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He was referring to himself. He told her that.

“He sounds like an incredibly wise person.”

“He has his moments.”

Their next stop was an architectural-salvage warehouse filled with antique furniture, old light fixtures, reclaimed wood, brass handles, and enough mismatched hardware to keep Noah occupied for the rest of his life.

He stepped through the entrance and stopped. Claire watched his eyes move across the room.

“No way.”

“You like it?”

He looked at her. “How did you find this?”

“You once spent forty minutes explaining why the original hardware on old furniture shouldn’t be replaced unless it’s unsalvageable.”

“That was an important conversation.”

“It was a very long conversation.”

“You asked why I was cleaning a drawer pull.”

“I regretted it immediately.”

Noah wandered toward a table covered in old brass fixtures. Claire followed while he picked up a tarnished handle and examined the back.

“This is from the twenties,” he said.

Claire peered at it. “How can you tell?”

“The shape. And the screws aren’t original.”

She had no idea what that meant, but she liked the concentration in his expression.

For the next hour, Noah showed her things she would never have noticed on her own. The difference between solid wood and veneer. Why one chair was worth restoring and another was beyond saving. Which scratches added character and which indicated actual damage.

Claire listened. Not because she was particularly invested in hinges, but because Noah was.

Eventually, he found a small wooden side table tucked beneath a larger desk. Three legs were loose, and the finish had worn away around the edges. He ran his thumb across the wood.

“You want it,” Claire said.

“No.”

“You’ve been looking at it for five minutes.”

“I’m assessing it.”

“You’re mentally fixing it.”

“That doesn’t mean I need it.”

Claire checked the price tag.

Noah caught her hand. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s your perfect day.”