Gone With the Nerd

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Zoe had passed the stage of feeling guilty about that, but she didn't go out of her way to stir up the gossipmongers, either. An affair wasn't worth the angst of wondering when the tabloids would get the story and her parents would be back to take-out menus.

  Too funny—one of Hollywood's biggest sex symbols wasn't having any sex because she was a scaredy-cat, afraid of the repercussions. But what if she happened to be in a situation where no one would ever find out? Hmm. Whatever happens in Long Shaft stays in Long Shaft.

  She shouldn't be thinking about that now, though. She had cooking chores. Garlic was definitely an Italian kind of spice, but this thing looked too big to throw in as is. Luckily, the big piece broke apart into smaller pieces. Cool. She tossed in four of them. They seemed kind of hard and crusty, but the cooking process would probably soften them up.

  She'd always wanted to experiment like this, but her mother was a follow-the-recipe kind of person like Flynn. Her roommates had bought into the same propaganda, insisting that recipes were the only way to go. Finally Zoe had decided to leave the cooking to those who loved reading the fine print. She shouldn't have let herself be intimidated, because this was turning out to be a blast.

  "Sorry I took so long. I found several, so I had to narrow the search." Flynn came into the kitchen still gazing at the screen of his open laptop. "I don't have a printer, so you'll just have to read it on the—" His nose twitched, as if smelling the food cooking. He glanced up. "Zoe, what are you doing?"

  She smiled at him. He was so far behind the curve. "Making spaghetti."

  "How? You don't know what you're doing."

  "Does it look like I don't know what I'm doing?"

  "Yes."

  "Look again. I have pasta there and sauce here. Everything's under control." she turned away from the stove to relocate the onion in the pile of groceries still on the counter. "I have good instincts."

  "Do your instincts tell you when a pot is boiling over?"

  She spun around and discovered foam coming out of the kettle where she'd dumped the pasta. "Omigosh." Dropping the onion, she reached for the kettle.

  "Zoe, don't!"

  "It's making a mess!" She grabbed it off the stove, discovering too late that the handles were blazing hot. As she twirled around, she dropped both pot and contents with a clatter into the sink. The pot wobbled and fell over, discharging all its contents.

  "Did you burn yourself?" Flynn shoved his laptop onto a clear space on the counter and turned to her. "Let me see."

  "I'll be fine." Her fingers stung, but her pride stung worse. She'd been so sure that she could handle whipping up a gourmet feast. She wanted to blame Flynn for coming in at the wrong moment and distracting her, but she knew the pot would have boiled over regardless.

  "Let me look at your hand." Flynn reached for her.

  "I'm okay. Really." She put both hands behind her back. Then she heard a now-familiar hissing sound and glanced quickly at the stove. "Oh no!" Her sauce mixture was bubbling over, too.

  This time, as she made a move to get it, Flynn grabbed her arm. "Wait! Get a pot holder first!"

  "I don't have one! I don't know where they are!"

  "Let me." He shoved a finger into the knot of his tie and loosened it enough that he could wrap the end around the handle of the pan. After moving in to the back of the stove, he turned off both burners.

  Gathering the tattered remnants of her pride, Zoe took stock. All might not be lost. "If I can get the pasta back in the kettle and add more water, I can finish cooking that while I cut up the onion for the sauce." She opened a couple of drawers and finally found the silverware. A fork should do the trick.

  "Zoe, I think maybe—"

  "I'm sure this will work." Her fingers still smarted, so she tested the handle of the kettle before trying to hold it. The handle had cooled. Holding the kettle steady, she began scooping the pasta back inside.

  She got most of it, filled the kettle with water, and put it back on the stove. This time she turned the burner to medium instead of high. She'd miscalculated the first time. A girl couldn't be expected to know everything right off the bat.

  Time to check out how Flynn was handling this, though. He was awfully quiet. Glancing in his direction, she discovered him standing in the same spot as before, staring at her in disbelief. He hadn't even bothered to fix his tie.

  "I suppose this all seems a little unorthodox to you." "You could say that."

