And there’s Owen. Sitting on those same steps, elbows on knees, head bowed as he studies something in his hands. The posture hits me like déjà vu—it’s how I sat on my tiny house porch after our first inspection, stunned by what I’d just signed up for. The symmetry isn’t lost on me. We’ve traded places: him facing impossible choices, me arriving with a plan.
He looks up as I reach the edge of the gravel driveway, his face shifting from distraction to surprise. The light softens the sharper angles I know too well. He’s wearing the gray henley I privately think of as his armor, sleeves shoved up, forearmsexposed. The ones that feature in more of my thoughts than I’ll ever admit.
“Winslow,” he says. The nickname is a small victory after the formal “Ms. Winslow” from our fight. “Wasn’t expecting you.”
“That was the idea,” I reply, stepping closer with more confidence than I feel. “Surprise attacks limit retreat options.”
The corner of his mouth twitches—his version of amusement. “I’m not retreating.”
“No, you’re sitting on your steps looking like someone stole your favorite level.” I pause, just shy of the porch. “Bad time?”
He glances down at the notebook in his hands—his leather-bound sidekick for sketches and measurements. “Just reviewing ideas for the house.” He tucks it into his back pocket as he stands. “What’s that?”
I tighten my grip on the folder. “A proposition.”
Finn, apparently satisfied I’ve passed inspection, trots over. I crouch to scratch behind his ears, grateful for the momentary distraction. “Hey, buddy. Missed you yesterday.”
“He was confused when you didn’t show up,” Owen says. I look up to find him watching us, that unreadable expression hovering just shy of something else.
“I was busy,” I say, standing again. “Plotting a coup.”
His brow lifts. “Against?”
“Inertia. Fear. The Carver curse.” I take a breath. “Can we talk? Inside the workshop, where your dog won’t sabotage my argument with his face?”
Finn whines at the accusation, deeply offended.
Owen studies me for a beat, then nods. “Coffee first?”
“Already caffeinated to dangerous levels,” I confess. “Any more and I might vibrate out of this plane of existence.”
That almost-smile again. “Noted.”
He leads the way into the workshop, Finn trailing like a chaperone. The space feels different in morning light—less like I’m trespassing, more like I’ve been invited in. Tools gleam on pegboards. Sunlight catches the curls of wood shavings alongthe floor. The wall of birdhouses looks like a miniature town—part gallery, part love letter to unnoticed beauty.
Owen clears space at his workbench, carefully moving a half-built project I don’t recognize. “So,” he says, arms crossing, “a proposition.”
“A business proposition,” I clarify, laying the folder down. “Though it veers dangerously close to personal. In the general neighborhood of life-changing.”
He doesn’t react outwardly, but I see it—the shift in posture, the subtle tilt that means he’s listening harder than he lets on.
“I’m listening,” he says. It’s all the encouragement I need.
I take a breath, channeling every pitch I’ve ever given—only this time, I believe in what I’m selling. I open the folder and spread out the materials: market research, projections, visual mockups. Everything organized, strategic, airtight.
“Carver Custom Designs,” I begin, my voice steady. “A specialized design firm focused on innovative small-space architecture. Sustainability. Beauty. Function. Everything you already do—just finally getting credit for it.”
He says nothing, but his arms uncross. He leans in slightly, studying the documents. The gears are turning. I know that look.
I walk him through the research—tiny house growth stats, market gaps, demand curves. I lay out a business model built around his skills: consults, custom designs, a curated portfolio. I show him how it can start lean, out of this very workshop. How I can handle the marketing, the outreach, the scaling.
“The projections are conservative,” I say, flipping to the spreadsheet. “Low overhead. No need to abandon the family business overnight. A phased transition. Respectful of your reality.”
He looks up sharply. “You thought about that.”
“I thought about all of it.” I meet his gaze. “It’s what I do—anticipate objections, address them before they’re spoken.”
“PR skills.”
