What the Heart Wants. Cynthia Reese

at the stack of papers he had clasped in his hand “...working through that monstrosity of an application?”

      “I really don’t mind.”

      “Okay, then. That’s a deal I can’t refuse. Wow.”

      She took the papers from him. He saw her skim through them, frown in puzzlement and then shake her head. “I really am going to need your help. Half of this reads like a foreign language.”

      Again, a twinge of guilt assailed him. He’d made the language as opaque as possible to intimidate would-be variance seekers.

      And until now, it had worked. Not a single person had ever actually taken an application once he or she had seen it.

      But Kyle had a nagging suspicion that Allison wasn’t like anybody else he’d ever met before.

CHAPTER FIVE

      ALLISON DUG HER nails into the palms of her hands.

      Nope. Not enough pain. Her eyelids were still drooping.

      Time for the old bite-your-cheek trick, she thought.

      She risked a peek at her watch and saw that she’d been trapped in the historical society’s meeting room for an hour and forty-five minutes. And there was still no end in sight.

      When would this meeting end? Didn’t these people have to eat? Go to sleep?

      In the front of the room, a petite woman of about seventy with impossibly dark hair pulled tight into a bun fiddled with her bifocals. “No, no, Eunice, we can’t possibly plant that particular variety of flower in the public sections of the district,” she said. “It is a more modern variety—why, it wasn’t around until 1898!”

      To Allison’s sleep-deprived brain, the woman’s shrill, nasal accent drilled into her as insistently as the tools of the trade of any dentist.

      So why on earth was she still nodding off?

      Okay, so it probably hadn’t been the smartest move in the world to soldier on and come to this meeting after she had been called in to work last night at the last minute. She’d managed to snatch three hours of sleep when she’d gotten home this morning, but the lift-chair electrician was supposed to have shown up.

      He hadn’t. Of course not. That would have broken her perfect record of repair guys who hadn’t shown up for their appointments. Five of ’em. No shows, all.

      But this last guy? The electrician? He’d sworn that he’d come, that he needed the work. And she’d crawled out of bed much too soon and even showered to make sure she was presentable.

      It made Allison demented enough to want to call the guy up in the middle of the night and wake him up.

      She should have told Kyle that she needed to sleep. But he’d stayed at the house painting until after 9:00 p.m., and he’d been so excited at the prospect of her coming. And then this evening, when he’d stopped by to walk her over to the library, and she’d started to tell him no, he’d been like a kid. Bubbling with enthusiasm about this person he wanted her to meet, and that expert on Victorians and...

      And, well, she hadn’t had the heart to let him down. She hadn’t even admitted to working all night at the ER. Allison was sure he’d think she was making an excuse to wiggle out of the meeting.

      He’d done his part. She hadn’t thought one historical society meeting was too much to ask for the help he’d given.

       Ha. This is worse than any clinical staff meeting I’ve ever endured. No wonder Gran steered clear of these gatherings!

      She stole a look at Kyle, who appeared to be riveted by this minutiae. He’d actually been paying attention, because now he was weighing in with his own opinion.

      “Ladies, both of you are right,” he said, smiling.

      Even in her sleep-deprived condition, the warm tug of his lips and the way his teeth flashed bright in his tanned, lean face sent a zinger through Allison’s body.

       What a charmer. Those two old gals are eating him up.

      And they were—when they weren’t glaring at each other. They turned their attention back to Kyle, who continued. “While that particular rose was very popular at the turn of the century—strictly speaking, toward the end of the historic district spending spree—it hadn’t been bred when some of our earlier houses were built.”

      That drew a smile from the lady with the dye job. Kyle’s next words, though, elicited a told-you-so grin from Eunice, defender of the 1898 rose. “But who’s to say that some of the owners of the older homes might not have added new varieties? After all, none of us are content with the things we started out with. We keep adding new ones, right?”

      Just as Dye Job’s smug smile soured, Kyle did something that really amazed Allison. He smoothed over the whole thing and left both ladies nodding thoughtfully. “Still,” he said, “we can always skip the roses and do a nice bougainvillea instead. Properly trained, it would do quite well, and it was popular and widely available during those years.”

      I am going to scream. Hot pokers in the eye wouldn’t be this bad. How is he enjoying this? Allison made the mistake of catching Kyle’s attention. He grinned. Winked, even...no. Maybe that wasn’t a wink. Maybe he had something in his eye. Yes. He was rubbing it. Was he was sleepy, too?

      Best prescription in the world for insomnia, one Lombard Historical Society meeting. It had been bad enough hearing the featured speaker, who’d droned on and on about trains and the expansion of the Central Railroad.

      True, the speaker had mentioned Ambrose Shepherd, and even pointed out Allison at the beginning of his remarks. He’d called on her to stand up as he’d introduced her. She’d gotten quite the golf clap from all these folks in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.

      But there was only so much discussion of board feet of lumber and innovations of cold rolled steel and railroad ties that Allison could endure.

      And then? When the speaker finished and Kyle opened the floor for new business?

      Distinct turn for the worse.

      Allison stared with longing at the ice bucket loaded with bottles of soft drinks that awaited the close of the session. The ice had melted, and tiny puddles had formed on the paper tablecloth around the bucket, but even a lukewarm soft drink would still give her a welcome jolt of caffeine.

      She barely managed to cover a sneak-attack yawn that caught her unawares. Allison didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings. These people really were passionate about all this history; it just wasn’t her cup of tea.

      As she lowered her palm, she noticed Kyle gazing quizzically at her. In a rush, he brought the meeting to a rather abrupt end.

      “It looks like we’ve gotten so excited about our public gardening spaces that we’ve run over our time. I suggest we adjourn and head for the refreshments.”

      “But—but we haven’t even gone over the list of sources for antique plumbing supplies,” one fellow protested.

      Now, why didn’t we do that first? Allison thought. Because that would have been useful. And maybe to go along with it a list of plumbers crazy enough to work on old houses. Maybe what I really need is a support group for renovators.

      Despite the man’s irritation, Kyle assured him that he had just the list for him. By the time he’d promised to get it to him, Allison saw that the majority of the crowd had stampeded to the refreshments table. They hadn’t had to be told twice.

      Kyle started across the room toward her, but got waylaid by first one and then another attendee. As she held on to the back of the chair in front of her to keep from falling over, she felt a tug on her elbow.

      A tall gentleman with a luxurious crop of snow-white