Considering Kate. Nora Roberts

display rooms would become dressing areas with counters and wardrobes built in.

      “It seems a little elaborate for a small town dance school.”

      She merely lifted an eyebrow. “It’s not elaborate. It’s correct. Now these two bathrooms.” She stopped in the hall beside two doors that were side by side.

      “If you want to enlarge and remodel, I can open the wall between them.”

      “Dancers have to forgo a great deal of modesty along the way, but let’s draw the line at coed bathrooms.”

      “Coed.” He lowered the notebook, stared at her. “You’re planning on having boys?” His grin came fast. “You think you’re going to get boys in here doing what’s it? Pirouettes? Get out.”

      “Ever hear of Baryshnikov? Davidov?” She was too used to the knee-jerk reaction to be particularly offended. “I’d put a well trained dancer in his prime up against any other athlete you name in a test of strength and endurance.”

      “Who wears the tutu?”

      She sighed, only because she was perfectly aware this was the sort of bias she’d be facing in a rural town. “For your information, male dancers are real men. In fact, my first lover was a premier danseur who drove a Harley and could execute a grande jeté with more height than Michael Jordan can pull off for a slam dunk. But then Jordan doesn’t wear tights, does he? Just those cute little boxers.”

      “Trunks,” Brody muttered. “Basketball trunks.”

      “Ah, well, it’s all perception, isn’t it? The bathrooms stay separate. New stalls, new sinks, new floors. One sink in each low enough for a child to reach. White fixtures. I want clean and streamlined.”

      “I got that picture.”

      “Then moving right along.” She gestured toward the stairs at the back end of the corridor. “Third floor, my apartment.”

      “You’re going to live here—over the school?”

      “I’m going to live, breathe, eat and work here. That’s how you turn a concept into reality. And I have very specific ideas about my living quarters.”

      “I bet you do.”

      Specific ideas, Brody thought an hour later, and good ones. He might have disagreed with some of the details she wanted on the main level, but he couldn’t fault her vision for the third floor.

      She wanted the original moldings and woodwork restored—and added that she’d like whoever had painted all that gorgeous oak white caught, dragged into the street and horse-whipped.

      Brody could only agree.

      Portions of the woodwork were damaged. He liked the prospect of crafting the replacement sections himself, blending them in with the old. She wanted the floors sanded down, and coated with a clear seal. He’d have done precisely the same.

      As he toured the top rooms with her, he felt the old anticipation building. To make his mark on something that had stood for generations, and to preserve it as it was meant to be preserved.

      There had been a time when he’d done no more than put in his hours—do the job, pick up the pay. Pride and responsibility had come later. And the simple pleasure they gave him had pushed him to better himself, to hone his craft—to build something more than rooms.

      To build a life.

      He could make a difference here, Brody thought. And he wanted, badly, to get his hands on this place and make that difference. Even if it meant dealing with Kate Kimball, and his irritating reaction to her.

      He hoped—if he got the job—she wouldn’t be one of those clients who hovered. At least not while she was wearing that damn perfume.

      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