Chapter 6
BECCA
Iget to work with two minutes to spare. The two-hour drive from Sweet Hill this morning was worth the stress of cutting it close. Going home feels special. No fancy self-care night can match it. A reset, wrapped in polyester floral curtains and grilled cheese.
I drop my purse on my desk and wave to Olga.
She’s our no-nonsense office manager—silver hair pulled back so tight it looks painful and reading glasses always perched at the end of her nose, as if she's always mid-review of something you did wrong. She runs this place like a Swiss watch, with even more precision. She gives me a curt nod. It’s her version of a hug, or so I tell myself.
As my computer boots up, my phone dings.
For a second, my heart jumps, Sam? But no, it’s my daily horoscope text, courtesy of Nessa, who signed us all up during one of our Zentrology nights.
Capricorn
Today is the day to tackle that unpleasant to-do list. Your precious routines? They’re due for a shake-up. Don’t worry, once you handle business, reward yourself.
I roll my eyes. Then I read it again. Routines shaken? Check.
By lunchtime, I’ve already cleared my inbox and led two virtual client meetings. I didn’t pack anything this morning for lunch, so I walk to the café down the block. I order a salad piled high even though I’m eyeing the deluxe pizza. I tack on a cookie; balance.
As I eat, I check my "guilt-free" account balance. This account gets five percent of my paycheck and cash from side gigs, like catering. Any paychecks I get go into our joint savings, but cash tips go into my personal account. Sam always said that money was mine to spend.
“You work hard,” he’d said. “Don’t forget to enjoy the fruits.” Funny, coming from the guy who plucked our entire savings from the tree and handed it to his sister.
Current balance: $5,347.
I smile. My grandma’s voice echoes in my head.
“Make sure you’ve got money stashed somewhere safe that no man can touch. I always liked hiding some in a bag of frozen peas; no one looks there.”
“Grandma, it’s called a high-yield savings account now.”
“You can call it a damn cryptocurrency sock drawer for all I care. Just don’t let any man drain it, no matter how good he shakes the bed or fills out them jeans.”
“Grandma! Did you just … did you comment on my husband's … package?”
“I said what I said.”
I take a sip of iced tea and let the memory warm me. I didn’t think I’d ever need protection from Sam. But here I am, grateful for that little account and the stubborn woman who told me to start it.
I remember I need to pick up Bernard tonight. He’s the Rothschilds’ elderly King Charles spaniel. I dog-sit for them during their summer trips. Usually, he stays with Sam and me, but things have changed. An idea sparks.
I pull out my phone and call Mrs. Rothschild.
“Hello?” she chirps on the second ring, her voice as bright and expensive as her perfume.
“Hi, Mrs. Rothschild! It’s Becca. I’m just calling to confirm I’ll be watching Bernard tonight.”
“Oh, yes, dear. We simply hate leaving him behind, but the heat on the Amalfi Coast is murder on his little heart murmur.”
“I completely understand. I was wondering … would it be alright if I stayed at your place this time? Bernard would feel better in his own space. I can water the plants and take care of the garden while you’re away. No extra charge.”
“Oh, honey, would you? That would be fantastic. Bernard hates the overnight bag, and my Monstera hasn’t recovered from the last disaster. That under-watering floozy next door nearly drowned it in neglect. I swear, I caught her pouring boxed wine into the soil!”
“I’ll treat them all with the reverence of a royal garden, I promise.”
“You’re a treasure. I’ll leave instructions taped to the fridge. I always say: the devil is in the details and the begonias.”
We hang up, and I feel steadier. Four weeks in a beautiful home with a pup who loves naps and zero emotional landmines? Yes, please.
Back at my desk, I log into my payroll portal. I figure out how much of my check pays our automatic bills, leaving them still joint for now. I then move the rest into my personal account.
I’m still furious with Sam. I don’t know where our marriage stands. But I’m not going to let our power bill bounce because my husband decided to play venture capitalist to a fantasy.
My phone buzzes with a message from Phoenix.
Phi
Paperwork is ready. Where would you like me to have these delivered?
Sam should be home most afternoons after 4 PM.
I check my phone.
Still nothing from Sam.
Relief hits first. Then the ache. Damn it, why do I feel both? That’s the thing no one tells you about heartbreak. It doesn’t shut off your feelings; it doubles them.
I shove my phone in my bag and power through the rest of the workday.
