“Ah.” Unsure of his ground, he glanced toward Mikhail for help and got only that thousand-watt grin. “Sure.”

“Also good bones.” Yuri let out another hearty laugh, and twinkling at his son in what was an unmistakable inside joke, started up the stairs.

Brody didn’t know how it happened. He’d meant to do no more than drop in on the Kimballs. To be polite, to thank Natasha for thinking of him and Jack.

He’d gotten swept in. Swallowed was more like it, he decided. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that many people in one place at one time before. And most of them were related in one way or the other.

Since his own family consisted of himself and Jack, his parents—with three aunts and uncles and six cousins scattered down south—the sheer number of Stanislaskis had been an eye-opener.

Frankly he didn’t see how they kept track of each other.

They were loud, beautiful, boisterous, full of questions, stories and arguments. The house had been so full of people, food, drink, music, that although he’d ended staying until nearly eight, he’d had no more than a few snatches of conversation with Kate.

He’d been dragged off to the building, grilled over his plans—and he wasn’t dim enough to have been fooled that the grilling had been exclusively on rehab.

Kate’s family had been sizing him up. Connie’s had done the same, he remembered. Certainly not with this good humor or affection or, well, sheer amusement, Brody decided. But the bottom line was identical.

Was this guy good enough for their princess? In Connie’s case the answer had been an unqualified no. The resentment on both sides had tainted everything that had happened afterward with shadows.

His impression was the Stanislaski verdict was still pending. Nothing he’d done to tactfully demonstrate he wasn’t looking to sweep the ballerina off her toe shoes had stopped them from cornering him—good-naturedly. Asking questions—politely. Or giving him the old once-over—without the least bit of subtlety.

It was more than enough to make a man glad he was single, and intended to stay that way.

Now the party was over. The holidays were, thank the Lord, behind him. He could get back to work, remembering that Kate Kimball was a client. And not a lover.

He spent a week tearing out, cleaning out, prepping walls, checking pipes.

She never came by.

Every day when he arrived on the site, he imagined she’d stroll down at some point and check the progress. Every evening when he loaded his tools back into his truck he wondered what she was up to.

Obviously she was busy, had other things to deal with. Didn’t care as much as she’d indicated about the job. Very obviously, she wasn’t as interested in him as she’d pretended to be.

Which was why he’d been very smart to avoid getting tangled up with some sort of fling with her. She was probably staying out half the night living it up, and spending the other half with some slick New Yorker. He wouldn’t be surprised at all. Not one bit. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was already making plans to sell the property and shake the small town dust off her dancing shoes.