The DIY Groom

by Lori Wilde

  She had no intention of going into a restaurant looking so weird, but Zack deserved to stew for a while. He had nerve, giving her a skin show, she thought as they walked to her car. Not that it impressed her in the least. She’d seen hundreds of better chests—well, dozens anyway—well, maybe none up close that rivaled his.

  But that didn’t mean he should stroll in front of her, jeans hanging below his navel, hair still clinging damply to the chest that had created havoc on her show. She was immune to his charms, totally impervious to whatever had excited the women in her audience, but was it too much to expect him to dress where she couldn’t see him?

  He’s no more to me than another piece of meat is to the butcher, she told herself, trying to inoculate herself against the one thing he admittedly had—sex appeal to spare.

  Even though she chose to ignore it, she wouldn’t forget the pat on her bottom, either.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, willing to settle for a drive-through burger.

  She shouldn’t have agreed to dinner. Hunger was no excuse.

  “A surprise. Let me drive.”

  “You can tell me where to go.”

  Was she supposed to turn her keys over to him just because he was a man?

  “It’ll be a whole lot easier if I do the driving. I doubt you can see well enough to drive with that fake hair hanging over your eyes.”

  He took the keys out of her hand, and there was nothing to gain by wrestling them back.

  “I can’t surprise you if I’m giving directions,” he said.

  He grinned, and unfortunately, he did have smile power.

  Restaurants were not scarce in Metro Detroit. Every United Nations delegate from Aden to Zimbabwe could feast on home cooking there, so why was he speeding down the freeway ignoring all the exits that led to food?

  “Fast food would be fine,” she told him. “Hamburgers, chicken, burritos. I’m not fussy.”

  “Don’t tell me you maintain a bod like yours on junk food?”

  “I work out,” she said, not knowing whether to take his comment as a compliment or criticism.

  He exited the freeway, and her frequently muddled sense of direction went bonkers.

  “Where are we?”

  “Livonia.”

  “What’s the attraction here? Oriental buffet, Irish pub, Texas Roadhouse?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He made lots of turns, leaving behind the commercial strips. She was liking this less and less.

  When he pulled into a driveway beside a brick duplex, she had an inkling of real trouble.

  “What’s this?” As if she didn’t know.

  “Home.”

  “Our deal was dinner for a ride home.”

  “Do you like pasta?”

  “Sure.”

  “This is the best place in eastern Michigan for spaghetti.”

  “You cook?”

  “Sure, bachelors have to eat.”

  “I get it. You’re embarrassed to be seen with me.” The thought that her little plan worked thrilled her.

  She yanked off the wig, letting her hair fall back in a ponytail.

  “Nah.”

  “I wasn’t going into a restaurant this way.”

  She wiggled out of the huge jacket she’d borrowed from Ed. She was overheated and glad to be free of the itchy woolen sleeves.

  “Weren’t you?” he mused, getting out of the car at the same time she did. “You look great.” He gave a low whistle.

  “For a clown.”

  She was wearing a pink dress with narrow shoulder straps, a princess waist, and a skirt that flared to mid-calf. It was her travel dress, and apparently not even Ed’s old jacket had wrinkled it.

  “One problem,” he said, ushering her into the living room. “Cole took his couch when he got married. I’ve been too busy to worry about replacing it.”

  “You lived with your brother?”

  “Until Tess.”

  “Did it bother you, having him get married?”

  He grinned broadly. “Don’t tell me you want to switch careers and be a call-in radio psychologist. No, it didn’t bother me at all. I’m delighted he was the one to get married, not me. Make yourself at home.”

  The only places to sit were two fat green beanbags in front of the TV. They looked as if they would swallow her whole if she sank into the depths of one of them.

  “At home,” she repeated, at a loss what to do next.

  If this were a date, it’d be an odd one. Fortunately, it wasn’t. They weren’t friends, either, and she never felt this awkward with her co-workers. The pop psychology she enjoyed in women’s magazines didn’t have a neat category for show-stealing, conniving macho men who caused bedlam in your life.

  For sure, she wasn’t going to plop down in one of his swamp-colored beanbags.

  “Ah, anything I can do to help?” she asked, not able to visualize Bailey cooking in a cozy little kitchen.

  “Can you wash lettuce without a script?”

  “Let’s just forget dinner.”

  “Stay. You’ll be doing me a favor. I can’t cook spaghetti for one. I’d have to eat it for a week.”

  The heck of it was, she really wanted to see him cook dinner.

  “Okay, but no more witticisms.”

  He rummaged in the fridge, which seemed to be well stocked compared to the few others she’d seen in bachelors’ homes. Not that she’d dated many men who recognized the potential of refrigeration as something beyond a beer cooler.

  “You look pretty in pink,” he said, straightening. “Here, catch.”

  He tossed a head of lettuce in her direction, and she managed to catch it.

  “Oh, it’s not the kind in a bag.”

  “I like to do things the old-fashioned way, I guess.”

