The Soon-To-Be-Disinherited Wife. Jennifer Greene

was only one main room. Obviously the details had been modernized, but the core architecture had been preserved. The mellow old floorboards creaked and groaned, but they’d obviously been treasured, because they were polished to a high gleam. Honey-pine paneling framed a small stone fireplace. The bathroom was strictly utilitarian, but the tiny kitchen area had an eating nook tucked under a graceful Palladian window, shaded by giant elms just outside.

      “The furniture’s the pits,” Emma said ruefully.

      Garrett was checking out every window view. “Spoken like a woman,” he teased. “There’s a couch and a chair. What more do I need?”

      “Some lamps. Some pictures. Some rugs,” she fussed.

      “It’s got a decent desk.” He motioned to the relic that may—may—have been a teacher’s desk in some century past. Emma loved antiques, but in this case she thought someone should have had the sense to throw it out—in that same century past.

      “I guess I just assumed there’d be a separate bedroom.” Instead a double bed was tucked in a side alcove, slanted under the eaves.

      “This way there’ll be lots of airflow. Ideal in the summer.”