Can’t Say No

out into the waiting sterile bowl, and the pits and cherry skins were all supposed to remain inside.

It wasn’t working. The pits and cherries remained inside, just as the cherry-press inventor had intended. But most of the cherry juice, as far as Bree could tell, was all over her. Wearing a fresh pair of white jeans-definitely a foolish choice of attire-and black halter top, she whipped back her hair with the side of her wrist and glared at Hart.

“How did you miraculously produce that clean white shirt?”

He grinned at her, his fingers still buttoning the shirt. “I picked up a pile of shirts from the local laundry yesterday, and left them in my car. And since the other shirt seemed to be a little sticky-”

“Very little,” Bree said ominously.

“You’re obviously much better at this than I am.”

“The question is how I let you talk me into this to begin with.”

“I must have asked you real nice?” Hart peered down into the bowl, batting aimlessly at a few buzzing bees that had grown interested in the sweet project. “Think of the delicious brew we’ll have later on,” he coaxed. “Look, I’ll take another turn-”

“You will not.” The last time he’d had a round at the cranking job, cherry juice had ended up all over the lawn. He’d been banished to the lawn chair. Wearing a pair of cutoffs and now a fresh white shirt, he barely looked as though he’d been in the first skirmish, much less the war.

“Bree-”

She gave him a suspicious look. The last of three. It would be just like him to act useless just to get out of doing any serious work. She knew Hart.

And her heart was so damned full of love for him that she was very close to crying, and had been all day. Hart would get her involved in some asinine activity simply to get her mind off her troubles. He’d done it before. She was only beginning to realize how often. “Take off your shirt,” she ordered briskly.

“My shirt? Why?”

“Just give it here. This isn’t working. We’ve used fifty pounds of cherries, and at best, we’ve got a cup of potential wine. If you’re going to do something old-fashioned, Hart, you’ve got to do it right. Strip,” she ordered flatly.

“Honey, if you’re in the mood, all you have to do is say so.” Slowly, Hart unbuttoned his shirt, grinning at her.

“Dream on.” He was going too slowly; she positioned herself in front of him and unbuttoned the shirt herself. The last button didn’t want to undo, probably because her heart had decided to suddenly go manic. His denim cutoffs were so old they were more white than blue; they fit snugly on his hips and snugly on the…front of him. Sunlight climbed all over his chest. That close, Hart smelled like Hart, that definitive man smell, creating wanton thoughts and vagrant wishes and a bold, blatant ache in Bree that utterly, totally distracted her.

Hart’s fingers abruptly tickled under her chin. “You want me to lick off all that cherry juice?” he murmured. “I’ll bet you have it all over you, Bree. It’s dribbled down your shirt-”

She flushed. “It hasn’t either.” Her fingers all but tore the shirt from his shoulders. “Now, into the cabin you go. I want clean feet. Sterile feet. And bring out the big flat pan in the cupboard by the stove. We’re going to crush the cherries the French way, Mr. Manning-”

It was her turn to sit back in the lawn chair with a glass of lemonade. She wrapped some cherries in the clean white shirt; Hart’s job was to stomp them until he’d squeezed the juice out into the pan.

“If you don’t stop laughing-” he warned.

She couldn’t stop. She wasn’t in the mood to laugh; she was still in the mood to cry, but he looked so silly. He started to whistle the theme from Zorba the Greek, and that didn’t help. Nothing helped. She felt her mood lighten in spite of herself. She kept watching Hart for the least sign that he was upset or even that he was willing to talk again, but the minute he felt her eyes on him he’d say something insulting, and then she’d insult him back, and then they’d be laughing again…

It was an hour later before they had enough cherry juice to pour into the crocks, and then it was simply a matter of adding sugar and yeast. Except that Hart poured in too much sugar. Bree stood back for the torrent of muttered four-letter words that followed.

“Which couldn’t matter less,” she scolded him. “You don’t think anyone would be crazy enough to drink this?”

“I’ve got news. You’re drinking at least half,” Hart said flatly.

“Only if there’s a hospital nearby.”

“Look, the brewing process will destroy any germs-”

“Hart. There are undoubtedly creatures in that juice. We’ve drawn every insect from at least five hundred miles around. Between your feet and the bugs-”

“I suppose you think my feet will add an unpleasant taste?”

Hart sounded injured. Bree felt injured. Her cranking shoulder felt like a candidate for a sling; she was so physically tired she was dizzy-how many years was it since she’d had a full night’s sleep, anyway?-and somewhere deep inside her, there was another ache.

Laughter suddenly died, for no reason at all. She lifted her head, and suddenly Hart’s eyes were there, as midnight-blue as when she’d first seen them, but different. Love was there. Hurt was there. A depth, an enigmatic softness, a blue sky turned into night.

And he was looking back at her. She could almost see what he did, an utterly bedraggled woman without makeup, cherry juice on her nose, a halter top clinging to her, red hair flowing in a curling tangle all around her. She had to have circles under her eyes…but she felt beautiful, the way he looked at her. So incredibly beautiful…

She wrenched her eyes away from his only because she heard a car, and even then the station wagon had pulled into the yard before she turned around.

The station wagon was familiar. So was the man who stepped out of it. Tall, dark and attractive, he was dressed in a conservative summer-weight suit, his shirt crisp. He peeled off his sunglasses when he spotted her. “Bree?” He sounded unsure as he gave the bedraggled lady in the yard a quick once-over.

Helplessly, Bree whipped her gaze back to Hart, who had stood up. For a moment, he just looked weary, and then he turned an ironic smile on Bree. “Don’t tell me,” he said dryly. “The fiance. I should have known the troops wouldn’t stop with just two visits. The last of the battalion arriveth to take you back to sanity, is that it, Bree? And doesn’t he look nice.” Hart cast him another look. “A little tame for you, I would think, but still true-blue dependable.”

Bree cast him a desperately unhappy look. “I broke my engagement, Hart. Before I met you. And I didn’t ask him here-”

Hart wasn’t paying attention. He was striding past her with an arm extended. Richard, to give him credit, didn’t blink an eye at the sticky handshake, just offered Hart and then Bree a rather bewildered smile.

“Darling? I barely recognized you…”

Darling, nothing. Richard, would you please go away? Bree’s heart moaned, but Hart was gathering up his shoes, picking up the mosquito netting from beside the chair. There was an I’ve-had-it air about him that frightened Bree.

“Bree? You’re all right? You’re talking now? Your parents said-”

“I’m fine. I…Just a minute, would you?” Bree’s eyes zipped away from Richard back to Hart. Dammit, he was striding out of the yard without another word. At a dead run, she caught up with him, snatching at his arm.

“Just wait a minute,” she said heatedly.

Something was wrong with Hart’s expression. The warmth was gone, replaced by a coolness that seemed impenetrable. He unhooked her hand from his arm and very softly brushed back a wisp of hair from her cheek. “There’s nothing to wait for, Bree. There-” he cocked his head in Richard’s direction “-is sane, rational marriage material if I’ve ever seen it. Exactly what I think you’re looking for, honey. You’d better think things over pretty damn carefully before you reject him again.”

“I-”

But Hart was heading for the woods, and Richard was coming toward her with a boyishly embarrassed expression.

“Bree? Did I interrupt something?”