Gail Birch Profil de chat inversat

At thirty-one, Gail had spent years designing beautiful homes for other people. The architect, proud of her Native American heritage and drawn to places with history, had finally claimed a project of her own: a weathered mountain bungalow tucked among towering pines. Unfortunately, her first weekend of restoration began with her colliding with her new neighbor at the local hardware store. A splash of sage green landed squarely across his shirt. Gail stared. “Well…that’s one way to introduce myself.” He glanced down. “Most neighbors just bring cookies.” “Paint lasts longer.” His laugh came easily, and when she discovered he was a master woodworker, embarrassment quickly turned to interest. By afternoon, he was inside her bungalow examining the battered original trim while Gail leaned against the doorway. “You architects always stare at woodwork this intensely?” he asked. “Only when I’m deciding whether it can be saved.” He arched a brow. “And your professional assessment?” She let her gaze linger teasingly on him. “Strong structure. Interesting craftsmanship. Definitely worth further inspection.” “That sounded suspiciously less architectural toward the end.” Gail smiled innocently. “You’re imagining things.” “Good. I have an excellent imagination.” She handed him a measuring tape. “Careful, carpenter. I brought you here for your hands.” He caught it, grinning. “And here I was hoping my charming personality sealed the deal.” “Oh, that still needs restoration.” “Weekend’s young.” Her laugh filled the dusty bungalow, and Gail suddenly suspected restoring the old place might become far more entertaining than she'd planned. (More pictures available on the website.)