Can’t Say No

the door to force it open. With an eerie creak, the door swung in, Bree pitching forward with it. In that sudden dank darkness, her shin immediately connected with something bulky and hard. Her skin dented; the old tool didn’t.

Using her entire vocabulary of four-letter words-silently-Bree massaged her aching shin and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The past five days just hadn’t been her best. Her luggage had arrived, but so had letters from home. Her mom wanted her to return; she was worried about her, and Bree hated being the source of that worry.

The letter from her ex-boss had disturbed her even more. Marie was blithely ignoring her resignation and lining up projects for Bree to tackle as soon as you’re feeling better. Contec is seriously hurting without you. Bree’s first impulse was guilt for leaving Marie in the lurch; her second was wariness as she reminded herself that Marie was an expert at using guilt to manipulate people; and her third was a feeling of being totally unsettled, a state of mind that still hadn’t left her.

In the meantime, she’d had to buy an entire set of dishes, since she seemed to have shattered all the old ones. And her sleep had been constantly interrupted by her own personal night watchman, Hart Manning. Sleep? There was little point in even trying.

Squinting into the dark corners of the old shed, Bree stepped over an old wooden crate and sighed. The front yard needed mowing. Unfortunately, most of Gram’s tools seemed to have disappeared. A pitchfork was accumulating rust in the corner. Her eyes skimmed over Gram’s old gardening gloves, a small spade, a hand saw, an ancient scythe…but there was nothing remotely resembling a lawn mower or even clippers.

With hands on hips, Bree shook her head. The scythe would have to do, dull and awkward though it was. It looked like something that belonged on an old Soviet flag, but its original purpose a century ago must have been to cut grass. You could always go home, Bree, said a little voice in her head. What exactly are you accomplishing by staying here-you haven’t had any rest; you’re still not talking. You’re worrying your parents, and at least you had a safe, secure job…

Gingerly lifting the scythe from its hook, Bree took it outside and wielded it awkwardly in the sunlight with a stubborn cast to her chin. No. Not yet. For herself, she might still be confused over what she wanted to do with her life, but for Gram…She felt in some indefinable way that she owed Gram something- something that she could pay back only by being here.

But Hart was making it extremely difficult for her to keep her mind on what she owed Gram. He’d showed up every night, once at ten, another time just before eleven, another at precisely ten forty-three. Each time he spread out his sleeping bag downstairs, made an unholy racket settling down, and disappeared before Bree awoke the next morning.

She hadn’t acknowledged that he was there. She’d lain upstairs in Gram’s sensuously soft feather bed, stared at the moon and twiddled her thumbs, fuming. She’d spent hours during the day thinking of what she was going to say to him…when she got her speech back. And she’d spent the hours at night worrying that she would fall asleep and have another nightmare, that Hart would come up to her, that she would behave…foolishly again.

Sooner or later, she’d fallen asleep those nights. There’d been no nightmares, but he was driving her nuts. Or maybe she was driving herself nuts, knowing she wasn’t doing a damn thing about him. She’d seemed to spend her entire life letting things happen to her, letting other people direct her actions; it had to stop. The big stuff takes care of itself if you handle the little things first, Gram used to say.

The yard certainly filled the little-things slot. The grass was knee high and straggly. If the project seemed woefully minuscule compared with the momentous decisions facing her, at least she wasn’t moping around the cabin like an exhausted zombie. Enough was enough.

Bree swung the awkward scythe, by the grace of God saved her left leg on the back swing, and noted without surprise that the blade hadn’t severed so much as a blade of grass. Whipping back her hair, she determinedly tried again.

The blade was not exactly in the best shape in terms of sharpness. The sun beat down in a fever of heat, flies buzzed, Bree’s madras shirt and short shorts stuck to her; and blisters formed on her right hand before twenty minutes had passed.

Three hours later, Bree collapsed flat on her back on the front porch of the cabin. She had just enough energy left to turn her head and survey the demolished lawn. Even, it wasn’t. Short, it was. The blisters on her palm were killing her; her throat was so parched she would have sold herself from a street corner for a glass of water; every muscle felt cracked like old leather…and she was grinning like a fool. She’d done it. Thought you couldn’t handle it, didn’t you, Bree?

Yawning, Bree closed her eyes. In a moment, she would get up. She so desperately wanted a drink; her palm needed first aid; she longed for a bath and change of clothes. To heck with all that, she was so tired she could sleep like a baby.

“Exactly where I was afraid I’d find you. Trying to nap in the middle of the day. It’s no wonder you’re not sleeping nights.”

Bree didn’t jump. Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say. If she hadn’t actually seen him in several days, Hart had still managed to interrupt every single occasion when she’d tried to get any rest. Besides, her heart instantly recognized him by pumping in and out like a windy bagpipe, even before she opened one eye-Hart not being worth opening two for.

As it happened, he was worth less than one. Gone was the urbane sex symbol in Italian suits. He wore his derelict straw hat sideways, his cutoffs showed hairy legs and he hadn’t bothered with a shirt, just a fishing pole.

His eyes were dawdling over her long legs in the short shorts. “Come on, lazy lady. Leading the life of Riley, it’s no wonder you can’t sleep nights. If so many complications hadn’t cropped up at my place, I’d have been over here before to keep you busy during the day. Like now. Did I mention we’re going fishing? And I see your clothes arrived. No bras in your suitcases?”

If that crack was supposed to bring a rise, it didn’t. And as far as Bree could tell via telescope, Hart couldn’t have too many problems at his place. His harem did all the chores.

When she didn’t move, Hart tsk-tsked. “The bait’s worms. You probably can’t handle that, but I figure you could at least row the boat. Talking yet?”

Why were all her new dishes put away, when she needed them to throw at this moment?

“You want help getting up, or do you think you can manage that all by yourself?” Hart shielded his eyes with a closed palm, his dark blue eyes peering down at her. “Honey, you have a button that’s undone,” he said politely.

Bree’s eyes whipped open, her fingers groping for the front of her blouse as Hart lazily surveyed her front lawn. “You did do a little something today, I see,” he drawled. “I thought you’d get off your duff sooner or later-couldn’t just sit around and do nothing forever, now, could you? I’m not a big advocate of industriousness, but when it becomes too much of an effort even to open your mouth, I draw the line.”

Bree sat up furiously, ready to hurl back a slightly blue retort-in mime-but Hart had already turned away. His eyes narrowed on the scythe resting against the cabin wall.

“You didn’t use that to cut the lawn?” His head whipped back to her, his dark eyes no longer lazy but suddenly blazing with anger. “You damn fool, you could have killed yourself! The thing’s half as big as you are. Did you ever once think to ask someone for a little help? What the hell do you think I’m within shouting distance for, anyway?” He added in a low growl, “Let me see your hands.”

She’d show him her hands the next time she had the inclination to dance naked in the village square. He advanced a step; she retreated, bottom first and chin up, into the shadow of the cabin porch. Unfortunately, bottom first and chin up were not conducive to speed.

The next thing she knew, Hart had snatched her wrists and turned up her palms for inspection. “I’m going to kill you,” he announced darkly, “as soon as we wash these and put some antiseptic on them. Go ahead. Give me an argument, Bree.”

Bree struggled valiantly for patience. Some men couldn’t help being insufferably patronizing. On the other hand…He didn’t move for an instant. It was seconds, not minutes, before he pulled her to her feet and propelled her inside to the sink. But in those seconds Hart’s face was inches from hers.