Considering Kate
Page 8
Then they were back to bathrooms. The old cast iron tub stayed. The beige wall hung sink went, and Brody was directed to find a suitable white pedestal sink to replace it. The boss also wanted ceramic tile—navy and white—though she agreed to look at product samples before making the final decision.
She was just as decisive in the kitchen, but there he stopped her.
"Look, are you actually going to cook in here, or just heat up takeout?"
"Cook. I do know how."
"Then you want solid work space there, instead of breaking it up." Brody gestured. "You want efficient traffic flow, so you work from the window. You want your sink under the window instead of on that wall. You move the refrigerator there, the stove there. See, then you've got flow instead of zigzagging back and forth. Wasted effort, wasted space."
"Yes, but there—"
"That's for your pantry," he interrupted, the room clear in his mind. "It gives you a nice line of counter. You angle it out here…" He pulled out his measuring tape. "Yeah, angle it out and you've got room for a couple of stools, so you get work space and seating space instead of dead space."
"I was thinking of putting a table—"
"Then you'll always be walking around it, and crowding yourself in."
"Maybe." She thought of the kitchen table where she'd sat with her father only that morning. And had sat with her family on countless mornings. Sentimental, she decided. And in this case probably impractical.
"Let me get the measurements, and I'll draw it up for you in the next few days. You can think about it."
"All right. Plenty of time. The main level's my priority."
"It'll take me some time to work it up and get you a bid. But I can tell you now, you're cruising toward six figures and a good four months work for the complete rehab."
She'd come to that conclusion herself, but hearing it was still a jolt. "Work it up, draw it up, whatever it is you do. If I decide to hire you for the job, when would you be able to start?"
"I can get the permits pretty quick. And put in a materials and supply order right off. Probably start work first of the year."
"Those are magic words. If I go with you, I want to get started right away. Get me a bid, Mr. O'Connell, and we'll see if we can do business."
She left him to measure and calculate, and went down to stand on her little front porch. She could hear the light traffic from the main street, only a half block over. And smell the smoke from someone's fireplace or woodstove. Her bumpy little front lawn was a disgrace of dead and dying weeds and a sad and ugly stump of what had once been a regal maple.
Across the narrow side street was another brick building that had been converted into apartments. It was old, tidy and utterly quiet at this midday hour.
Another hundred thousand, she thought. Well, it could be done. Fortunately she hadn't lived extravagantly over the past few years. And she did, indeed, have her mother's head for business. Her savings had been carefully invested—and the trust fund was there as a cushion. If she felt too much was going out, while nothing was coming in, she could agree to do a few guest appearances with the company. That door had been left open.
The fact was, with all the weeks of construction ahead, it would make sense to do so—and not only for financial reasons.
She was used to working, used to being busy. Once the work began on the building there would be nothing for her to do but wait until each stage was complete.
It was an easy trip to New York, and the simplest thing in the world to stay with family there. Rehearse, train, perform, come home again. Yes, that might be the best solution all around. But not yet. Not quite yet. She wanted to see her plans get off the ground first.
"Kate?" Brody stepped out, her coat in his hand. "It's cold out here."
"A bit. I was hoping it would snow. We got teased the other day."
"As long as it's not eight feet."
"Hmm?"
"Nothing." He laid her coat over her shoulders, automatically lifting her hair out of the collar. There was so damn much of it, he thought. Soft, curling miles of it.
His hands were still caught in it when she turned, when she looked up, met his eyes. Interested after all, she realized with a lovely liquid tug in the belly. "Why don't we walk around the corner. You can buy me a cup of coffee." She moved in, a deliberate test for both of them. "We can discuss… counter space." She clogged his brain, his lungs, and did a hell of a job on his loins. "You're coming on to me again." Her smile was slow, devastatingly female. "I certainly am."
"You're probably the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"That's the good fortune of birth, but since I look a great deal like my mother, thank you. I particularly like your mouth." She shifted her gaze to it, lingered. "I just keep coming back to it." His throat was dry as the Sahara. What had happened with women since he'd been out of the game? he wondered. When had they started seducing men on the front porch in the middle of the afternoon?
He could feel the chill December wind whipping against his face. And the heat swarming into his blood.
"Look." In self-defense, he took her by the arms. Her coat slid off her shoulders, and he felt the taut sculpted muscle beneath her suit jacket.
"I've been looking." Her gaze flicked up to his again. So male, she thought. So frustrated. "I just happen to like what I see."
Her eyes were pure gray, he thought. Mysterious as smoke. He had only to lower his head, or better, yes better, to yank her to her toes. Then his mouth would be on those sultry, self-satisfied lips of hers. He had a feeling, a bad one, it would be like bare-handing a live wire. Thrilling, and potentially deadly.
"I told you I wasn't interested."
"Yes, you did. But you lied." To prove it, she rose up to her toes and took a quick, hard nip into his bottom lip. His hands tightened like vises on her arms. "See?" she whispered when he held her there, only a breath away. "You're very interested."
Amused at both of them, she lowered to the flats of her feet, eased back. "You just don't want to be."
