What the Heart Wants. Cynthia Reese

      “But...” Might as well say it. “The man told me the wiring needs to be updated before he could install it.”

      “I’ll say. Not enough outlets in that house—never were. That’s going to be a bear of a job, sweetie, and pricey, even if you can find somebody willing to tackle it. Why, I’ve had electricians and plumbers not even get out of their trucks when they got a gander of the old place. They knew it was going to be a nightmare.”

      “I have some money. And...Gran, I’d like to put in better windows...and maybe some siding.”

      “Vinyl siding? Now that’s an idea. I’d looked at some—they got a kind that really looks good these days, made for old houses, not that stuff on double-wides. No more painting to have to contend with.”

      Allison let out a breath. She had expected her to blow her top over the siding, but apparently pragmatism had won out. Sometimes Gran would surprise her like that.

      Her grandmother’s expression soured and the lines in her face seemed to be etched more deeply.

      “But it won’t get you too far,” she told Allison. “Not with the historical committee running roughshod over you, no sirree. Ha. More like the hysterical committee. Tried to tell ’em I needed to put siding on the house, to save on painting, but no-o-o. Got to have historically accurate paint, you do. Five colors!”

      “I think the siding is probably doable—just a lot of paperwork, maybe talk to the committee members—” Allison stated, but her grandmother broke in.

      “You’d better just skip all that, Allie, girl. Because that what’s-his-name—Mitchell? Some sort of professor, he is, but he’s the head honcho of that committee. He’s never going to approve any of that.”

      “Kyle Mitchell? I met him today—”

      “Well, then, you know what I mean, don’t you? Surprised he didn’t run off the chair lift guy, because they didn’t have such things in 1888. They didn’t have air-conditioning or penicillin back then, either, but I don’t imagine Kyle Mitchell would like to go back to those days, now would he?”

      “I can’t believe the committee won’t see reason and use common sense,” Allison protested. “If I explain the situation—”

      “Common sense? That’s why I call it the ‘hysterical committee.’ It doesn’t matter what the committee members think. It only matters what Kyle Mitchell tells ’em. Nope, I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you, not when dealing with that Kyle Mitchell.”

CHAPTER FOUR

      KYLE RUBBED HIS eyes and groaned as he took in what had to be the most horrendous response to his essay question on the causes of the Boston Tea Party. “Because they were ‘tea’d’ off,” the freshman had scrawled. To better his chances at getting at least partial credit, he had doodled a drawing of a stick figure in a passable tricorne hat, shoving a crate.

      Kyle squinted. Yep. That was steam coming out from under the brim.

      The student wouldn’t remain a freshman for long with answers like that, Kyle thought. He riffled through the thick stack of exams and saw he still had at least two dozen left to go. If they were all like this one, at least grading them would be quicker than the first twenty-five test papers.

       Just appreciate the fact that you’re not in Afghanistan like your big brother. Or even herding teenage football players around the state like your little brother. Teaching history is a lot cushier than either of those two jobs. Plus, you could have graded papers yesterday instead of volunteering free labor for Allison.

      Ah, but then he wouldn’t have been granted admittance to the mysterious Belle Paix. And it was worth every sore muscle and the double dose of ibuprofen he’d gulped down this morning.

      Beautiful.

      For a flash, it wasn’t Belle Paix’s intact side hall with its intricate carved banister that came into his mind.

      No. It was red hair. Yards of it. And the barest hint of freckles. And how her dimples danced when she smiled.

      Kyle yanked his attention back to the next essay question. The hapless freshman had made a better stab at describing the opening battles of the American Revolution, but had still managed to make a total hash of it.

      Unbidden, Allison ambushed Kyle’s thoughts again. He liked her. And that surprised him, because she didn’t seem to appreciate historical preservation in the slightest.

      Amazing how one woman could invade his mind. Why, he could almost swear he heard her voice now, floating down the narrow hall that ran the length of the social sciences faculty members’ offices. With a determined sigh, Kyle fixed his focus back where it belonged. He was just bored with grading, that’s all.

      But then a sharp rap brought his attention to his open door. He looked up—to see Allison.

      She wasn’t in jeans or shorts today. No, today she sported a light summery dress just right for the unseasonably hot temperatures. Her long legs were beautifully punctuated by delicate, strappy sandals that showed off her toned calves.

      “Don’t look so blown away.” Her mouth quirked a bit at the corners as she seemed to smother a smile. “I promise, I’m not here to ask for help moving another china cabinet.”

      “Good, because I don’t think my muscles will cooperate,” he admitted. “No, I’m zoned out by these absolute hideous exams I’m grading. I think I should have done a better job teaching the course material.”

      Allison wrinkled her nose. “It’s not your fault. It’s the topic. History. Lotta dates. Lotta names. No offense, but history’s a dead subject. I never could get interested in people who lived a hundred years ago.”

      It wasn’t the first time he’d been told that. He’d heard it so often that it was the kiss of death for any blind date that his ever-hopeful colleagues kept setting up for him.

      Usually the comment inspired a guilty feeling of superciliousness, as if he was somehow wiser than whoever it was talking to him—that and the sure knowledge that no serious relationship could really develop between two people who didn’t appreciate the same things.

      But Allison...Allison made him think differently. He wanted to drag Allison to the chair by his desk and keep her there until he could convince her that history was interesting. History was a story, and he was addicted to a good story.

      She, however, seemed fairly convinced already—of the opposite, unfortunately. Kyle bit back a tart response. “Well, if it’s not a burning need to hear a good history lecture,” he asked, “what does bring you to my corner of the world?”

      Allison beamed. “Ah! Thought you’d never ask. Is this a good time?”

      “Yes, of course. Have a seat.”

      She dropped down into the chair he had for students during conference sessions, and gazed around. “Somehow this is not what I expected,” she commented.

      “Oh. You were thinking that it would be the typical history professor’s lair—stacks of papers and books and—”

      “Junk,” Allison interjected. “It’s wonderfully bare. Did you just move into this office?”

      “No. I’ve been chair here for, mmm, about three years now. I just like things neat. Easier to concentrate.” He followed her gaze.

      The office was bare. Yes, he had the requisite diplomas up, and a bookshelf filled with texts and other sources. But he needed the quiet that a Zenlike bareness helped him achieve.

      “I was expecting a lot of artifacts. Isn’t that what you history folks call them? The detritus you collect over the years?”

      “Oh, I have artifacts. See?” Kyle pointed to