At 5:00 p.m., a notification buzzes on my screen:
“Appointment at 5:30 – Tiny Dream Builders.”
Right. I slide into my car and head toward the river lot. The trees arch above me like a cathedral, the river murmuring in the background. I step out onto the gravel and breathe in the pine-heavy air. It’s grounding. Ness would say it’s my Capricorn soul recharging, and hell, maybe she’s right.
This place was supposed to be our dream. A few cabins, some rental income, a little slice of peace to call ours. I’d even brought up adding tiny homes at dinner once. Cheaper to build, faster ROI, and flexible for multigenerational travel.
Mrs. Hughes had sniffed. “Tiny homes? Who wants to vacation in a shoebox?” She glanced at Holly, who nodded along like a trained seal. “You need to focus on real clientele, Rebecca. Wealthy patrons with refined taste.”
I’d wanted to remind them that luxury travel was down eight percent, and our cabins weren’t exactly spa retreats, but I’d merely sipped my wine and shut up since it was the polite thing to do.
A truck pulls in behind me, its tires crunching the gravel. The “Tiny Dream Builders” logo is painted in clean block letters on the door. Bennet Jones steps out, tall and tan, with a dirty padfolio in his hand.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I say as I wave him over.
“Of course,” he replies, doing a slow turn as he takes in the land. Ponderosas line the far edge of the property, the ground between them flat and quiet, and just beyond is the river catching light through the trees. “Wow. This is a hell of a spot. So, what’s the vision?”
I walk him through my idea. I want a small footprint home, 150–200 square feet. Loft bed, pullout sofa, kitchenette, full bathroom.
Bennet nods, thoughtful. “You’ve already got power and septic?” he asks, crouching to check a connection box.
I nod. “Yep. Permits in motion too.”
“Nice. That’s half the battle.” He stands, brushing off his hands. “I’ve actually got a 200-square-footer already framed out. My client bailed at the last minute, but it’s perfect for what you’re describing. My crew’s idle, and I’d love to keep ’em working.”
“What’s the price?” Before our meeting, I did relay that I was interested in monthly payments as an option, which he was open to.
“Usually runs about $150 per square foot, so $30K. But I’m willing to make you a deal. You help me drum up some more business with your property management customers, adding my homes to their properties for rental income, and we can work something out.”
He continues, “My previous customer forfeited their deposit, so I have some flexibility. I can float labor a bit. If you put $5K down and cover the finishes—paint, flooring, backsplash—we can do $1K/monthly payments. Four weeks, turnkey.”
My heart races. That’s faster and cheaper than I expected. And if I rent it for only seven nights a month at $150 per night, it’ll cover the cost of the payment. The rest? Profit.
And a place to stay if Sam and I … don’t make it.
Still, I hesitate. It’s not only about the money, it’s Sam.
A flash of memory hits, warm and sharp.
We were curled up on the couch the night I mentioned bringing Bennet in for a consult.
Sam’s entire body stiffens. “You want that guy building your dream?” he demands.
I blink. “What guy?”
“Bennet Jones. You know he’s into you, right?”
I laugh. “You’re being ridiculous. I’ve only met him once at work.”
“Baby, I’m not letting anyone else build your dream but me,” he growls, tugging me into his lap like he could anchor me there.
My legs straddle his, the heat between us simmering fast. “Jealous much?” I tease.
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “I’ll show you exactly how much.”
He unbuttons my shorts slowly. His hands grip my thighs as if he owns them. “There’s nothing tiny about what I’ve got planned for you.”
My laughter dissolves into a gasp as he makes good on his promise—on the couch, under the throw blanket, with the TV still playing in the background.
I blink the memory away, throat tight, skin flushed.
“Becca?” Bennet asks, lifting a brow. “You good?”
I school my features, trying to compose myself. “Yeah, sorry. Just … thinking.”
“Want to move forward?”
“It’s a great offer,” I say. “But I need to sleep on it, look at what finishes will cost.”
Bennet nods. “Of course. Let me know by end of day tomorrow. My crew’s ready. I am also happy to meet you at the hardware store on your lunch break, walk you through some flooring options.”
“Thanks, Bennet. I appreciate you.”
He heads back to his truck, and I stay behind for a minute longer, looking out at the river, the trees, the dream I’m not going to give up on—whether Sam is part of it or not.