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perhaps? Or in them? She didn’t know anything about ships or what the historical traditions might have been, but the detail work in the medallion was intricate and beautiful. On closer examination, she noted that the flag flying from the center mast appeared to have the same family crest as the one outside, though it was almost impossible to tell for sure, given the degradation of the metal. It made sense, though, since it was exactly the same rendition in every other way. Again she was struck by the enormity of Brodie’s legacy. She couldn’t even fathom a history so rich and full of carefully documented detail.
    From her perch halfway up the twisting staircase, she turned to take in the space as a whole. Whoever had planned and executed it was a smart designer and a talented craftsman. It occurred to her that the craftsman could very well be her erstwhile host. Considering his trade, she imagined it might not be a big leap from building boats to rehabbing a small boathouse. She did another quick scan of the open space, wondering where he’d gone.
    She gave a short whistle for her dog. “Whomper? Where are you?” she called, keeping her voice low. Neither man nor beast was anywhere below her on the main level as it was completely open and easy to see into every corner. That meant—she cringed, imagining the little ruffian rolling and rubbing his fish-rot fur all over Brodie’s bed linens, then allowed a short, self-deprecating smile as she thought that would at least be a handy solution to her wanting to roll around in Brodie’s bed linens.
    She turned and took another step up the circular column, pausing to finally slip off her other heel, before climbing a few more. “Whomper,” she whispered. “If you’re up there causing more trouble, I’m going to leave you to explain yourself.”
    Nothing. No sounds of anything being destroyed or tangled with. It took a few more steps and another turn around the spiral before she heard a thrumming sound and realized it was coming from the bathroom. The shower was running. She also heard what sounded like . . . “Singing?” She rolled her eyes. “Of course he sings.” And beautifully, too, she thought, as his lovely baritone, rich and deep, rose over the sounds of the water as he sang about a bonny lass with a smile like sunshine.
    Her traitorous mind had no problem whatsoever imagining him naked in his shower, water cascading, hot and steamy, all over that too-sculpted-to-be-real body, white teeth flashing, dimples dimpling, as he let loose with the chorus. Filling those broad, wide palms of his with soap and rubbing them over those pecs, down those abs, and straight out along his . . . Dear Lord. Her grip on the iron rail tightened as her thighs went a bit wobbly, only to go rock stiff a moment later when his voice soared to the high notes . . . and a very distinctive howl rose up along with him.
    â€œSeriously?” She climbed up a few more steps until her chin was level with the loft floorboards. The entire area was open up to the pitched ceiling, with a small porthole window in the side wall, and a bigger circular window set in over the headboard of the wide sea of mattress that dominated the space. Two long rectangular sunroof panels had been installed in the longer side of the roof that slanted toward the water. Warm, dappled light, which she imagined would turn to a golden glow as the sun climbed higher into the sky, flowed in. A large, slowly turning ceiling fan hung from a long pole mounted to the apex of the roof, the blades cleverly made from boat paddles, kept the air in the upper part of the building from getting too still and heavy.
    Wide, deep drawers with heavy rope pull handles were built in under the bed. Similar drawers with brass handles had been built in along the base of the short side wall where the ceiling slanted steeply downward. Three wooden poles that looked a lot like boat masts