  She had to give him credit for not laughing, because he looked as if he really wanted to. The corners of his mouth were twitching. "It's just that recipes are so boring," she said.

  "And so nerdlike."

  That stopped her in her tracks. "Oh." She'd been so intent on doing her own thing that she'd forgotten the main reason she was here—to immerse herself in nerd behavior. Yet the first lime her resident nerd had tried to demonstrate that behavior she'd sabotaged him.

  "Vera would follow a recipe," he said gently.

  Much as Zoe hated to admit that, she knew he was right. She surveyed the chaos she'd created. Vera's kitchen would never look like this, with groceries piled helter-skelter, a mess on the stove and another mess in the sink. Tony's kitchen would always look like this. She was modeling the wrong character.

  "But I admire your grit," Flynn said. "Most women I know would have burst into tears after an episode like this. You weren't about to give up. I'm impressed by that."

  "Maybe I'm just bullheaded."

  "I would believe that."

  That made her smile. "Hey, you didn't have to agree with me."

  "So prove to me that you're not bullheaded. Look at the recipe."

  Zoe decided to accept defeat gracefully. "Okay, I'll look at it."

  "And let me see your hands."

  "They're really fine. Honestly." But she held them out, because she was currently demonstrating that she wasn't stubborn as a mule. Secretly she was afraid that she was at least that stubborn.

  Flynn cupped her hands in his and peered at her fingers. The contact had the strangest effect on her, as if she'd popped an antidepressant. Her nerve endings quivered and she felt anticipation, as if something wonderful were about to happen.

  "Stay right there." He let go of her hands, reached over to the counter, and picked up a squeeze bottle of mustard, which he began shaking.

  She moved so that she stood between Flynn and the stove. "Hold it, buster. If you're about to put mustard in my spaghetti sauce, you'll do it over my dead body. I may not be the Galloping Gourmet, but I know there's no mustard in spaghetti sauce."

  "I'm not putting it in the sauce. I'm going to squeeze some on your fingers."

  "My fingers!" She tried to make sense of that. Maybe he was more innovative than she'd given him credit for. "Flynn, are you kinky?"

  He glanced at the mustard bottle, then back at her. "With mustard? What kind of kinky thing could you do with mustard?"

  "You tell me. You're holding the bottle."

  "I was going to put it on your burn. What did you think I was going to do with it?"

  "I had no idea." She put her hands behind her back again and stepped into the little alcove, out of range of Flynn and his squeeze bottle. "And I'm not sure I like your idea, either. It sounds weird and messy."

  "Trust me, it's great first aid. Back in college I spilled hot coffee in my lap. Somebody suggested mustard, and I never blistered."

  She had a sudden mental image of Flynn smearing mustard on parts of him she'd never given much thought to before, parts she was certain he wouldn't want getting blistered.

  He flipped open the cap on the mustard. "Hold out your hands and let me squeeze a little on the places that are red. It'll take the pain away, too."

  "But if you put mustard all over my fingers, how will I cook?"

  "I, ah, guess you'll have to let me take over."

  "Oh, now I get it. This is your devious method to get me away from the stove."

  "I swear, that's not the point." He advanced toward
her. "Just see how nice it feels. You'll be amazed."

  She backed up another step. "I'm not about to be put out of commission by a mustard bottle. I started this spaghetti meal and I'll finish this spaghetti meal."

  "Just try it. I'm not trying to take away your cooking rights. I'm trying to keep you from suffering."

  "I'm not suffering." Her fingers did hurt a little, but she hated to give up her spaghetti project. "If you'll please bring the laptop over, I'll work with the recipe you found."

  "Okay, but the offer stands." Flynn put down the mustard and walked over to get his laptop.

  "I appreciate the thought, Flynn." She knew men hated it when you wouldn't take their advice. "It's good to know about the mustard, in case I ever really burn myself, like you did." She was dying to know the details of his mustard incident. "I'm sure that hurt like crazy, being in such a tender spot and everything."

  He brought the computer over, but he didn't quite meet her gaze. "It was, um, not quite in that tender spot, fortunately."

