I shoot a look at Owen.
“You told her about the proposal?”
“I didn’t have to,” he replies. “Apparently Marge briefed the entire town before you even presented it to me.”
“Small towns,” Walt calls. “No secrets!”
I laugh—surprised, delighted, and slightly overwhelmed.
“Well then. Put me to work. What’s the plan?”
Owen hands me his clipboard. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and the spark that passes between us zips straight up my spine. I pretend not to notice.
“Accelerated timeline,” he says. “If we keep this pace, we just might make the TV deadline.”
I glance over the schedule he’s laid out—tasks, assignments, deliveries—all mapped with meticulous precision.
“This is... intense.”
“I had time to think about it,” he says quietly, just for me. “While I was pretending I wasn’t coming back.”
Our eyes lock. That moment of truth, unsaid but felt. He never really left. Not in the ways that mattered.
“Well then,” I say, handing the clipboard back, trying to match his steadiness. “Let’s build a house.”
The restof the day blurs into motion. What would normally take a week happens in hours with so many hands pitching in. Cabinets are installed. Trim completed. Fixtures mounted. The bathroom tile, delayed for weeks, arrives mid-morning and is laid by lunch.
I bounce from task to task—sometimes working alongside Owen in the rhythm we’ve perfected over months, other times sorting supplies with Walt or documenting progress for my ever-growing group of social media followers. The vibe is somewhere between a barn-raising and a block party. People bring snacks. Tools are swapped. Stories fly—mostly about renovations gone sideways, none of which make my drunken house auction look as reckless as it once did.
“You’ve stirred up this town,” Marge says during a quick lunch break, pressing a sandwich into my hands before I can protest. “Haven’t seen this kind of momentum since the Thompson barn fire in ‘98.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say, watching Mrs. Peterson from the library install one of her ceramic planters in the nook by the window seat. “This is all... unexpected.”
“You pitched a business that keeps Owen’s talent in Maple Glen and brings in outside interest,” Marge corrects. “That’s something worth showing up for. For the town. And for him.”
I glance toward Owen, who’s managing the electrical inspection like he’s balancing equationsin his head.
“I just want him to design again,” I say. “To create things that reflect what he sees—not just build what people ask for.”
Marge’s voice softens.
“And that’s why everyone’s here. Because you see him. The real him. Not just the guy who shows up with a level and a sander.”
Her words land hard. I have seen him—the artist hiding behind the pragmatist, the dreamer behind the duty-bound son, the man who builds houses for others because he isn’t sure how to ask for one of his own.
By late afternoon, the house is nearly unrecognizable. The walls are painted. The floors finished. The window seat—complete with custom cushions Marge had made “just in case”—invites a long sit. The kitchen hums. Even the deck is built.
Owen finds me as the light turns golden and most volunteers pack up for the day.
“You should see the bathroom,” he says, that familiar almost-smile back. “It’s done.”
I follow him through the house, barely able to reconcile this space with the one I stepped into months ago. The bathroom door is open. And it’s stunning.
The vintage tile glows. The fixtures shine. The light is soft and warm. It’s exactly what I envisioned, only better—like the room had always known what it wanted to be, and Owen had simply coaxed it into becoming.
“It’s perfect,” I say, fingertips brushing the edge of the salvaged sink.
“I can’t believe how much we got done.”
