Water damage means tear-out. It means delay. It means cost, chaos, and possibly pushing our timeline past the point of no return.
“How bad?” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
Owen doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Bad enough. We need to open up this whole section to find the source and assess the damage.” He turns to the drywall crew. “Hold off on finishing here. We need to investigate first.”
The workers nod and shift to other areas. Owen keeps inspecting the wall, calm and focused. I stand frozen, worst-case scenarios flashing like warning lights—TV deadlines, budget implosions, cascading delays.
“Penny.” His voice cuts through the noise in my head. “We’ll figure it out.”
Three simple words, but they anchor me. I take a breath. Steady. Focus.
“What do we need to do?”
“First, find the source.” He’s already pulling tools. “Could be a plumbing leak. Could be exterior infiltration. We need to know what we’re dealing with before we make a plan.”
His methodical calm is contagious. This is solvable. A problem, not a collapse. I grab more tools and join him.
“I’ll cancel the lumberyard trip,” he adds. “This takes priority.”
“I’ll call the producers—give them a heads-up. Better they hear it now than later.”
Owen nods, and I get a flicker of approval. We start cutting back drywall, working carefully to avoid spreading more damage. It’s worse than we hoped—soggy insulation, black-streaked framing. The source is a slow plumbing leak, hidden behind the shower wall, quietly wrecking everything.
“How long has this been happening?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
“Hard to say,” Owen replies, eyes narrowing on the framing. “Weeks. Maybe since the rough-in. Water damage is quiet—it works until you can’t ignore it.”
“Like emotional issues,” I mutter. I wince when he glances over. “Sorry. Renovation brain. Not sleeping enough.”
His mouth twitches like he might smile, but instead he returns to inspecting the wall. “We need to pull all the damaged material. Fix the leak. Dry it out. Then rebuild. No shortcuts.”
I run the math. “How long are we talking?”
“Three days minimum. If we work late and nothing else goes wrong.”
Three days. Nearly half our remaining time. I should panic—but I don’t. Not this time.
“Then we work late,” I say. “We shuffle the schedule, accelerate wherever we can.”
Owen looks at me for a beat, like he’s seeing something new. “That’s... a practical approach.”
“I have them sometimes,” I say, lifting a brow. “Especially with sufficient caffeine.”
We dive in. The rest of the day blurs into tasks: cutting drywall, fixing the leak, setting up fans. I call the producers, who shock me by being chill about it. Apparently, crisis makes great TV.
By the time we pause, it’s well past eight. The house is a disaster zone—fans whirring, debris piled everywhere, and outside, steady rain taps against the roof.
“We should keep going,” I say, eyeing the untouched insulation. “If we pull it now, it can dry overnight.”
Owen nods, his shoulders visibly heavy from the day. I make a quick run to The Griddle for reinforcements—coffee and sandwiches—then we get back to it.
We work close, tucked into the narrow space behind the shower wall. Our hands brush, shoulders bump, the tension between us thickening with every accidental contact. We’ve been pretending the kiss didn’t happen, but this space has a memory.
“Can you hold the lighthere?” he asks.
I move closer, lifting the flashlight. Our faces are inches apart.
I see every detail—his eyes, flecked with gray. The stubble along his jaw. The scar at his temple I’ve never noticed before. He glances up and catches me looking. Just looking. But the look lingers.
