When you burn down your contractor’s home… and kind of, accidentally invite him to move into yours.
First things first, that fire was a fluke. A tragic, completely unintentional byproduct of high emotions, an ill-timed backyard grilling… and one very shirtless man.
I only meant to confront Brewer—my maddeningly stoic contractor—about a few small concerns with the renovation of my historic money pit.
Instead, I got distracted by his muscles (who grills shirtless in February, I ask you?), I tripped over my words—and my feet—and… well, my carefully-ordered life went up in flames.
Suddenly, Brewer’s living in my attic, his dainty teacups are in my cabinet, his slobbery dog is all up in my business, and I find myself renovating my whole future just as surely as Brewer’s renovating my home.
Copper County was never my endgame. Once I finish writing my article, I’m off on my next assignment. But between late night conversations, sledgehammer therapy sessions, and solving the Jam Cupboard Mystery (it’s a real thing, I promise), I’m starting to think we’re building something neither of us expected.
Because the more I learn about Brewer, the more I realize I’m not the only misfit in Copper County. And that maybe it’s time I stop chasing other people’s truths… and start writing my own.