The DIY Groom

by Lori Wilde

  The day dragged. He ate leftover spaghetti around five, then remembered there was garlic in it. The way he rinsed with mouthwash and sucked breath mints, you’d think he was a guy with a big date.

  Just to prove that Megan Danbury was no date, he didn’t shave his bristly face. He put on a pair of old jeans well past their prime and a black T-shirt that had faded to charcoal.

  He expected the main entrance at the station to be locked when he got there, but Megan had already arrived and opened it.

  “There’s usually someone here,” she said, “but we keep it locked for security except during business hours.”

  “How are you?” he asked, a little miffed because she didn’t even say hello before explaining station policy, which he could figure out for himself.

  “Fine, thanks. Let’s go to the set.”

  Did she sound a little breathless? Was that a pink flush on her cheeks? Was it possible she was uncomfortable because they’d enjoyed a few kisses at his place?

  He docilely followed, allowing himself to enjoy the teasing wiggle of her bottom in white, very tight jeans. Her sandals made a soft slapping noise in the deserted corridor, and he tried not to imagine slipping his hands under her navy tank top to cup those round, firm breasts.

  She flicked a switch, and overhead lights illuminated the big barn-like room, only a small part of it used for the set of Do It Herself.

  “What’s on the docket for the next show?”

  “Wallpapering.”

  “Not my specialty. It’s outmoded.”

  “Wallpaper is making a comeback.” She frowned at him over her shoulder and led the way to the set.

  “Says who?”

  She ignored that. “I thought you could give some hints on measuring and how to hang it straight.”

  “I guess.”

  “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

  “I had a nice time Friday,” he said to test her.

  “Your dinner was very good.”

  The way she said it, he could’ve served sautéed slugs. He wasn’t fooled. He guessed she was ticked because she’d liked kissing him. Now he was sure they couldn’t sleep together and still have a friendly working relationship. Some women got funny once they shared sheets with a guy.

  Well, he wasn’t going to risk ruining the ruse with his grandfather. Too bad, because she was gorgeous, lean but shapely in all the right places.

  She walked away from him, making a pretense of moving the long table she used for projects. When she turned and bent to pick up a scrap of paper on the floor, her breasts fell forward, making him wonder what she’d do if he strolled over to see if she was as disinterested as she would like him to believe.

  Maybe meeting her in a deserted television studio wasn’t such a great idea. He hadn’t expected to be turned on just by being in the same room with her.

  “I thought I’d feel more comfortable in front of the cameras if I spent some time on the set without a lot of people around,” he said, deciding that talking about this unpleasant subject was better than letting her know what he was really thinking.

  His statement sounded plausible to him even though he wasn’t sure what triggered his on-camera jitters. Certainly, it wasn’t the audience or the crew. People never intimidated him, and that included Megan.

  Also, he didn’t worry about how he’d look on camera. Even when he forgot what he was supposed to say, he was always able to come up with something. So stage fright wasn’t logical.

  But then, neither was sex. Why were hard-to-get women like Megan always more tempting?

  “You sounded pretty comfortable on the last show,” she said, rustling a sheaf of papers she took from a briefcase beside the table. “I made you a copy of the rough script for Wednesday.”

  “Thanks.”

  He took it, wondering if the big empty studio seemed spooky to her. If so, she wasn’t trying to stay close to him. In fact, she handed over the script and backed away as though he’d been munching raw garlic cloves.

  Straddling a folding chair, he started scanning the pages.

  “Your mother must be nice. You’re going to so much trouble to make sure she keeps her job,” Megan said. “My mom is the one who gave me the inspiration for the show. After my dad deserted us, she did all kinds of things to make our home nicer.”

  He recognized her monologue as nervous chatter, but she was making it hard to concentrate on all the stage directions in the script.

  “My mother is great, loves her job. Doesn’t pry into our personal lives,” he said, talking by habit about himself and his twin. “I don’t think she has a clue about Marsh pressuring us to get married.”

  She kept chattering, something about Georgia—that must be her sister—and Ed not wanting to move. He was too unhappy with the script to pay much attention.

  “This project is boring,” he said factually, not intending to be unkind.

  “What?”

  “The script tanks.”

  “It’s only the bare bones. I’ll have sample papers to show and some clever ideas for borders and accent walls.”

  “Have you ever thought of taking the show out of the studio?”

  “The logistics are too complicated. Besides, we tape in front of a studio audience.”

  “I’m sure the station has the equipment, and the audience would love it, since they’d be out of the studio. Definitely a way to liven things up.”

  “My show—”

  “Our show,” he interrupted mildly.

  “Doesn’t need livening. Anyway, you made a deal. You follow my scripts, and I pretend to be your—your…”

  “Girlfriend. Tell you what. I’ll do the wallpaper script your way. I’ll bring my trusty tape measure, cut a strip or two of paper, and slap it on that phony wall. But you ask Ed about taking the show to a real site.”

  “He’ll hate it,” she said grimly.

  Not as much as I hate this show, Zack thought.

  Megan took Jason to the zoo Sunday afternoon so Georgia and Ed could have an afternoon to themselves.

