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“So,” she said, gesturing at the general disaster. “Welcome to my money pit.”

I forced myself into contractor mode, the only state where my brain functioned properly around her. Foundation first. The bones were solid, which was better than I’d expected. The structure had good lines under all the dated everything. It needed work, God, did it need work, but it wasn’t the tear-down I’d feared.

She followed as I inspected each room, asking questions that revealed she knew more about buildings than she’d let on.

“Interior designer,” she explained when I raised an eyebrow at her comment about load-bearing walls. “I know how things should work. I just can’t fix them myself. Yet.”

The electrical was exactly as bad as I’d thought. Knob and tube wiring in the walls, a breaker box that belonged in a museum, outlets that sparked when you looked at them wrong. The plumbing wasn’t much better. The porch was actively trying to detach from the house, just like she’d said.

“Kitchen’s the worst,” I said, testing another cabinet that shifted under my hand. “Needs a full gut job.”

“I figured.” She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “How long would all this take?”

“Depends on what you want. Full renovation? Couple months minimum. Just the urgent stuff? Few days, maybe a week.”

“And the cost?”

I did the math, cutting my usual margins because I was apparently an idiot. “I’ll work up a formal estimate.”

“Just give me a ballpark. I can handle it.”

“We can talk about this later. I know people. Good suppliers. Plus my crew works fast. I have to run numbers.”

She nodded. “Your crew won’t mind adding another job?”

They would. They’d complain and tease me mercilessly when they figured out why I’d rearranged everything. But I’d deal with that later.

“It’ll be fine.”

We ended up in the narrow hallway between the bedrooms, discussing the bathroom renovation. The space was tight. When I turned to point out the water damage on the ceiling, we were suddenly close. Close enough that I could see the faint circles under her eyes, smell something vanilla in her hair.

She went very still.

I should have stepped back, put professional distance between us. Should have done anything except stand there, arm raised to point at water damage, my body inches from hers in a hallway that had shrunk to nothing.

“The ceiling,” I managed, voice rougher than intended. “Probably leaked from the roof. Need to check the attic.”

“Right.” She didn’t move. “The attic.”

I lowered my arm, the movement bringing me even closer. Her breath caught. Mine might have too.

“I should go,” I said without moving.

“Yes,” she agreed without stepping back.

Another beat of absolutely professional house inspection before my brain finally kicked in. I stepped backward, putting blessed distance between us and my complete lack of self-control.

“So we’re doing this?” she asked, following me to the front door.

I froze in my spot, giving her a panicked look. “Do what?” I choked out, my heart beating too fast.

“The renovations?” It came more as a question. “If you want.”

Oh. Fuck. I was stupid. “Yes. I want. Let me arrange my schedule first.”

I smiled, the real one, the one Rose called unfairly, disgustingly attractive, and watched her gaze drop to my mouth.

“Okay,” she said, and then blinked, caught herself staring, and focused on something over my shoulder. “Your crew really will wonder if you’re dead.”