Jennifer Greene - Can’t Say No

She didn’t have a temper. And once her nonexistent temper had calmed down, Bree leaned back against the closed cabin door and viewed her dusty domain with dismay. At least Hart was gone, but in the meantime wishes weren’t horses. The place wasn’t going to clean itself.

Abruptly, she rolled up her sleeves, looped her hair in a rubber band and dug in. Gram always found the energy to banish dust and dirt. She also used to say that determination was worth more than muscle. The past few weeks had been frightening for Bree, discovering how deeply and how long she’d let things just…happen to her. Gram’s death had seemed a last unbearable crisis in a life where she’d taken too many wrong turns. She had to make it right again.

And the very simplest project, like cleaning, made her feel better from the start.

Gram’s back-to-nature philosophy had not extended to sheer foolishness. The main part of the cabin was authentic 1830s, but the lean-to contained civilized goodies-an old washing machine, refrigerator, hot-water heater and more to the present purpose, Gram’s cleaning supplies. For starters, Bree plugged in the electrical appliances and took a match to the gas-run water heater. By some miracle, they all worked.

Once the hot water was pumping into the converted dry sink, she stood on the top of the kitchen table and scrubbed away cobwebs and dust. Using old newspapers, she attacked the windows. She was humming by the time she removed the dustcover from the bed and tossed it in the washer. A blue-and-white tablecloth made for a lively spot of color, as did the bright red rhododendron Bree uprooted from the woods and used as a potted centerpiece.

The cabin took on sparkle in direct proportion to Bree’s taking on grime. She stopped once, to fill a glass with fresh, cold well water, downing it all in long gulps, and then glanced down at herself with a wry grimace. The cream silk blouse had a rip and several snags, and a stripe of dirt looked painted on one sleeve. The linen skirt might make a good rag; she’d already tossed her stockings in the trash; and she must be getting slap-happy tired, because her own dirt struck her as incredibly funny. Even her pink nail polish looked murky gray.

There was a chemical john in the lean-to, but no shower or bathtub. The only way to turn gray skin back to white was to swim in the pond in the ravine. Gram had stubbornly held that cold water never hurt anyone, and then, there was nothing softer than hair washed in lake water. As a kid, Bree had found bathing in the pond high adventure, but as the cabin shaped up and she battled with exhaustion, she didn’t dare strip down and risk having Hart catch her taking a bath.

Of course, maybe he wouldn’t come back. Bree clung to that hope as the minutes passed, making bargains with herself. If you clean that corner just so, he’ll never show up again. If there isn’t a single speck of dust on the floor, maybe he’ll disappear off the face of the earth.

It couldn’t have taken four hours to buy groceries, and he really couldn’t possibly know what she wanted anyway. For that matter, if she took a towel and soap down to the pond, the chances of his finding her were nil. No one could see the pond from the road or the back of the house; you had to weave through woods and brush to get there. She would be perfectly safe, getting off her skin the layer of itchy grime that was starting to drive her bananas.

But she was sitting at the kitchen table when Hart walked in. A sponge bath at the sink had moved a little of the dirt around; her chin was cupped in a weary palm, and her eyes were staring resentfully at the door. Toothaches always came back.

“We haven’t gotten over our temper, I see. Never mind, a little food will revive you.” He plopped a bag of groceries down on the table in front of her, then disappeared outside for more. Bree’s fingers drummed out the death march on the blue-and-white tablecloth as he carted in three more bags, but she didn’t so much as glance at any of his purchases.

Hart shook his head sadly. “I leave an incredibly attractive woman and come back to a waif. Why do you wear your hair like that, anyway? It makes you look like a skinned rat.”

The insult rolled off her back. What was one more?

“I didn’t mean to be so long, but I got hung up in the real-estate office. Getting out of my lease may be a little tricky, but I think I can manage it. Fishing’s darn good around here, the man told me. Finaker. Know him? Fat old coot. Beer belly the size of a watermelon, wolf teeth, itty-bitty eyes?”

Bree stared at him, determinedly keeping her expression neutral, and told herself that the corners of her mouth were not twitching. Even though Finaker did have itty-bitty eyes.

“You’d better like peanut butter…” Hart reached in the first bag to grab a massive jar of the stuff. “Figured you’d feel too lazy to cook, first day out. Just stay right where you are. I’ll make the sandwiches and unpack the rest of the groceries.”

Bree didn’t flicker an eyelash.

A dozen steaks piled up on the table beside her. Steaks she couldn’t possibly afford. A bag of oranges, another of apples, four containers of strawberries, four bags of oatmeal cookies, enough boxes of cornflakes for forty-seven people…

The corners of her mouth were trying to turn up again. He was just so… awful.

Get a hold of yourself, Bree, she told herself sternly. He’ll go away only if you ignore him.

But he was such a difficult man to ignore…He had this cajoling baritone and a wounded look as though she was hurting his feelings by not approving of his purchases, and she wasn’t absolutely sure whether she wanted to kill him or laugh.

“I didn’t want to trek any farther than Mapleville, so I was stuck with the local store in picking out some clothes for you. Underpants…” Gravely, Hart tossed three polka-dotted whimsies in her direction; they would have landed on her nose if she hadn’t snatched at them. “Now, jeans-I figured you for about thirty-six around the hips. The lady said that was a size eight. These look a little long, but you can roll them up. Shoes-you have kind of big feet, don’t you?” Hart glanced under the table at the two grimy feet clenched one on top of the other. “Good Lord, you certainly do. And I told the lady what a special pair of…lungs you had, and she came up with these…”

He draped three camisole-style T-shirts over the peanut-butter jar. One blue, one orange, one red. A navy sweatshirt followed.

“Now, you’ll like this,” Hart said confidentially. “I figured you’d need something to sleep in.” With a wide grin, he unfolded a massive man’s T-shirt. There was a huge fish printed on the chest; below were the printed words, If You’re Lucky Enough to Hook a Silent Woman, Reel Her In Nice and Slow.

Bree’s head drooped over her folded hands. One violent shiver chased up her spine, and then her body convulsed with spasms of most unwilling, albeit silent, laughter. He was driving her absolutely nuts. She detested every single thing about him-he was pushy and cruel and insensitive and opinionated and too damned handsome for his own good.

Yet silent laughter continued to quiver helplessly through her like an ache-she’d forgotten how much it ached to really laugh. It must be that she was so darned overtired; there could be no other excuse.

A strong hand groped for her chin, forcing her face up for Hart’s inspection. For an instant, she thought she saw concern written in his dark blue eyes, but laughter-tears were blurring her vision.

By the time Hart had softly brushed them from her cheeks, he wore a gloating expression, as if he’d won the lottery. “I knew you had a sense of humor hidden somewhere in those big green eyes.”