  "Oh." She wouldn't have pursued it, except there were those condoms in his suitcase to consider. A guy who packed condoms on a weekend trip when he'd made it clear he was taken ... well, that kind of guy deserved to have his tender spots discussed. "When you said the coffee landed in your lap, I was afraid that meant something more delicate was in danger."

  "Uh, no." He coughed. "Can you see the screen okay?"

  "A little to the left. That's good. Thanks." She forced herself to stop thinking about his package and look at the recipe.

  Sure enough, she was in big trouble. She was supposed to cook the onion and garlic in the oil first and then add the canned tomatoes. Plus she was supposed to peel the garlic and mince it. She had no idea how that was accomplished.

  But she was committed to this sauce, and she'd make it work. She'd chop up the onion and throw that in, plus add the water that was called for. The staff was kind of thick and gooey, so the water would help.

  "Got it," she said to Flynn. "You can shut down the laptop, now."

  "You're sure?"

  "Sure I'm sure." She found a knife and a chopping board and started hacking at the onion.

  "You committed that to memory pretty fast."

  "The recipe's no longer than the blocks of dialogue I have to memorize all the time. Not as interesting, though."

  Flynn closed the laptop and set it back on the table. "How close is the recipe to what you've been doing?"

  "Pretty close." She sniffed as her nose and eyes started running from chopping the onion. At least this reaction was familiar, because some of her actor friends used cut onions when the scene required tears. With her though, the emotions building in the character usually did the trick.

  "Is that the onion making you do that or are you upset?"

  "Onion." She sniffed again and kept chopping.

  He walked over. "Here." He took a soft cotton handkerchief from his back pocket and gently wiped her nose.

  It was the sweetest gesture. No one had wiped her nose since she was five years old. She appreciated everything about the moment—Flynn's careful but firm touch, the freshly washed scent of his handkerchief, and the cozy feeling of being cared for. In fact, she was feeling cozy all over, in that warm, getting-ready-for-sex kind of way that she hadn't experienced in like forever.

  "Thank you," she said. "I didn't know guys carried handkerchiefs anymore."

  "My dad always does. I remembered the times his handkerchief came in handy when I was a kid, so a few years ago I decided to return to the tradition."

  "So you carry it more for other people than for yourself. That's nice." And it fit his personality. Flynn was the kind of guy a woman could count on in a crisis, as he'd proved several times recently. Zoe hadn't thought she needed that quality in a man and yet she found it very appealing out here in the woods where Bigfoot might be lurking behind every tree.

  Maybe that sense of safety was another reason she felt like having sex. Getting involved with an actor was dangerous to her privacy, but nothing about Flynn seemed dangerous. He would be the perfect guy to let loose with, even if he did turn out to be on the predictable and boring side. She'd been so long without that it probably wouldn't matter if they never went beyond the missionary position.

  But she was getting way ahead of herself, thinking about what position they might use, when they probably wouldn't use any at all. Scraping the onion into what she hoped would be their spaghetti sauce, she redirected her thoughts to the script.

  She needed to put aside everything else until they'd made some headway there. She'd forget about Bigfoot, too. There was no such thing anyway. Margo was probably making up all those sightings as her claim to fame.

  Even so, Zoe couldn't help glancing to her left through the darkened windowpanes to the pine forest beyond. When two eyes stared back at her, she forgot to breathe.

  Chapter Seven

  As Flynn tucked his handkerchief in his hip pocket, Zoe moaned and grabbed his arm .Startled, he turned quickly and found her staring out the kitchen window, her face white. Her lips were moving, but he could barely hear what she was saying. Finally he figured out the words. Baby Bigfoot.

  His heart began to race. Wrong time to be without a camera. He had to be cautious, though, because she might have seen a bear instead. As much as he'd love to catch a glimpse of Bigfoot, he had no interest in being mauled by a bear.

  But hard as he tried, he couldn't see anything outside except shadowy pine trees. Either he needed a new prescription or she'd imagined it. He sighed with disappointment. "I don't see a thing."

  She continued to grip his arm. "It ducked down behind that bush. But I saw two eyes. The light from the kitchen reflected off two eyes. I'm sure of it."

