Project Produce by Kari Lee Harmon

with a little imagination and a whole lot of improvising.” He hung up our coats on a hockey man coat rack and headed into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home,” he called back, giving a vague wave in the direction of the adjacent room. “I’m gonna check on dinner.”
    Hot Britches could cook? The enticing aromas of basil, oregano, and garlic permeated the air, giving me hope that he cooked better than he decorated. Wandering into the living room, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself.
    A basketball hoop dangled from the wall, and a punching bag hung ready in one corner. In the other corner stood a widescreen TV. Obviously exercise and entertainment were important to him, but entertaining? Entertaining ranked last on his list, judging by this room.
    Entertaining women, anyway.
    Where was I supposed to sit? The nearest chair was a tie-dyed beanbag that looked like it had seen better days. I picked up a few scattered shirts to get to that chair and then tossed them into a corner and dropped down into the beanbag. My long legs folded in half, and my knees slammed into my chin. I grunted. Beanbags were not made for tall people.
    And this so-called bag was in desperate need of more beans.
    I wiggled my way out of the thing as I sneaked a glance through the kitchen door. Dylan’s back faced me as he stirred some pots, whistling to a classic rock station. Good, he hadn’t seen me.
    Note to self: Zucchinis have seriously strange taste .
    “Everything all right out there?” He peeked out the doorway.
    “Fine. Just looking around.” I smoothed my hair and leaned back against the life-sized marble statue of Michelangelo’s David behind me, holding onto it for support. Sitting wasn’t an option. At least not after the episode with Mr. Beanless Bag.
Dylan walked into the room and gave me an odd smile. “Would you like a drink?”
“Got any Bahama Mamas?”
“Uh, no. But I have some wine.”
    “Wine it is, then.” I wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but with the way he made me all shaky and goofy-acting whenever he got too close, I had a feeling I would need the whole bottle before the evening was through. He walked over to a small, portable bar that sat against the other wall, and I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. I had to get my hormones under control.
    “Here you go,” he whispered in my ear a moment later.
    My eyes flew open and I jumped, breaking the finger off the statue. A tingle of awareness shot up my spine. The man was downright deadly. I hadn’t even heard him approach.
    “Trade you.” He handed me a glass of merlot.
    “I’m so sorry.” I held out the broken appendage, glancing at it while I spoke. “I didn’t mean to break his... holy mother of Mary, what is that?” I yanked my hand back as if I’d been burned, dropping the appendage on the floor, causing the circular end pieces to split in two and roll in opposite directions across the room.
    “I have to say David won’t be quite the same ever again,” Dylan commented.
    Feeling terrible for breaking his art, I shoved my glass of wine back at him and ran after the rolling ball, snatching it just before it fell down the register. “Got it! Now where’d that other little sucker go?” I scrambled to the other side of the room, adding under my breath, “And I do mean little.” Flasher Freak had David beat by half a gherkin, and I hadn’t thought that possible.
    “Don’t worry about it, Mac. It’s only a statue,” Dylan said.
    As I grabbed the other ball, I ignored him, trying like the devil not to blush. I didn’t quite meet his eyes as I thrust out my hand. “A little glue should fix him straight up. Well, maybe not straight up, but you get the point. The picture, I mean.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice sounded strained, as if he were struggling not to laugh. He took the broken pieces and handed me the glass of wine again and then headed back into the kitchen.
    What else could possibly go wrong this evening? I took a