Free Her Man Upstairs by Dixie Browning Page B

tale.
    â€œCustomers have to be able to move freely, you know? They’re not going to browse in a room where they feel claustrophobic.”
    Moving to stand behind her, Cole placed one hand on her shoulder and used his other to gesture. “Eighteen feet, right? Fifteen of usable space between the door and the corner. How about we cut a few of your bookshelves down toabout six feet, butt them up against the wall here, here and here.” He indicated the area, his arm brushing against her shoulder. “That should give you plenty of clearance on the open end, and you can use the corner space beside the door for wall shelves.”
    â€œCut them down?” Regardless of what she’d said earlier about whacking, she sounded as if he’d suggested cutting her legs off just above the ankles. Spinning around, she had to step back to keep from stumbling. He was that close. When he put out a hand to steady her, her eyes widened, sucking him into the cloud-gray depths.
    Flowers. Even with the faint echoes of paint and burnt spice, he smelled flowers. There wasn’t a damn thing blooming in her yard. It had to be the woman herself. No makeup, wild hair, clothes that could have come from any thrift shop—and she smelled like a tropical garden.
    He leaned closer. She froze, a deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes. Don’t do it, man—you’re starting something you’re in no position to finish.
    â€œLike we talked about before—shorten them,” he said gruffly, stepping back to a safe distance.
    Her cheeks flushed with color, she nodded slowly. “And I could use the short ends over here—and here.” She gestured toward the space between windows and on either side. “And there’s still the dining room.”
    She gradually lost the bemused look, if that’s what it was. He was no expert when it came to reading a woman’s expression, but she no longer looked wary. Actually, she looked almost excited, and an excited Marty Owens was a little too infectious for his peace of mind. He moved back and leaned against the door frame while she walked around,motioning with her hands, muttering to herself—soft little sounds she probably wasn’t even aware of making.
    And who’d have thought gray eyes could darken and sparkle that way? He wondered if that was how she’d look in bed, after—
    â€œI’d better be getting back to the marina.” It was one thing to hang around and help her plan her building project. It was another thing entirely to—
    Yeah, well…forget about that. “I’d like to get here about seven tomorrow, if that’s not too early.” That way she’d be out walking her dog and he could start work without any enticing distractions.
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    Marty watched until Cole’s truck disappeared, allowing her imagination free range. What was it about men and the way they dressed? Ninety-nine out of a hundred might as well be wearing baggy bib overalls for all the difference it made. She might even know and like them personally, but there was no chemistry. No click.
    And then, along came that one out of a hundred—a thousand—wearing faded jeans and a plain black tee, and she immediately started wondering….
    Be still, my heart.
    A few minutes later she gathered her wandering wits and focused on her immediate problem. At least, one of her problems. She wandered around, studying the available space and jotting notes on the back of an envelope. If she used the utility room instead of the kitchen for—
    That wouldn’t work. No way was she going to squeeze a washer and drier into her upstairs hall, even after remodeling. The living room and dining room would provide enough display space, using the kitchen for—
    The refrigerator. Oh, shoot. All she’d have room for in her new kitchenette would be one of those dorm-size models.
    She could worry about that later. Meanwhile, just when it