them. “But with a header, I think it’ll work. If we—”
“Can we back up a sec?” Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “First of all”—he stretched out his hand—“maybe we should actually meet. Jake Braden.”
“Yes. You’re right.” She held out a pale hand and shook his. “Nice to meet you face-to-face.”
He’d seen more enthusiasm in a smoked trout.
He planted his hands on his belt. “Before we get started, tell me what you already know about the history of the house so I don’t bore you with stories you’ve already heard.”
The girl blinked. Twice, then again. Did she not understand the request?
“Most of the wiring was replaced in the seventies and, like I said, the roof—”
“I mean history. Like what happened here, who lived here.”
“Oh.” That expression could only be labeled annoyance. “It was built in the 1840s and it was a little over a hundred years old when the Ostermanns bought it. Grace’s great-granddaughter told me legend has it that the man who built this house served with Abraham Lincoln in the Blackhawk War, and Lincoln stopped here once for a visit. That tidbit could come in handy as a selling point.”
Selling point? The greatest president this country ever knew could have slept in this very room and she called it a tidbit? Jake exhaled and almost forgot to take another breath.
“The main floor was redone at some point, but the second story here is all original lath and plaster.” She tapped the toe of her sandal on the chunk of plaster between them. “I’ve drawn up plans to open up both floors. The place pretty much needs a complete overhaul.”
Overhaul? Jake’s sentimental soul writhed. Her word choice summoned visions of steamrollers and wrecking balls. “It needs some cosmetics, but—”
“The layout is boxy.”
Jake folded his arms to stop his elbows from jutting out like a frilled-neck lizard. It’s a Greek Revival house, lady. He counted the boards from the door to her cane. “You’re planning on selling as soon as it’s done, right?”
She gave him an of-course look. “Yes. I’m hoping to have it on the market by the end of July.”
Jake aspirated her last word and fought strangulation for several breaths. “I…think…that might be a bit…ambitious.” He pulled a notebook from his back pocket. “Why don’t we take a walk-through. You tell me exactly what you want, and I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do and how long it should take.”
“Fair enough.” Her lips pressed against each other.
He tried to picture her with a smile.
“Nobody’s looking for this many bedrooms these days.” She walked out into the hall. “We can put a bath over there and enlarge that bedroom.” Again, she pointed with the cane. And then we can…”
We? Who’s we? He followed her around like a trained pup, taking notes, asking for clarification.
But he wasn’t a hoop jumper. As much as he needed the work, he’d already made up his mind.
Before he said no, the woman needed a history lesson.
She didn’t have to like him to hire him.
Emily leaned on the railing as she clunked down the stairs ahead of him. He would be the chivalrous type, letting her go first. She led him to the front room, where she’d dropped her sleeping bag. A duct-taped corner of her second copy of Flipping Houses for Dummies peeked out of her duffel bag.
He glanced at her meager belongings. “You’re not sleeping on the floor, are you?”
“I have an air mattress.” She pointed toward the black vinyl bag. “On this level, I’d like to open things up. Kind of a great-room concept. The dining room—” She stopped. Jake Braden held one hand up like he was swearing on a Bible.
“That would ruin the…” His shoulders rose, almost to his ears. “Maybe my opinion is clouded because I live in this neighborhood, but my personal and professional opinion”—he put way too much emphasis on professional—“is if you hope to sell a historical landmark, you need to respect the integrity of the original design. The buyers who will be drawn to this place are looking for a trip back in time, a strong flavor of the past.”
Fingers curled toward her palms. She’d spent seventeen pain-racked months trying get rid of a strong flavor of the past in every aspect of her life. This house represented her first step toward everything new. “That’s a very small, niche market. My goal is to make this place appealing to a broad range of buyers. And most people like new.” She held his gaze,