  Blessedly, seven-year-old Jason seemed intimidated into good behavior by the snarling giant cats. It was one of their nicer outings, much better than his fifth birthday treat from her.

  She’d taken him to a pizza place specializing in kids’ parties, and he promptly buried himself in a pit of plastic balls and refused to come out, forcing her to wade in after him.

  Afterward, she sat in Georgia’s kitchen and indulged in a homemade chocolate mint wafer with peppermint tea while Jason ran to the backyard to help his father plant flowers.

  “How do you like it?” her sister asked. “It’s a new bottom for my choco-marsh specials.”

  “I like it without the marshmallow.” She didn’t share her sister’s passion for chewy sugar-flavored blobs.

  “Okay, tell me about him.” Georgia beamed at her from a rounder, softer version of her own face.

  “I’m not seeing anyone special now.” Megan crunched the last of the wafer and frowned in puzzlement.

  “I mean the hunk on your show. Ed said he’s a hot ticket.”

  “Just a guest. Jason was really good today.” There was no changing the subject when Georgia got her teeth into it.

  “He’s gorgeous. Rugged but sexy. Is he really a bachelor?”

  “Confirmed bachelor.”

  “I watched the show three times,” her sister confessed.

  “I thought you were busy working on a final draft of your cookbook.”

  “Would I like to have him on the cover. You don’t think…”

  “No.”

  Megan felt better about the show when she went to work Monday morning. Zack said he’d cooperate next time, and she thought he meant it.

  His suggestion of taping outside the studio was just a typical male power ploy. Why did men always want to be in control? Bailey knew as little about cable television as her grandfather knew about finding a husband for her, but that didn’t stop either of them from meddling.<
br />
  At least she could count on her brother-in-law to hate Zack’s idea. Truth to tell, Ed had a lazy streak. If there were two ways to do a thing, he’d pick the one that made his job easier. He wouldn’t go for the hassle of shooting outside the studio.

  She found her producer in his office and casually tossed off Zack’s idea, only because she’d said she would.

  “I love it.” When Ed was excited, his voice boomed.

  “You do? It will mean twice as much work for you,” Megan said.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Doesn’t matter? This from the man who shoveled tracks for his tires in his driveway instead of removing all the snow?

  “You’ll have to deal with making contacts, getting releases, checking on insurance liability, lighting problems…” She tried to make shooting in the field sound a lot harder than it was.

  “Let’s try it a week from Wednesday.”

  Her brother-in-law sprang up from the comfy chair that molded to the contour of his beefy backside and paced beside his desk without even glancing at the football photos of his younger, but no less husky, self on the wall.

  Remember this man is your sister’s husband, she told herself. Do not hurt him.

  “The sponsors will love it. The audience will love it. Gunderdorf will love it,” Ed raved.

  He was like a windup toy—as annoying as he was repetitive. He was running out of pacing space but not enthusiasm.

  “We’ll make it one long commercial. Advertising dollars will roll in. No projects, just shopping. I’ll set it up at the Home Stop. They’ll double their advertising time on the network after we do the show in their store.”

  “That’s not what Do It Herself is about.”

  “Sure it is,” Ed argued, as unstoppable as a freight train. “Women don’t know beans about shopping in a hardware store. Since female reporters started invading locker rooms, it’s the last true male bastion. Your viewers will love it. Damn, I’ll even love it.”

  “And we all know how you feel about any TV show that doesn’t star a pigskin,” she said morosely, insulted by his comment about women and hardware stores.

  Taping went well that day, really well, even without Bailey and his rippling muscles. She had a female expert demonstrate how to restore and reupholster a beat-up thrift-store couch at minimal cost. The audience was fascinated and asked really worthwhile questions. This was the way her show was supposed to go.

  After the shoot, Ed was still raving about taking Do It Herself to the Home Stop. By three o’clock, he’d sold the idea to the store, the ad department, and worst of all, Gunderdorf.

  “He loves it,” Ed announced to Megan as she briefed the two interns about Wednesday’s program.

  If anyone else loved it, she was going to barf.

  Bailey started this, she thought later, and it was worth a twenty-minute drive to the construction site to let him know how his meddlesome idea had evolved into an absolute fiasco.

  She saw him from the road. He was standing outside the colonial-style redbrick bank building, which seemed to be nearly complete. He was so engrossed in conversation with a burly man in low-slung jeans and a muddy-red T-shirt he didn’t notice her.

  She walked up the newly paved and slightly tacky entrance drive, not keen on attracting the attention of his crew. Fortunately, most of them seemed to be working inside. The only obvious outdoor work still to be done was landscaping, but she was there to talk about her business, not his.

  Her soles felt sticky, and she scuffed them on the dusty walkway that led to the trailer, hoping they hadn’t picked up tar from the driveway.

  She was itching to confront Bailey, but she contained her impatience. Construction workers were not her idea of a congenial audience, especially not when she’d come to vent her frustration on their boss.

  Zack saw her and gave a wave she interpreted as saying stay there. She scraped her soles on the walkway another time and bristled while he took his own sweet time finishing the conversation and ambling over to her.

