Cinderella in Overalls by Carol Grace Page B

twisted around to face him. In the darkness she saw that his eyes were closed. The shadow of a dark beard grazed his face. A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. He was breathing deeply. Still asleep.
    She felt her muscles relax as she unconsciously matched his breathing with her own, mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest. What had happened to her plan to slip away? Maybe Jacinda had put something in the wine. Some herb, some magic potion to rob her of her self-control. She wouldn’t put it past her. Jacinda was determined to push her into someone’s arms. Not just someone’s—Josh’s.
    Before she realized what was happening, Josh tightened his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him, the half smile deepening. Taking a deep breath, she slid out from under his arm and rolled out of the hammock. A low moan escaped his lips, and Catherine looked down at him, her blanket over her shoulders, her hands on her hips.
    “It’s time to get up,” she said firmly, ignoring the sight of his broad chest as he stretched lazily.
    He gave her a sleepy smile. “I was in the middle of a dream,” he protested.
    “Sorry,” she said briskly. “No time for dreams. The truck will be here in a few minutes. And I know you’re anxious to get to town and get your... whatever it was.”
    “My hose.” He sat on the edge of the hammock and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. His clothes were wrinkled, his face lined with sleep, and she realized that he was still the most attractive man she’d ever seen.
    She turned quickly before she said something stupid. “I’m going up to change.”
    He watched her go, long, slender legs, bare feet hitting the ground as if she were wearing boots. The remnants of the dream clouded his vision. He was holding her in his arms and swaying in a hammock on a tropical beach. The best part was that Catherine wasn’t a dream. If anything, she was more beautiful, more bewitching in real life. The worst part was that sleeping next to him had meant nothing to her. He could tell by the look on her face as she had stood there gazing down at him, announcing the arrival of the truck as if he were a passenger in a bus station.
    The harsh beep of a horn broke his reverie. A diesel engine clattered in the distance. He walked across the yard and stood under her bedroom window. “Catherine.”
    She leaned out the window, hair braided, shawl in place, and looked down at him.
    “Are my shoes up there?” he asked.
    Without speaking she threw them down one at a time, and he caught them in one swift motion. Then, very firmly and deliberately, she shut the window and was gone.
    “Thanks,” he said loudly to the closed window. Then he washed his face in the kitchen sink, put his shoes on and stood in front of her house. The lights from the truck grew brighter as it came down the hill. At the edge of the road he glared at his useless car. “Traitor,” he said loudly. “Deserter. Where were you when I needed you?” Over the whine of the fast-approaching truck he didn’t hear her walk up behind him.
    “Don’t let me interrupt,” she said. “You were saying?”
    He turned to look at her. A glimmer of humor danced in her dark eyes. “It’s a well-known technique talking to cars,” he explained dryly. “They need encouragement just like people.”
    “Well, that didn’t sound like encouragement to me”
    “What this car needs is a kick in the tires,” he explained.
    She opened her mouth to reply, but the breaks squealed and the truck pulled up in front of her house. He helped her load the baskets of raspberries into the long flatbed between bags of lettuce and mangoes. The farm women he had met yesterday welcomed him with shrieks of surprise, made room for him in the corner next to Catherine and erupted into a stream of gossip in their Indian language.
    He gave Catherine an inquiring look. She smiled at him for the first time since yesterday when he arrived. And with the