"It comes down to the same thing." He let her go, bent to pick up his toolbox. Damn it, his hands weren't even close to steady.
She was just as decisive in the kitchen, but there he stopped her.
"Look, are you actually going to cook in here, or just heat up takeout?"
"Cook. I do know how."
"Then you want solid work space there, instead of breaking it up." Brody gestured. "You want efficient traffic flow, so you work from the window. You want your sink under the window instead of on that wall. You move the refrigerator there, the stove there. See, then you've got flow instead of zigzagging back and forth. Wasted effort, wasted space."
"Yes, but there—"
"That's for your pantry," he interrupted, the room clear in his mind. "It gives you a nice line of counter. You angle it out here…" He pulled out his measuring tape. "Yeah, angle it out and you've got room for a couple of stools, so you get work space and seating space instead of dead space."
"I was thinking of putting a table—"
"Then you'll always be walking around it, and crowding yourself in."
"Maybe." She thought of the kitchen table where she'd sat with her father only that morning. And had sat with her family on countless mornings. Sentimental, she decided. And in this case probably impractical.
"Let me get the measurements, and I'll draw it up for you in the next few days. You can think about it."
"All right. Plenty of time. The main level's my priority."
"It'll take me some time to work it up and get you a bid. But I can tell you now, you're cruising toward six figures and a good four months work for the complete rehab."
She'd come to that conclusion herself, but hearing it was still a jolt. "Work it up, draw it up, whatever it is you do. If I decide to hire you for the job, when would you be able to start?"
"I can get the permits pretty quick. And put in a materials and supply order right off. Probably start work first of the year."
"Those are magic words. If I go with you, I want to get started right away. Get me a bid, Mr. O'Connell, and we'll see if we can do business."
She left him to measure and calculate, and went down to stand on her little front porch. She could hear the light traffic from the main street, only a half block over. And smell the smoke from someone's fireplace or woodstove. Her bumpy little front lawn was a disgrace of dead and dying weeds and a sad and ugly stump of what had once been a regal maple.
Across the narrow side street was another brick building that had been converted into apartments. It was old, tidy and utterly quiet at this midday hour.
Another hundred thousand, she thought. Well, it could be done. Fortunately she hadn't lived extravagantly over the past few years. And she did, indeed, have her mother's head for business. Her savings had been carefully invested—and the trust fund was there as a cushion. If she felt too much was going out, while nothing was coming in, she could agree to do a few guest appearances with the company. That door had been left open.
The fact was, with all the weeks of construction ahead, it would make sense to do so—and not only for financial reasons.
She was used to working, used to being busy. Once the work began on the building there would be nothing for her to do but wait until each stage was complete.
It was an easy trip to New York, and the simplest thing in the world to stay with family there. Rehearse, train, perform, come home again. Yes, that might be the best solution all around. But not yet. Not quite yet. She wanted to see her plans get off the ground first.
"Kate?" Brody stepped out, her coat in his hand. "It's cold out here."
"A bit. I was hoping it would snow. We got teased the other day."
"As long as it's not eight feet."
"Hmm?"
"Nothing." He laid her coat over her shoulders, automatically lifting her hair out of the collar. There was so damn much of it, he thought. Soft, curling miles of it.
His hands were still caught in it when she turned, when she looked up, met his eyes. Interested after all, she realized with a lovely liquid tug in the belly. "Why don't we walk around the corner. You can buy me a cup of coffee." She moved in, a deliberate test for both of them. "We can discuss… counter space." She clogged his brain, his lungs, and did a hell of a job on his loins. "You're coming on to me again." Her smile was slow, devastatingly female. "I certainly am."
"You're probably the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"That's the good fortune of birth, but since I look a great deal like my mother, thank you. I particularly like your mouth." She shifted her gaze to it, lingered. "I just keep coming back to it." His throat was dry as the Sahara. What had happened with women since he'd been out of the game? he wondered. When had they started seducing men on the front porch in the middle of the afternoon?
He could feel the chill December wind whipping against his face. And the heat swarming into his blood.
"Look." In self-defense, he took her by the arms. Her coat slid off her shoulders, and he felt the taut sculpted muscle beneath her suit jacket.
"I've been looking." Her gaze flicked up to his again. So male, she thought. So frustrated. "I just happen to like what I see."
Her eyes were pure gray, he thought. Mysterious as smoke. He had only to lower his head, or better, yes better, to yank her to her toes. Then his mouth would be on those sultry, self-satisfied lips of hers. He had a feeling, a bad one, it would be like bare-handing a live wire. Thrilling, and potentially deadly.
"I told you I wasn't interested."
"Yes, you did. But you lied." To prove it, she rose up to her toes and took a quick, hard nip into his bottom lip. His hands tightened like vises on her arms. "See?" she whispered when he held her there, only a breath away. "You're very interested."
Amused at both of them, she lowered to the flats of her feet, eased back. "You just don't want to be."
"It comes down to the same thing." He let her go, bent to pick up his toolbox. Damn it, his hands weren't even close to steady.
