This is our new normal: short instructions, clipped corrections, a thick layer of tension just below the surface. Tension that has little to do with construction and everything to do with what we’re not talking about. The kiss during the storm. The morning in the camper. Veronica’s ongoing stay in Maple Glen.
Not that I’m keeping track.
“How’s the window seat coming?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral as I remeasure.
That finally gets his attention. He glances over to the west wall—my window seat, framed and installed, the storage roughed in, the picture window catching the light just right.
“On schedule,” he says. Then, grudging: “The proportions work better than I expected.”
Which, from Owen, is basically a love letter.
“Told you it was worth the square footage,” I say, not hiding my smirk. “Form and function, harmony, etcetera.”
The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile—before his phone rings. He checks the screen, expression shifting. Guarded. Then he steps outside to take the call.
I don’t need to see the name. Veronica’s been “consulting” all week about the Henderson project. Despite him saying no to new jobs, her calls always seem to make it through. Meetings that weren’t supposed to happen... do.
Not that I’m jealous.
That would violate Rule #8.
I go back to the lighting install, but the knot in my stomach keeps tightening. We’re partners on a TV renovation project. Nothing more. Just because we occasionally exchange lingering glances—or kissed once in the middle of a storm—doesn’t mean anything.
That’s the script, anyway.
My phone buzzes with a text from Abby.
Construction update please! How’s the Accelerated Timeline of Doom? More importantly: tension with Lumber Owen—still pretending that kiss never happened??
I respond one-handed while balancing on the ladder.
Timeline is BONKERS. House looks like a house. We’re all 90% drywall dust and caffeine. And there is NO tension because we are PROFESSIONALS.
She replies immediately:
The all-caps says everything. You’re one blown fuse away from Closet Makeout Session 2.0.
I ignore her and take some progress photos for my account, now pushing 50k followers. They’re weirdly invested in the house—and the slow-burn drama they’re convinced is playing out between me and “the hot carpenter.”
If only they knew how romantic it is to argue over junction box height while covered in fiberglass.
I post:
Week 2 of the accelerated timeline: Sleep is optional, coffee is essential, and I now dream in project schedules. BUT LOOK AT THIS PROGRESS. Windows in. Electrical roughed. And my beloved window seat is alive and thriving. Four weeks until the cameras show up and I pretend to know what I’m doing. #ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TinyHouseHugeFeelings #DeadlinesAreTerrible #ProgressIsBeautiful
I’m just hitting post when Owen walks back in. His expression is unreadable as he slips his phone away and returns to the plumbing diagrams.
“Everything okay?” I ask, keeping it casual.
“Fine,” he says, in the tone that means the exact opposite. “The electrician needs the rest of the recessed lights finished today so he can start circuit testing.”
And we’re back to business.
We work like that all day—focused, efficient, and about as emotionally warm as two robots operating a miter saw. The tension builds like insulation dust in the corners, settling into every exchange.
When the last subcontractor leaves and it’s finally just us, I bring up the thing I’ve been circling for days.
“I’ve been thinking about the central support beam,” I say as we review tomorrow’s task list.