  He was wearing a yellow hard hat and a khaki T-shirt with work boots and, no surprise, low-slung jeans. Only his weren’t the usual baggy work pants. They hugged his thighs, and the way he moved in them left no doubt he was in charge. He boss-walked over to her and scowled.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello to you, too,” she said, pointedly ignoring the deeply tanned, muscular arms he folded across his chest.

  “I don’t see a pizza box. Any chance you’re here to fire me from your show?”

  “My fondest desire.”

  He was making it impossible to tell him the results of his brainy idea in a calm, rational way.

  “Ed loved your idea of taking the show outside the studio.”

  “Really?”

  He wouldn’t look so smug when he heard the whole story.

  “Gunderdorf loved it. Joe, the business manager, loved it; the salesmen loved it…”

  “I get the picture.”

  “You should be proud. Thanks to you, we’ll be doing the show at the Home Stop next week. You’ll get to help me push a cart down the aisles while you enlighten me on weighty matters like nail sizes or picking the best paintbrush. Isn’t that a wonderful take on your idea?”

  “I hate it.”

  He skirted around her and headed toward his office in the trailer.

  “You can’t hate it. It was your idea. I’m the one who gets to hate it,” she yelled after him.

  He walked toward the trailer, and she scampered after him, one heel catching between the boards of the temporary walkway. In an instant, she was on her hands and knees with him looking down at her.

  “If you can’t walk in heels, wear sensible shoes,” he scolded without a trace of sympathy, squatting to extricate her foot and pull the heel of the shoe out of the crack.

  She stood up gingerly and looked at her dirty knees and hands.

  “Oh, a splinter.”

  Cuts, burns, gouges, scrapes, even breaks she could handle, but she turned to a quivering mass of jelly when she had to dig out a splinter.

  “Let me see.” Zack took her right hand in his and brushed away loose dirt. “Yup, that’s a splinter, all right.”

  He kept holding it.

  “Maybe I should go to the emergency room.”

  He laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Trouble was, she wasn’t. She couldn’t do it herself, not because she wasn’t left-handed but because she was too squeamish.

  Her mother was the only one she trusted, but she was far away. Georgia could do it, but not without her don’t-be-a-sissy lecture. Ed would do it, but with his locker-room technique, he’d probably poke holes in her bone trying to find it. She mentally sifted through her friends, co-workers, and neighbors, but she’d be too embarrassed to have any of them see what a big chicken she was.

  “It could get infected.” She groaned.

  “Doubtful, but I’ll get it out for you.”

  “You?” She snatched her hand away. “No, no, no.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve had a course in first aid, and there’s a kit in the trailer. Come on.”

  He took her other dusty, smarting hand and pulled her toward the old trailer that served as his office, still carrying her shoe in his other hand.

  “Stop. I’ll get splinters in my foot.”

  “The heel on this is nearly off,” he said, dangling the ruined shoe. “Want me to snap it the rest of the way?”

  “Oh, why not?”

  She knew she was being as ungracious as Jason sometimes was—he’d bitten her once because he didn’t like the birthday present she gave him—but Bailey was treating her splinter crisis like…like…

  Her resistance collapsed. She was being a big baby, and she knew her splinter phobia wasn’t rational.

  “I’d appreciate it,” she said meekly, wincing when the heel of her best pump snapped like a twig.

  He knelt and lifted her foot, sliding it into the mutilate
d shoe.

  “Want the other to match?” he asked.

  She looked at the leather, badly scuffed from when she fell, and nodded.

  He broke the heel off the second shoe, so at least she could walk semi-normally.

  Dang, her knees were smarting, too, but that was irrelevant. She had a giant splinter embedded in the fleshy part of her palm.

  That meant a needle probing and piercing, sending white-hot stabs of pain coursing through her nervous system. Every muscle in her body would stiffen. Her eyes would water, and she’d shriek in agony. Okay, maybe she was exaggerating…

  Zack was going to think she was totally psychotic. For some reason she didn’t have time to analyze, she didn’t want that to happen.

  “I’m going home now,” she said firmly.

  “Are you left-handed?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re going to have a hard time getting the splinter out of your right. Come on. It won’t take two minutes, and I promise to be gentle.”

  He smiled, although she wasn’t convinced of his sincerity. Inside he was probably laughing hysterically at her irrational fear of splinters.

  “No, I’m leaving.”

  She looked around for her purse with the all-essential car keys, but he scooped it up before she could make a move.

  “Let’s get it over with, Megan. You know it has to come out.”

  “I’ll just let it dissolve where it is.”

  “There’s a plan if you’re into gangrene.”

  Now who was exaggerating? “Give me my purse. Please.”

  “Nope. Get inside, or I’ll carry you.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  She took in his frame, six-two to her five-four, all of it steely hard except maybe his earlobes and the more vulnerable parts somewhat lower that she tried hard not to imagine.

  With a sudden flash of insight, she realized why Zack made her uncomfortable. She never felt in control when he was around. Even Ed, who dwarfed her, never intimidated her in the least, but Bailey was too much his own person.

  Well, this was one battle of wills she would win. She snatched at her purse—and came up empty-handed.

  “Hey, this isn’t funny.”

  “Granted.” He slipped her purse strap over his shoulder.