What the Heart Wants. Cynthia Reese

      “Sorry. I get so frustrated with this house. I want it safe and nice for Gran. That’s all. And here I am, chewing on the nice guy who got roped into more than he offered.” She couldn’t quite meet his eyes. Gran would not have approved of how rude Allison had been. Even when her grandmother was telling someone off, she did it with impeccable manners.

      Kyle laid a hand on her arm. “It’s okay. People are allowed one meltdown per afternoon when they’re renovating a house over a century old. And I’ll spot you a bonus daily mini-tantrum, since Belle Paix was built before the turn of the century.”

      Allison smiled, warmed by his good nature, and patted his hand.

      An hour later they returned from dumping the last section of carpet by the side street bin. Allison stood beside Kyle as they stared at the big china cabinet, still in its original place.

      “Are you sure,” she asked, “you don’t have a bunch of historical committee buddies just like you? You know, with strong backs and accommodating ways regarding free labor?”

      The corners of his mouth quirked. “Sorry, no. Looks like it’s just you and me.”

      “Good thing we’ve got a great team approach going, then. Let’s do this.”

      Allison watched, her breath catching, as the ropy muscles in Kyle’s arms flexed when he used the hand truck to lever up his end of the cabinet. Would they be able to move it?

      “How am I doing?” he asked.

      She pressed her hands against her side. “Good—careful! Careful! It’s wobbling—not so high!”

      Kyle didn’t argue, but lowered it. “Better?”

      “Yep! Thanks for not arguing—most guys would.”

      His breath came in a grunt of effort as he walked the end of cabinet the few inches to the carpet strip. “No point. Saving. My. Breath.”

      Finally, after a few more near misses, the cabinet was on the scrap of carpet. Allison knelt in the close confines between it and the wall to start the task of ripping up the last section. She jumped when Kyle squeezed by her.

      “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Here, let me give you a hand.”

      His nearness seemed to cause her fingers to slip. All she could focus on was his scent, clean and crisp and slightly citrusy. She stared down at the carpet and tried to smother a helpless little laugh at how such a small thing rattled her.

      “Having trouble?” he asked. Without another word, he leaned over her to tackle the carpet edge. Of course, it came loose without any hesitation, and she felt her cheeks flare doubly hot. “I think I got lucky,” Kyle told her.

      He was close enough that she could see a nick where he’d cut himself shaving that morning. Close enough to allow her to drink in that divine clean scent of his. Her pulse hammered in her throat.

      “I’ll take this piece out,” she mumbled, and managed to move away to give him—and her stupidly sensitive nose—space.

      A few minutes later, the carpet was cleared, and they tackled the china cabinet once more. It landed with a solid thunk where it belonged.

      Her heart racing from exertion and stress, Allison wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. “That thing can stay there for another hundred years as far as I’m concerned,” she commented.

      “I’ll second that.” Kyle had collapsed on the floor, his formerly pristine T-shirt now as grimy as hers. “How they cleaned under that thing, I don’t know.”

      “Oh! I forgot to wax the floor under it!”

      Kyle lay back on the oak planks, his eyes closed. “I promise, if the floor police come put you in jail, I’ll bail you out. That thing is not moving. At least, not by my hands.”

      “Well, it’s not like anybody will see under it. Okay.” She joined him lying on the floor, staring up at the coffered ceiling. “Thank you.”

      They lay there, exhausted, quiet. Every muscle of Allison’s body was quivering with fatigue. She wondered if Kyle felt as weary as she did. Probably. He’d had the heavy end.

      The clock in the hall let loose a mellifluous series of chimes. “Look at the time. I’ve got to get cleaned up to visit Gran.” Allison scrambled up, adrenaline coursing through her. “If I don’t hurry, she’ll be in physical therapy, and after that she’s too tired for a good visit.”

      “Let me get out of your hair, then. That is, if I can manage to find as much pep as you have,” Kyle told her. “You’ve worn me out.”

      She extended a hand down to him. “Least I can do is help you up,” she said.

      His hand in hers felt strong and capable, but she knew that already from their work together. He certainly wasn’t the stuffed shirt she’d thought him, when he’d been on her sidewalk a million years ago this morning. Maybe she should offer him supper one night in appreciation.

      Kyle stood, took in the windows and the expanse of the dining room. “I can imagine that I’m back in 1888, and this room is brand-new. Those windows...wow.”

      “Yeah. Those windows. They’re going. I’m getting Gran some double-paned ones that won’t leak air like a sieve.”

      He stared over his shoulder at her, his eyebrows drawn. “You can’t.”

      “Yes, I can. I have the money. A window guy’s coming out next week.”

      Kyle’s frown deepened, out of concern, not anger, she thought. “No. We have rules. Ordinances. Any exterior change to a house in the historic district has to be approved. By the historic preservation committee. Didn’t you know that?”

      “But as long as they look right, I don’t really see a problem, do you? I mean, I’m not putting in art deco glass block windows. I’ll pick out good-looking ones. Maybe get vinyl-clad. Easier to take care of.”

      “Whoa, no.” He shook his head, then held up a hand, as if what she’d just said pained him deeply. “No. You can’t do that. We have a list.”

      “A list?”

      “Yeah. Of manufacturers to provide historically accurate windows. And no double-paned ones. Plus, these look to be in pretty good shape, I’d advocate repairing them instead of replacing them.”

      Allison crossed her arms over her T-shirt and surveyed him. “Whoa, yourself. You can’t tell me what I can do with my own home—well, Gran’s. This house has been here forever. Surely it’s grandfathered in.”

      “These ordinances protect you, protect the value of your home. Trust me, you’d hate what the house looked like with modern windows.”

      “I hate seeing the power bill every month, that’s what I hate. Do you know how drafty these things are?” Allison realized her hands had moved to her hips and her voice possessed an edge to it. She tried to drop the attitude raging through her. Still, Kyle’s know-it-all tone irked her.

      “I hear that all the time. And my house is the same way. The price you pay for living in a place that has character.”

      Allison took in the stubborn jut of his jaw. This guy wasn’t budging. Surely, though, these rules couldn’t be as cut-and-dried as he made them out to be. Surely she could figure out a compromise, a workable solution. The city couldn’t dictate that she remain in a house exactly as it was in 1888.

      She decided to change the subject. No point arguing about this any longer, at least not today. “I appreciate your help, but I’ve got to get cleaned up and get out of here if I’m going be on time to visit Gran.”

      “I’ll see myself out. Thanks for letting me help.” Kyle’s smile was easy, free from the momentary irritation she’d spotted earlier.

      “Thank you. I couldn’t have managed without you.”