  She stood at the sink washing, patting dry, and tearing lettuce leaves into a wooden salad bowl, then scrubbed big white button mushrooms for him. The kitchen was cozy with Zack bustling around, frying ground beef and onions, dumping spaghetti noodles into a big pot of boiling water, assembling spices in a neat row on the counter beside the stove, and adding them to the sauce at different stages without measuring.

  “You wing it on the seasoning,” she said as she put ice cubes in water glasses.

  “Not really. I know exactly how much of each I want. What would you like to drink? I have a good merlot. Otherwise the choice is beer, orange juice, or milk. Sorry, no diet cola.”

  “What makes you think I drink diet cola?”

  “Your figure.”

  “The camera does add ten pounds,” she admitted, “but I’d love to try the wine.”

  He directed her to sit at the small round table in the kitchen. After setting heavy white stoneware plates on the table, he served the pasta with tongs and spooned on rich tomato sauce with a ladle. At the last instant, he pulled crusty bake-and-serve sourdough rolls from the oven.

  “I’m impressed,” she said after twisting a long saucy noodle around her fork and taking the first bite. “I didn’t know spaghetti could taste this good.”

  “The secret is doing it a little different every time,” he said with a sly smile. “Turns out better every time, so I never get tired of it.”

  “I could never cook that way.”

  She didn’t cook at all, unless broiling a chicken breast counted, but when she contributed to a holiday meal at Georgia and Ed’s, she studied cookbooks weeks ahead of time and followed recipes religiously.

  “Tell me truthfully, is your whole life scripted like your show? No surprises, no highs or lows?”

  She was mellowed by the delicious meal, but he was still getting too personal.

  “I think it’s important to set goals.”

  “Okay, so your show goes big-time, then you move on to Hollywood or New York or wherever the top market is. What happens in Act Three?”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “No, I really want to know. I’ve never met anyone quite like you. But you
are a sloppy spaghetti eater.”

  She looked down, expecting to see sauce on the front of her dress, but he reached across the table and wiped a spot at the left corner of her mouth.

  “It’s all in the wrist action, winding the spaghetti on your fork.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” she said dryly.

  “Now tell me your secret plans.”

  “Just what most women want. Settle down with the right man someday, have babies. You probably think it’s silly.”

  “Why should I?”

  “You’re so anti-marriage.”

  “Only for myself.”

  “A lot of men want a family.”

  “Not me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just not the marrying kind. Guess I come by it genetically. My birth father didn’t even stick around to know he had twins. Not that I blame him. My mother was seventeen, and he wasn’t much older. Marsh must have been pretty scary in those days. He even made sure we had his last name.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Not at all. I love the way my life is going.”

  He stood abruptly, leaving part of his second helping on his plate.

  “Sony, no dessert,” he said. “Would you like more wine?”

  “Thanks, no. I’m too full. It was a wonderful dinner.”

  She felt awkward, as she had before dinner. Did he resent her for leading him to talk about his personal life? He started it.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “I’m not sure I should let you.”

  He was clearing the table with an efficiency that impressed her.

  “Why?”

  “The wine. You don’t have a designated driver, so you’d better crash here for the night. I’ll use the camping cot in Cole’s old room, and you can have my bed. One of these days I’m going to build a house for myself. Until then, I’m not much on accumulating things like furniture.”

  “No, thank you. I only had one glass of wine.” Actually, she’d found it a bit strong and had poured the remainder in the sink.

  She wasn’t sure why he’d asked her to stay. Certainly not because of a few sips of wine. Thanks to the long spring days, it wasn’t even dark yet, so she would have no trouble finding her way home.

  “You’re safe with me.” He flashed her a devilish grin. “I won’t even hit on you.”

  “We’ve already established that there is absolutely no attraction between us,” she said in a severe voice that wavered only slightly when he stepped close enough for her to see the faint shadow of bristles on his chin. “I don’t know why, but—”

  She clamped her mouth shut, horrified because she’d been about to ask why he didn’t find her at least a little appealing. Why was she so much not his type that she really did feel completely safe sleeping over? Of course, she wasn’t going to do it.

  “Ultimately your goal is to settle down with a domestic type and raise kids,” he said in a soft shivery voice. “I’m not a candidate for that. All I want to do is build a business that will make Bailey Baby Products look small-time.”

  “Being in my show can’t hurt.” He was making her defensive again. He had a knack for it.

  “Probably not, much as I hate to admit it. But we have a business arrangement. I don’t have time for pleasure. Otherwise…”

  “Otherwise what?”

  “Otherwise I might be tempted to do this.”

  He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his, a little nothing of a kiss that made her knees go weak.

  “I wouldn’t want you to be tempted,” she said, but she parted her lips and wanted the wonderful tingling to go on and on.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not.”

  He moved a full step closer and lowered his head to hers again, this time putting his hands on her shoulders and nuzzling the sensitive spot below her earlobe.

  “You can see how easy it would be for us to be distracted from our goals,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t want that to happen,” she murmured.

  His lips caressed her lowered lids and moved down her cheek.

  “It would be a terrible mistake,” he mumbled just before his lips met hers again.

