Considering Kate
Page 3

Man.
Six-two if he was an inch, and all of it brilliantly packaged. As a dancer she appreciated a well-toned body. The specimen currently studying rows of miniature vehicles had his packed into snug and faded jeans, a flannel shirt and a denim jacket that was scarred and too light for the weather. His work boots looked ancient and solid. Who would have thought work boots could be so sexy?
Then there was all that hair; dark, streaky blond masses of it waving around a lean, sharp-angled face. Not rugged, not classic, not anything she could label. His mouth was full, and appeared to be the only soft thing about him. His nose was long and straight, his chin, well, chiseled. And his eyes…
She couldn't quite see his eyes, not the color, with all those wonderful lashes in the way. But they were heavy-lidded, so she imagined them a deep, slumberous blue.
She shifted her gaze to his hands as he reached for one of the toys. Big, wide-palmed, blunt-fingered. Strong.
Holy cow.
And while indulging in a moment's fantasy—a perfectly harmless moment's fantasy—she leaned and knocked over a small traffic jam of cars.
The resulting clatter slapped her out of her daydream, and turned the man's eyes—his surprising and intense green eyes—in her direction.
"Oops," she said. And grinning at him, laughing at herself, crouched down to pick up the cars. "I hope there were no casualties."
"We've got an ambulance right here, if necessary." He tapped the shiny red-and-white emergency vehicle, then hunkered down to help her.
"Thanks. If we can get these back before the cops get here, I may just get off with a warning." He smelled as good as he looked, she decided. Wood shavings and man. She shifted, deliberately, and their knees bumped. "Come here often?"
"Yeah, actually." He glanced up at her, took a good long look. She recognized the stirring of interest in his eyes. "Guys never outgrow their toys."
"So I've heard. What do you like to play with?"
His eyebrows shot up. A man didn't often come across a beautiful—provocative—woman in a toy store on a Wednesday afternoon. He very nearly stuttered, then did something he hadn't done in years—spoke without thinking first.
"Depends on the game. What's yours?"
She laughed, pushed back a tendril of hair that tickled her cheek. "Oh, I like all kinds of games—especially if I win."
She started to rise, but he beat her to it, straightening those yard-long legs and holding out a hand. She gripped it, discovered to her pleasure it was as hard as she'd imagined, and as strong.
"Thanks again. I'm Kate."
"Brody." He offered the tiny blue convertible he was still holding. "In the market for a car?"
"No, not today. I'm more or less browsing, until I see what I want…" Her lips curved again, amused, flirtatious.
Brody had to order himself not to whistle out a breath. He'd had women come on to him from time to time, but never quite like this. And he'd been in a self-imposed female drought for… For what was beginning to seem entirely too long.
"Kate." He leaned on a shelf, angled his body toward her. Funny, how the moves came back, how the system could pick up the dance as if it had never sat one out. "Why don't we—"
"Katie. I didn't know you'd come in." Natasha Kimball hurried across the shop, carting an enormous toy cement mixer.
"I brought you a surprise."
"I love surprises. But first here you are, Brody, as promised. Just came in Monday, and I put it aside for you."
"It's great." The cool-eyed, flirtatious expression had vanished into a delighted grin. "It's perfect. Jack'll flip."
"The manufacturer makes its toys to last. This is something he'll enjoy for years, not just for a week after Christmas. Have you met my daughter?" Natasha asked, sliding an arm around Kate's waist. Brody's eyes flicked up from the truck in its open-fronted box. "Daughter?" So this is the ballerina, he thought. Doesn't it just figure?
"We just met—over a slight vehicular accident." Kate kept the smile on her face. Surely she had imagined the sudden chill. "Is Jack your nephew?"
"Jack's my son."
"Oh." She took a long step back in her mind. The nerve of the man! The nerve of themarried man flirting with her. It hardly mattered who had flirted first, after all.She wasn't married. "I'm sure he'll love it," she said, coolly now and turned to her mother.
"Mama—"
"Kate, I was just telling Brody about your plans. I thought you might like him to look at your building."
"Whatever for?"
"Brody's a contractor. And a wonderful carpenter. He remodeled your father's studio last year. And has promised to take a look at my kitchen. My daughter insists on the best," Natasha added, her dark gold eyes laughing. "So naturally, I thought of you."
"I appreciate it."
"No, I do, because I know you do quality work at a fair price." She gave his arm a little squeeze.
"Spence and I would be grateful if you looked the building over."
"I don't even settle for two days, Mama. Let's not rush things. But I did run into something annoying in the building just a bit ago. It's up in the front charming Annie."
"What… Brandon? Oh, why didn't you say so!" As Natasha rushed off, Kate turned to Brody. "Nice to have met you."
"Likewise. Give me a call if you want me to look at your place."
"Of course." She placed the little car he'd handed her neatly back on the shelf. "I'm sure your son will love his truck. Is he your only child?"
"Yes. There's just Jack."
"I'm sure he keeps you and your wife busy. Now if you'll excuse me—"
"Jack's mother died four years ago. But he keeps me plenty busy. Watch those intersections, Kate," he suggested, and tucking the truck under his arm, walked away.
"Nice going." She hissed under her breath. "Really nice going." Now maybe she could run out and see if there were any puppies she could kick, just to finish off the afternoon.
* * * * *
One of the best things about running your own business, in Brody's opinion, was being able to prioritize your time. There were plenty of headaches—responsibilities, paperwork, juggling jobs—not to mention making damn sure there were jobs to juggle. But that one element made up for any and all of the downside.