Free Her Man Upstairs by Dixie Browning Page A

She waved a hand, indicating the small dining room that currently doubled as a home office. “I thought I’d use the kitchen for an office and box room. The table won’t fit upstairs, but it’ll be great for unpacking.”
    Stroking his stubbled jaw—he was a twice-a-day shaver when neatness counted—Cole studied the layout. One thing about living aboard a small boat—you learned to make the most of every square inch of space.
    â€œSasha has some wild ideas about colors—she’s this friend I was telling you about. You spoke to her on the phone? Anyway, she’s an interior designer—she’s supposed to be tops in this area—but she thinks I need to paint my walls three different shades of red—can you believe it? She says with the north light I need to make it not just inviting, but exciting.”
    The room was already inviting, to Cole’s way of thinking. Walls painted a warm, creamy shade with furnishings a comfortable mixture of old and not-quite-so-old. It looked just right to him. Nothing really outstanding—at least, nothing that screamed, “Keep off the furniture!”
    Paula had insisted on an all-white color scheme to show off her art collection. He’d hated the damn stuff, her so-called art included.
    Marty had a couple of pictures on the wall. One a reproduction of a marsh scene, the other a factory-produced oil of a cloudy sunset on the water. Both were pleasant enough. Hell of a lot better than Paula’s primary color abstracts, anyway.
    Walking around the two rooms that, along with the kitchen and a laundry-utility room, made up the first floor, Cole mentally transposed the bookshelves with the furniture that currently occupied the space. Damn shame to crowd all this into one room upstairs, but it was her house.
    Marty was following him around like a hungry pup waiting for a handout. He was no miracle worker. He could remodel her second floor, but he couldn’t guarantee anything beyond that. Sensing her anxiety, he said, “You’ve got choices, you know.”
    â€œChoices. You mean colors?”
    He heard her sigh and turned to find her only a couple of steps behind. Too close. His hand brushed her hip and electricity sizzled. The way she jumped back, she must have felt it, too.
    Sounding slightly breathless, she said, “I’ll have to fight for them. Did you ever hear of a velvet-covered steamroller? That’s Sasha.”
    â€œI’m talking about your arrangements, not your colorscheme.” Her mouth looked soft, tired and discouraged. Staring at it, he thought, What the hell—a little encouragement wouldn’t cost him anything.
    Fortunately, before he could act on his impulse, his survival instinct kicked in. Taking a deep breath, he said, “You want to know what I think? I’m betting you can hold your own against any steamroller, velvet-covered or not.”
    It drew the ghost of a response. Not quite a smile, but at least those full, naked lips didn’t look quite so discouraged. “Yes, well…you don’t know Sasha.”
    Nor was he sure he wanted to meet her.
    Marty shook her head. “I’ve tried arranging those darn shelves ever which-a-way on paper, but the proportions are all wrong for here. I had them custom built for my old place, but—” She shook her head again. “Am I crazy to even think of doing what I’m doing? Don’t answer that—it’s way, way too late.” This time she actually chuckled.
    It affected him in more ways than he cared to admit.
    â€œPeople remodel all the time. In a house this age, it’s probably overdue.”
    â€œSure, to add a downstairs bath and maybe a room or two over the garage, but turning it into a retail outlet?”
    He was tempted to pull her head down on his shoulder and tell her not to worry, that it was always darkest before the dawn, or some other meaningless fairy