Page 75 of Hold Me Today

I study his profile and feel myself nod. “I’d love to see where you live.”

“Buckle up, then. One home tour on the way.”

25

Mina

“This is the cutest neighborhood,” I say when we pull up to a tree-lined street twenty minutes later. Nick lives in a quiet spot in Wayland. The small town is picturesque, even at 9 p.m., with two-story Colonial-era houses dotting the side of the road, wide-open pastureland tucked behind short, wooden fences, and curvy streets that might as well be trademarked to New England.

“I picked the house out right before I proposed.”

Right. The proposal. I send him a forced grin he can’t see in the dark. “The first time?”

“Smartass.” He says it affectionately and without an inkling of heat. “Yeah, the first time. Figured I was heading right into marriage with children coming soon after, and I thought I needed something big and showy.”

It makes me wonder how he felt stepping into that big and showy house alone after his failed wedding.

“I bet it’s beautiful.”

“It is.” The car slows toward the end of the street, the headlights illuminating a gravel driveway that leads to a steep incline. As we head up to the house, Nick adds, “I did all the work on the house myself. Stripped out all the shitty shag carpet and brought in this amazing restored wood from an eighteenth-century mill that was being torn down over in Worcester. The back of the house overlooks a pretty big pond, and there was so much damage done to the wood that I actually put in—” He breaks off with a grumble deep in his chest. “Shit, sorry. You probably don’t care to hear—”

Except that I do. “Don’t stop,” I tell him, and he doesn’t.

I listen to him talk about some of the small details he incorporated—the parlor doors that separate the living room from the dining room he never uses; the six-burner stove he purchased from a restaurant in Somerville before they shut down; the beautiful, original trim work that he spent hours bringing back to life.

I can barely keep my mouth shut when he parks the car.

My nose presses to the window, and I fog it all up with my heavy breathing. “You live in a farmhouse!”

Nick chuckles. “Circa 1782. It’s one of the oldest structures still standing in Wayland, though it’s not a historical landmark. Probably for the best, since I axed the back wall and put in a glass window—this way I can look at the pond and woods whenever I want.”

I follow him out of the car but can’t quite bring myself to look away from the house. It’s beyond stunning. A fairy tale come to life. “Woods and pond, huh? You’re going to be a master at this Maine thing when we go.”

He nudges me to the side when we step up to his front door, and he fits in a key before letting us in. “Lucky for you, I conduct training sessions for the uninitiated.”

“Yeah? And what do these training sessions entail exactly?”

His smile is all wicked masculinity. “Orgasms.”

I burst into laughter. “You’re so full of shit.”

One flick of a switch, and light floods the space. Immediately, I soak it all up.

The ceilings aren’t particularly tall, maybe around seven and a half feet, but it’s . . .lovely. Eighteenth-century meets rustic farmhouse. It’s a style Nick has executed to perfection. Stonework takes up the lower half of the walls, painstakingly revealed during his renovations, I’m sure, whereas the upper halves are a solid plaster and painted the most exquisite Tiffany blue. Artwork hangs on the walls, featuring mostly landscapes and old architectural sketches.

I’m so busy taking it all in that I don’t notice Nick toeing off his shoes. “Wine?” he asks.

I say yes just because I want an excuse to see the kitchen.

Trailing after him, I eye the rooms as we pass them by. Each has its own character and flair, some painted a light gray while one is a brighter yellow. Canary Yellow, maybe. The thought makes me grin. I so hope that once rehabbingAgapeis over and done with, I’ll feel the same amount of pride Nick does as he walks through the halls of his home.

The kitchen, not to be outdone by the rest of the house, is a stunner.

I feel a little blessed to be standing in here and I don’t even liketo cook.

“Nick,” I murmur in awe, “this is just . . .gorgeous.”

“Trust me, the rehab came with some headaches. Galvanized pipes were the least of my problems. Lead paint,” he grumbles, sounding put out even though I know he probably lived for every challenge this house threw at him, “lead paint everywhere.” He moves confidently over to a door nestled between the hallway and a stainless-steel refrigerator. “Red or white?”

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