Free Whiskey Island by Emilie Richards Page A

houses.”
    “Why are you sorry?”
    “Because it’s one thing to know things and another to go on and on about them.”
    “That sounds like the highfalutin version of what mothers tell their daughters.”
    “Which is?”
    He raised his deep voice a couple of notes. “Never let a man know you’re smarter than he is, Megan. You’ll never catch a husband that way.”
    “And here I didn’t even know I was trying to catch a husband.”
    He smiled. “You’re apologizing for discussing my favorite subject. I’m intrigued.”
    “Don’t be. I take a class every semester in something that interests me.”
    “And architecture does?”
    A lot of things interested her. Literature, philosophy, physics. She had never pursued a college degree, but someday, if she added up her credits, she might just discover she’d earned one along the way.
    “I’ve taken a couple of architecture classes,” she admitted. “I’d love to see the rest of the house. But if you’d rather not…”
    “I wish there was more to show off. The interior was a shambles when I bought the place, and I’m afraid most of it still is.”
    If the hallway was representative of the rest of the house, Megan was afraid he was right. What plaster still remained clung in chunks to wall studs, and the exposed wiring looked lethal. The ceiling seemed to be new, which showed there had been progress, and a lovely antique light fixture, which had probably once been powered by gas, glowed above her head. The stairwell leading off to the right had once been painted, and either the paint was now badly peeling or Niccolo had begun to restore it.
    “The stairs are a work in progress,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. “Four layers of paint, and I’m still not sure exactly what I’ll find underneath. I stripped two layers of vinyl and three layers of linoleum off this floor. The original was wide plank oak, but it couldn’t be salvaged. We’re down to the subfloor now. It’s solid maple, and I think, with some effort, I can refinish it.”
    She glanced down. “Some effort” was an optimist’s sentiment. “It will be beautiful if you can find a way to save it.”
    “Easy enough. You just take it board by board.”
    She wasn’t sure she’d ever met a man capable of that much patience. A man who showed that much self-control, a man willing to delay gratification until a job was successfully completed, would be an outstanding lover.
    The thought surprised her.
    “Is it safe with all the wiring exposed?” she said, moving quickly onward.
    “Perfectly safe. Nothing you can see is connected. I’m replacing the bad stuff a little at a time. I’ve wired the essential rooms. I’ll get to the rest in due time.” He stepped around her and started down the narrow hall. “Let me show you what I’ve done on the first floor.”
    They ended the first floor tour in the kitchen, and by then Megan was more than impressed. The house was coming alive under Niccolo’s capable hands. He was turning a wrinkled, bent dowager into a charming and voluptuous maiden. All the bones were the same, but the layers of years were systematically peeling away.
    “It’s hard to see, I know.” He pointed to a round table in the corner, and she dropped obligingly into a ladder-back chair where she could watch him.
    “Not if you use your imagination. It’s easy to see around the knocked out walls and the torn up floors. I can picture what it looked like and what it’s going to look like when you finish.”
    She examined the kitchen as she spoke. Niccolo was truly a craftsman, but he was not a decorator. No room she’d seen held more than a piece or two of furniture, and although the kitchen was moving along in the renovation process, there was little here to indicate the man’s personality. A refrigerator, two cabinets above a makeshift sink, particle board counters covered with rubber mats, a floor still covered with peeling tiles.
    “I started in here, but you can