“Applied to somethingreal. For once.”
I keep going—target clients, branding, sample campaigns. Mixed in are pieces of his own designs, the ones from his notebook, the ones too good to keep hidden in graphite and paper.
He picks up one of the pages. “This is mine.”
“Your vision,” I say. “It’s already here. I’m just offering you the blueprint to build it.”
He looks at the drawing again, his hand resting on the page like it’s something alive. He’s quiet for a moment, studying the materials with the same meticulous attention he brings to structural challenges.
“This is... thorough.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a compliment,” I say, trying to lighten the moment even as my heart drums against my ribs.
“It is.”
He looks up, eyes locking with mine—clear, direct, serious.
“Why are you doing this, Penny?”
The question catches me off guard, even though I should’ve seen it coming. I’ve prepped market data, projections, strategies—but not this. Not the one answer that matters most.
“Because you’re a designer, not just a contractor,” I say, the truth spilling out before I can shape it. “Because you’ve been hiding your talent behind practical obligations and small-town expectations. And because every time you talk about architecture or sketch something new, you come alive in a way that makes it impossible to look away.”
His expression shifts—something flickering beneath the surface. A vulnerability I’ve only glimpsed in the quietest moments.
“And selfishly,” I add, “because I think we could build something amazing together. Your vision, my marketing. Your roots in this town, my connections outside it. Your practical knowledge, my completely impractical enthusiasm.”
“It’s a significant risk,” he says finally, though not dismissively. “Career shift. Financial uncertainty. No guarantees.”
“Most things worth building come with risk,” I counter. “Youtaught me that with the window seat. Structural compromises, square footage inefficiencies, potential for leaks—still worth it because of what it adds to the space.”
That almost-smile tugs at his mouth. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“To more than you realize.”
I reach for the final piece of the presentation—the one I’ve been both excited and terrified to share.
“There’s one more thing.”
I pull out a rendering—not one of his, but a sketch I commissioned based on his designs and my notes. It shows the house completed, subtly reimagined. Not just finished, but elevated. Not just functional, but intentional.
“The first official project of Carver Custom Designs,” I say. “This house—our house—reimagined as a showcase for your work. A portfolio piece that shows exactly what you’re capable of.”
Owen takes the paper, eyes scanning the image with a concentration so complete, I don’t dare speak. His fingertips graze the page like it might vanish if he touches it too hard.
“This is... different from our current plans.”
“Enhanced,” I say gently. “The same structure, elevated. The window seat becomes your signature. The open layout shows your space-efficiency philosophy. The custom built-ins? That’s your woodworking.”
He’s still quiet, still staring. Then, slowly, he sets down the sketch and reaches for his notebook—the one he tucked away earlier. He flips to a page and lays it beside mine.
My breath catches.
It’s his own rendering of the house. The same enhancements. The same philosophy. And at the top, in his clean architectural script:
Winslow Cottage – Final Design Concept
Not “Penny’s Project.” Not “The Sequin Shack.”
