She shoved open the door. “You can just dump them on the floor. Thanks. I’ll tell Malory you asked about her.”

Brad just kept walking so that she had to step back. Though it took some effort, he refused to let his gaze drift down to her navel again. “Are you always irritated when someone tries to help you?”

“I’m irritated when someone thinks I can’t handle myself. Look, I don’t have that much time to do what I’m here to do. I need to get started.”

“Then I’ll stay out of your way.”

He studied the ceiling, the floor, the walls as he wandered through the entrance area. “Nice space.”

He didn’t detect any damp, but there was a definite chill. He wasn’t sure if it was a faulty furnace or the woman who was blowing cold. “Which part are you taking?”

“Upstairs.”

“Okay.” He started up, nearly amused now by her impatient indrawn breath. “Nice stairs. Can’t go wrong with white pine.”

Some of the trim needed to be replaced, he noted. And the double-hung window at the top of the steps had yet to be upgraded. She’d need to see to that, get herself a double-glazed for insulation.

The walls had gone dingy, and there were a few cracks from settling. But that was easily seen to.

He liked the way the rooms split off and ran together, and wondered if she would remove some of the hollow-core doors altogether or replace them with something more solid and in tune with the feel of the house.

And what was she going to do about lighting? He didn’t know anything about salons, but it seemed logical that good, strong lighting would be essential.

“Excuse me. I need my toolbox.”

“What? Oh, sorry.” He handed it to her, then ran his fingers over the chipped and peeling window trim. “You know, you could go with cherry for contrast here. Different woods, leaving the natural grain, going with warm tones. You’re not going to cover these floors, are you?”

She took out her measuring tape. “No.”

Why didn’t he go away? She had work to do, thinking to do. And most of all she’d wanted to be alone in her wonderful building, planning and deciding and dreaming about how it was all going to be when she’d finished.

The colors, the textures, the tones, the smells. Everything.

And here he was, in her way, wandering around. All male and gorgeous and distracting in his perfect suit and his expensive shoes. He smelled, oh so subtly, of high-end soap and aftershave.

He probably paid more for a cake of soap then she had for the jeans and shirt she was wearing. And he thought he could just mill around, wafting in her air, making her feel clumsy and inferior.

“What are your plans for this room?”

She wrote down her measurements and kept her back to him. “This is the main salon. It’s for hair, manicures, and makeup.” When he didn’t respond, she was compelled to look over her shoulder. He was staring contemplatively at her ceiling. “What?”