Can’t Say No

Jennifer Greene Can’t Say No

Dear Reader,

There’s an old saying that writers pass around-that selling a book is the most fun a woman can have standing up.

For me, this book was so much fun to write that I’m not sure it could be legal.

My hero, Hart, is an insufferable man-and my heroine can’t decide between killing him and loving him. Well, possibly there’s a little more to the picture than that.

After a traumatic experience, Bree seeks healing time in the mountains. Everyone has been so sympathetic to her, but she needs peace and quiet. Hart barrels into her life-and cabin-bringing no peace, no quiet and definitely no sympathy.

What he DOES bring is a charge to her heart…a reason to feel again, a reason to climb out of her sadness and start a new love. Possibly her intrepid hero isn’t being insufferable because he’s a pain in the keester…but because he senses what will bring this vulnerable woman out of her shell, for her sake…and his.

Loved writing this one, hope you love reading it-and an extra thanks to Carina Press for giving all of us readers a chance to read such varied, unique and wonderful stories!

Feel free to contact me through my webpage-www.jennifergreene.com-or my Jennifer Greene author page on Facebook.

Jennifer Greene

Chapter One

“Bree, eventually your speech will come back. The battery of tests proved there’s nothing physically wrong.” Dr. Willming leaned forward, peering at her through thick lenses. “The mind has curious ways of dealing with traumatic shock. You’ll talk again, I promise you, sweetheart. Just accept that your body is asking for a little rest right now- and we both know you could use a lesson or two on how to take it easy, now don’t we?”

He’d worked so hard for a smile that Bree had to give him one. It was genuine, actually. She’d known the white-haired physician half her life and loved him to bits. And having seen more doctors than she cared to count over the past few weeks, she still valued Dr. Willming’s opinion most. Lowering her eyes to mask the frustration that was pictured there, she reached down for her purse.

“Bree, it would help a great deal if you’d get it through your pretty head that you were not responsible for your grandmother’s death,” the doctor continued in that low, vibrant voice of his. “You know her heart had been weak for years, and you know that no one could have done anything to prevent what happened. Now, I want you to get some solid rest and put a few hefty pounds under your belt.”

Bree glanced first at the doctor’s ponderous belly and then at her own slim, belted form. At Dr. Willming’s irrepressible chuckle, she felt her own lips twitch. Five minutes later, she escaped the good doctor’s fiftieth round of reassurances-after an affectionate hug-and let herself out into the long corridor between offices. Her leather heels clicked a staccato rhythm on the shiny linoleum, slowing only when she stepped outside and faced a flat gray rain.

Maybe there was another city as ugly as South Bend at winter’s end and in the middle of a downpour, but Bree doubted it. By the time she climbed into her car, water was dribbling down the nape of her neck, her hair was slicked to her scalp and even her eyelashes were dripping. Shivering, she jabbed the key into the ignition, started the engine and then, for no reason at all, leaned back in the seat and shut her eyes.

Dr. Willming had been coddling her for two weeks. Bree wanted to feel grateful, and instead was inclined to pull out her hair. Being treated like spun sugar was exhausting. Actually, she’d always thought of herself as a little more of the lemon than the meringue.

And this business about a “traumatized speech loss” was nonsense. Obviously, what she had was a temporarily loose screw. Bree was instinctively compassionate with other people’s weaknesses and problems, but she’d never had an ounce of patience for her own. There was clearly nothing physically wrong with her. She’d never once flipped out in a crisis; a ton of people counted on her being dependable…

The engine coughed. Bree opened her eyes, shoved the car in gear and backed out of the parking space. A half hour later, she parked in her apartment’s lot and noted, without surprise, that it was raining even harder than it had been when she left Dr. Willming’s office. She made a mad dash for the door.

Inside, the gloomy day spilled in through her living-room windows. Switching on a lamp, she unbuttoned her raincoat. Absently, her eyes roved over the furnishings she’d so painstakingly chosen a few years before, all creams and cocoas and browns-the neutral shades that had then been so popular.

Two weeks ago, she’d discovered that neutral, soothing colors drove her bananas.

But that’s only because you’ve turned into a moody, spoiled brat, Bree wryly informed herself, and swept past the offending decor, striding toward the bedroom for her brush. A headache nagged at her temples, the same stupid headache that had dogged her every step for the past two weeks.

She wandered to the window, staring out mindlessly. Her entire world seemed to be crashing down around her, for no good reason. Gram’s death had been the catalyst; still, it wasn’t just the trauma of loss, but also that suddenly she was seeing everything through Gram’s eyes. Her fiance, Richard, for instance. If she’d had a few secret doubts about marrying him before this, she’d tried to ignore them. Richard was affectionate and smart and thoughtful and nice looking; what more could a woman want in a man? Gram had labeled him “Sweet, Bree,” the afternoon she’d met him, and pursed her lips as she’d made herself a cup of tea, only later adding absently, “Did you ever stop to think that even a molasses cookie can have too much molasses?”

It was all too rare finding a man with a “sweet” side; Bree hadn’t listened to Gram. However, she’d done nothing but listen to Richard since this business of not being able to talk. Good Lord, the man was happy extolling the merits of computer systems for hours at a stretch. Rationally, of course, Bree should have found the subject fascinating. She herself was a systems analyst, having chosen that field because it offered women good opportunities for promotion as well as more than adequate salaries.

“And you’re bored silly,” Gram used to say. “Don’t you remember that as a little girl, the only thing you ever wanted to do was make perfumes when you grew up? What happened to the dreams, Bree?”

Dreams didn’t pay the rent. Bree’s salary from Marie paid the rent. Bree’s eyes focused on the stack of computer printouts on her dresser, provided free of charge by her boss on the premise that work would get Bree’s mind off her “little problem.” Marie was incredibly talented at manipulating people, but she smiled and complimented so often that being used by her seemed like a privilege. “Baggage,” Gram had labeled Marie. “A clever bit of baggage-take off the paint and she’s all tough leather.” Bree hadn’t listened to her; Gram couldn’t possibly understand what it took for a woman to survive in today’s business world. If the little exploitations were endless, Marie still paid well and had given her every opportunity to advance. Bree had never been too unhappy.

She was just unhappy now. During the past few weeks, everything seemed to bother her, and trailing her like a shadow had been a ridiculous, irresponsible, unforgivable urge just to pitch it all.

Bree gnawed at her lip, thinking of Gram, until a thin film of tears filled her eyes. She blinked back the tears, and when her vision cleared she found herself staring at the half-open door of her closet. The edge of one suitcase peeked out at her, and she had a sudden, very inviting image of herself unpacking that suitcase in the South Carolina woods, in the loft of an extremely rustic log cabin, with Gram’s things around her and no telephone and absolutely nothing intruding on her peace…