Read Can't Say No for Free Online Page B

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.”
    Like the nosy man he was, he discovered the lean-to and filled the refrigerator while she was trying to figure out what to do with him. Actually, she had little choice. He was jamming the food helter-skelter on the open shelves, and she was forced to trail frantically after him to prevent cans from toppling to the floor. On second thought, she grabbed her pad and paper, jotting down, Are you crazy? I don’t want any of this food. But he wouldn’t look at the note, just grinned when they bumped hip to hip, and puttered around the pie safe until he discovered Gram’s silverware.
    He lavished peanut butter on thick slices of bread, then set a plate in front of her. He dragged a chair to the table for himself, peered in one last bag and removed a bottle.
    “Hooch,” he announced. “Goes well with peanut butter. There’s nothing like the local brew to clear out the cobwebs—and half of your brain cells. You’re probably some prissy wine drinker—” He paused, giving her adequate time to defend herself, and then shrugged as he picked up her sandwich. “I figured. You’re the type. Open up.”
    She would have gotten peanut butter all over her closed lips if she didn’t. Her lips parted; Hart jammed in a man-sized bite of sandwich, looking very pleased with himself. She chewed rather inelegantly, having no choice, and the peanut butter sank to the base of her throat and sat there, dry and thick.
    He pushed the glass of hooch in her direction. Only because she was afraid of choking on the peanut butter did she lift the glass to her lips. Swift as a cat, Hart reached over to tilt the glass a little farther, and she received a gigantic gulp of firewater that burned all the way down her throat. She glared.
    Hart grinned. “Makes you sleep like a baby. Come on, now. You look middle-aged and unspeakably sanctimonious with your mouth all puckered like that. Don’t give me any moral claptrap about drinking in the middle of the day—who cares? Besides, it’s late afternoon, and we both know you’re going to bed after this anyway.”
    She jammed the glass back down on the table, eyeing him warily. Coming from