I don’t want my first real day in this place to be caught on camera—I’d rather be familiar with this house that is either going to save me or make me into a giant idiot.

I crack open my second beer, taking a lingering walk around, reassessing everything with a more professional eye, noticing the soft boards where years of rot have ruined some of the original planks. My eyes skim the ceiling above, seeing the water damage that will need to be resolved, replaced, and patched over. I take a long sip from the bottle and swallow with a grimace as I turn the corner to the kitchen. After spending time in Daniel’s other properties, this is worse than I remembered. The layout is a mess, with the tiny, outdated stove tucked against the outside wall and the tired stainless-steel double sink on the opposite end of the room. No space for an island, but it needs one. I pull some of the sketches out that Daniel helped me draw up the other day over lunch. I lay them on the counter and turn on the stove light, pleasantly surprised it works.

I take another sip from my beer and spread the papers out, smoothing the creases and turning them to fit the layout Daniel and I discussed. It’s nearly impossible to recognize as the same space, but for the window. We’re keeping the lone window—soon to be a window with a large ceramic farmhouse sink tucked under it so the user can better enjoy the picturesque view of the rolling acres off the back of the house.

I grab the papers and pace out the kitchen, trying to place everything in my mind. I want this to be clear so I can paint the image on camera Monday. There’s an entire wall that I think needs to come down. Daniel’s not convinced, and I’m clearly not the expert, but it’s not load-bearing and the single window struggles to provide much-needed natural light into this space. My instincts are telling me if we took down the wall, it would open things up and create plenty of room for a walk-in canning pantry.

With all this land, there’s more than enough space for a solid garden, and gardens mean canning. At least, they do out here. Not that I know anything about it, but I’m learning.

I’m lost in my thoughts when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I take another quick swig and tap the screen. It’s a text from Shelby. I finish the bottle, putting it down with a clink before turning to lean back against the counter.

I’m not sure what she needs at eight o’clock on a Saturday night, but I’m positive it’s not what I want her to need, so I tamp down my expectations before I read.