m perched on a stepladder, installing recessed lighting while yelling at a delivery driver to bring the drywall inside.
“The drywall goes inside!” I shout over the whir of saws and drills. “Not the porch—it’ll get rained on!”
He gives me a thumbs-up that could mean “got it” or “I’m doing whatever I want.”
From across the room, Owen’s voice slices through the noise like a laser. “Left junction box needs to be two inches higher.”
I glance at the box I just mounted. Then at him. He’s buried in plumbing diagrams, adjusting joists, talking to a subcontractor—and still knows exactly what I’m doing wrong.
“It’s at forty-eight inches,” I call back, brandishing the tape measure. “Per the electrical plan.”
“Plan changed when we adjusted thebuilt-in height. Fifty inches now.”
I bite my tongue and start unscrewing it. Again.