  She didn’t exactly see stars—at least, not real ones—but she learned quickly why women had mobbed him on the set. She couldn’t define it, but he had it.

  At least he moaned first.

  “Dessert,” he said.

  She giggled nervously, and then his tongue parted her lips. She didn’t bother to worry whether this was insane.

  “I’d better go before it gets dark,” she said after a very pleasant few minutes.

  It took all her willpower to focus on the awful fact that she was still stuck with him on her show.

  “Okay,” he agreed amiably, dropping his arms and stepping back.

  What was going on? Why didn’t he ask her again to stay? She tried to pretend she wasn’t totally confused.

  “Thanks for dinner. You’re a great cook. The Bulgarian chef is always looking for a new helper. He has a little temper problem. Maybe instead of doing my show…”

  “Don’t even think of it,” he warned. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  It was ten steps away in the driveway. She didn’t need a goodbye kiss. Another kiss was the last thing she needed.

  “Not necessary,” she insisted. “See you next Wednesday.”

  “Next Wednesday,” he grumbled, his romantic mood, if that was what it was, dissolving into surly remembrance of their deal.

  Before she could change her mind, she was out the door, accidentally slamming it behind her without looking back.

  Okay, Bailey had proved he was sexually exciting, but it had nothing to do with the chaos he created every time he came on her set.

  They had a business deal, and the sooner she forgot that he kissed like a heartthrob-cowboy-prince-cop hero in a romance novel, the better for her show.

  And her heart.

  7

  Zack had an idea that was off the wall, but he called it self-defense. After all, he had to do eleven more episodes of Do It Herself, and he didn’t want to plunge in blindly another time.

  Either he’d look like a fool or Megan would be too mad on-air for Zack to convince his grandfather they were involved in a relationship. His solution seemed reasonable to him—work out their differences ahead of time.

  Zack dialed Megan’s number early Saturday afternoon, not without some trepidation.

  He knew their kiss—kisses—had only been a fluke, a momentary weakness because she was eminently kissable, but how did she feel about them? He’d never expected her to sleep over, but how had she interpreted his offer?

  “Hello.” Her voice was as mellow on the phone as it was on TV.

  “Hi, Megan, it’s Zack.”

  “Oh?”

  “You probably didn’t expect me to call.”

  Now there was a dumb way to begin a conversation.

  “Are you calling to apologize?”

  Her voice was sugary sweet, but a great actress she was not.

  “Did I offend you in some way?”

  “Let’s say you overstepped the bounds of hospitality.”

  “Sorry.”

  He wasn’t, not in the least, but he had to get past the kissing to sell her on his suggestion.

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  Enough was enough. He hadn’t begged for a kiss since—well, ever—and she’d seemed plenty willing at the time. Not that it had been a good move on his part.

  Sure, she was gorgeous, tempting, and theoretically available. She was also prickly and opinionated. He was tempted to hang up, but there would be more satisfaction in inconveniencing her.

  “Well, why are you calling?” she asked.

  “It’s about next week’s script.” He tried to sound humble but doubted she was buying it.

  “Do you have it already?” Surprise made her sound a little more friendly.

  “No, but since we have s
uch different takes on how things should be done—”

  “Your way or chaos,” she said dryly.

  “Yeah, I guess I have given you a bad impression. That’s why I thought we could rehearse ahead of time. Work out our differences before we go on camera.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.” She sounded pleasantly surprised. “I have a rough draft for your next appearance. Should I email it to you?”

  “You could, but maybe it would be better if we meet at the studio. We could go over it on the set.”

  “It might help you get over your stage fright if you were better prepared,” she said.

  There was a topic he didn’t want to discuss.

  “Are you free this evening? I didn’t think anyone would be using your set tonight.”

  “Let me check.”

  Little faker. She knew whether she was busy. She probably had a schedule for brushing her teeth.

  “Yes, I can meet you at seven at the studio. I’ll bring what I have for Wednesday’s taping.”

  “Great, see you then.”

  He stared moodily at the phone after they’d disconnected. This might solve their differences on the show, but how did he feel about another one-on-one with Megan, this time in a deserted studio?

  He muttered a colorful cuss word and slammed down the receiver. His life was a whole lot more complicated than he wanted it to be, thanks to his grandfather and the home-handicraft girl.

  Zack wasn’t one to kid himself. He’d been hanging loose for quite a while, too damn busy for the dating game and uptight about Marsh’s ultimatum.

  It wasn’t like him not to have a main squeeze, but he couldn’t seem to meet anyone who didn’t have marriage on the brain. It was easier to avoid that kind of entanglement than to get out of it.

  He knew precisely how he felt about Megan. She was stubborn, officious, and bossy. What their relationship needed was a weekend in bed, but if he read her correctly—and he was sure he did—she wanted a forever kind of guy.

  He did allow himself a minute of pleasurable fantasy. He imagined sliding up the hem of the little pink dress she’d worn under that ratty jock jacket, peeling her panties over her hips and spectacular legs and…

  “Forget it,” he told himself crossly.