  He didn't want to mention it might be a bear. He didn't even want to admit that to himself. "Maybe it was a raccoon. I'm sure they have raccoons around here."

  "Then we're talking about a five-foot raccoon."

  Or a bear that stood five feet at the shoulder when it was on all fours. Flynn quickly calculated other possibilities for a pair of eyes in the woods. "Paparazzi?"

  "God, I hope not. That would almost be worse than a bear. I think we should check this out."

  "Yeah, me, too." If it really was a baby Bigfoot and he didn't see it because he was worried about bears, he'd never forgive himself. "I'll go."

  "I'll go, too."

  He figured it was a token offer. "No, you stay here. I'll go."

  She took a deep breath. "No, we'll both go. But I wish we had a flashlight."

  Flynn had an unwelcome vision of Blair Witch Project. "I do. On my key chain." He paused. "Except I didn't bring my key chain. In order to be more efficient, I only brought my house key."

  "Then I guess we just go." Zoe started for the back door.

  "Wait. There's a fireplace. Maybe there are matches or something. Let me go check."

  "Good idea. I'll look for candles."

  Flynn didn't find matches anywhere near the hearth, but he did find a pistol-style butane lighter that worked. He took it triumphantly back to the kitchen. "I found a flamethrower. All we need is a candle."

  "No candles."

  "Then I guess this is it. I'll go first." As he opened the back door in a great show of bravado, he tried to remember if bears were afraid of fire. He thought they were, but a puny butane lighter might not qualify. A bear would probably laugh at his little flame and eat him up anyway.

  He wondered how many Bigfoot investigators had run afoul of bears. A guy had to take chances in pursuit of a phenomenon like this. Sniffing the air, he detected only a woodsy smell. Even a bear would smell a little bit, but Bigfoot would smell a lot.

  Thinking more and more that Zoe had imagined the eyes, he left the safety of the cement stoop and started walking toward the bush. Pine needles crunched under his feet, but otherwise the forest was still. Not even the crickets were chirping. The bush was about ten feet from the light shining through the window onto the ground.
He paused at the edge of the additional light spilling out of the open door and tried to see into the shadows.

  Then Zoe closed the back door and he stood in darkness as she came up behind him, her crackling footsteps loud in the silence. "See anything?" she whispered.

  "No."

  "There." Her voice was low and urgent. "Something moved behind that bush."

  The hair stood up on the back of his neck. What the hell was he doing out here armed with a butane lighter? He had zero information about what was behind that bush, but whatever it was, a butane lighter wasn't going to stop it.

  Zoe shifted position and nudged his arm with her breast. "Maybe we should call out."

  He was sure the breast nudge was an accident. She wouldn't have deliberately done that, but the contact reminded him of his role as he-man protector. It also reminded him of what spectacular breasts she had, truly works of art. Ever since that day in the car, he'd become slightly obsessed with her cleavage. He had a sacred duty to keep that cleavage from harm.

  So he pulled the trigger on the lighter and pointed it in the direction of the bush where Zoe had seen something with eyes. The flickering flame looked beyond puny. "Who's there?" he said, doing his best to sound bold and commanding, even though his knees shook and his flame was ridiculous.

  Something snorted, and he backed up so fast he stepped on Zoe's foot. She yelped, but not loud enough to drown out a new sound coming from behind the bush. Giggles.

  He mentally reviewed his research about Bigfoot, but nothing surfaced about giggling. Roaring and howling, yes. Giggling, no. He took a deep breath. "All right, who's back there?"

  "Luanne Dunwoodie." The voice was definitely girlish. Then the owner of the voice stood up. In the meager light of the butane lighter she looked to be a perfectly normal kid of about ten or eleven, stick-figure skinny and dressed in jeans and T-shirt. Strands of hair had escaped from the blond pigtail that hung down her back.

  She was laughing at Flynn. "You look funny holding that lighter thing."

  Flynn supposed he did, so he doused the flame, hol-stered the lighter in his pants pocket, and straightened his tie. He needed to remember that he was a lawyer and should act accordingly. No way would he suddenly morph into Indiana Jones.