This place was supposed to beourdream. 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. Cheaperto 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 onrealclientele, 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 Iwas 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.”
