Meggy removed the lid from a pot and said, “Umm, gravy. Pete, would you mind standing here while Sunny stirs this?”
Not any more than he minded everything else.
“Sunny, taste the gravy, reach for the salt and shake a little into the pot.”
For a woman who liked cooking for her dates, Pete thought Sunny seemed rather ill at ease following Meggy’s orders. Of course, a person was probably awkward doing commonplace things in front of cameras.
“Good,” Meggy said. “Now, remove whatever’s in the oven.”
Pete edged Sunny aside and said, “Let me.” He looked around for an oven mitt or pot holders, but didn’t see any. “Where are your pot holders?”
She looked at him blankly. “Pot holders?”
This TV thing must really be hard on her. “Or an oven mitt?” he suggested.
Sunny felt heat crawl up her neck. She didn’t know what he was talking about, but she knew she ought to.
“That’s okay,” he said, smiling as he reached behind her. “I’ll use this.” He grabbed a towel off
the counter and used it to protect his hands as he lifted the hot pan from the oven.
Ah, that’s what he meant. He must think she was a real idiot. A person who supposedly “loved to cook” ought to have a working knowledge of basic kitchen equipment.
How was she going to get through this charade? She still felt unsettled at the way she’d greeted Pete, kissing him as if he’d just come home from a war. Though she’d offered the kiss for the folks in TV land, she’d felt its impact down to her toes. And Pete? He’d reacted as if it
were
his homecoming.
“Did you get the shot of Pete taking the pan out of the oven, Brad?” Meggy asked.
“Got it. You’re gonna love the shot of his backside.”
This guy’s survival instincts were pretty weak. From the set of Pete’s jaw, Sunny would say Brad was asking for trouble.
“We’re almost through,” Meggy said grimly, apparently fed up with the guy herself. “Let’s get a shot of you two at the table, toasting each other.”
Toasting she knew how to do, and Sunny breathed easier. From the refrigerator she pulled out a bottle of sparkling cider and handed it to Pete. “Will you do the honors?”
The label seemed to surprise him. She wouldn’t argue about it and he didn’t have to drink it, but that’s all she kept in the house. “Nonalcoholic,” she said with no apology.
“Good,” he said, going to work unwrapping the seal.
That was different. Her ex always ridiculed her beverage preference.
Muscles rippled in Pete’s arm as he opened the bottle, and the fabric of his blue denim shirt strained across his broad, muscular back. This was a guy who worked out.
There was a tiny scar intersecting his left eyebrow that she hadn’t noticed before, and faint scars near his ear and under his chin. Strangely, the imperfections made her more comfortable.
“Do you want to get the glasses?” he asked.
“What? Oh, sure.” Sunny retrieved them from the table, wondering why he hadn’t taken the bottle there. Maybe he wanted more time away from Brad and his camera. That she understood.
He took one goblet and filled it. “I thought we could use a minute without an audience,” he said, confirming her suspicion. “Your dinner looks great.”
“I just hope it’s half as good as your mother’s,” she said, knowing it wouldn’t be if she’d cooked it.
“I expect it’s even better.”
He smiled again, and Sunny’s heart seemed to contract. The shine in those blue eyes made her wonder if all handsome charmers had to be bad.
They carried their glasses to the dining area, and Meggy asked, “Sunny, do you want to keep the apron on?”
Oops. She’d forgotten the thing, maybe subconsciously, for as much as she had resisted wearing the apron, she now dreaded taking it off. She knew she had a good figure, but she took pride in the condition of her body, its strength and health, not
its shape, and she never purposely called attention to herself. However, she’d better follow orders unless she wanted to hear about it from Mouse.
Untying the apron was a bit tedious because somehow she’d knotted the strings. Getting the apron over her head without messing up her big hair was slow-going, too. Finally she tossed the apron aside and sneaked a glance at Pete to see if Mouse’s brother was right about the tight white top.
He was. Appreciation registered in Pete’s eyes.
“N-i-c-e sweater!” Brad said with a low whistle.
Pete’s head whipped around, and he took a threatening step toward the man, but Meggy said, “Brad, for the last time, if you want to work for
Dream Date
again, keep quiet.”
“You’re the boss,” he said irreverently. “What do you want to do about the glare from the window by the table?”
“Should I pull the shade?” Sunny asked.
“No. It’ll make a tighter shot if you sit beside, instead of across from Pete.” Meggy maneuvered them into position, changing the place settings as she talked.
“Sunny, hold your goblet in your right hand, rest your elbow on the table and lean toward Pete. Pete, hold—”
“I got it, Meggy,” he interrupted.
“It’ll be over soon,” Sunny whispered.
His rueful smile was endearing. “Sorry about the attitude.”
“Don’t worry about it. I understand.”
“We’re rolling,” Meggy said. “Touch glasses, take a sip, do what comes naturally.”
Pete touched the rim of his goblet to Sunny’s and whispered, “Punching Brad’s face in comes naturally.”
“Let me be the one to do it,” she whispered back.
He grinned and toasted her again.
Her heart did its strange flip-flop just like before.
“Did I see antipasto on the table, Sunny?” Meggy asked.
“Yes. Shall we eat some?”
“You might feed each other a bite or two.”
“I don’t usually finger feed on a first date,” she said, a nervous giggle escaping. Mortified, she covered her mouth, struggling for control.
Pete looked longingly at the door. What if he balked here and now? As long as she’d endured the torture of the TV taping, she’d like to see this through.
Sobering, she said, “You go first. I like those big black olives. Do you want to pop one of them into my mouth?”
He followed her directions to the letter, popping the olive into her mouth with all the aplomb of a guy feeding a heartworm pill to his dog.
“C’mon, Pete,” Meggy complained, “you can do better than that. You’re on a date. Make it look sensual.”
Pete raised an irritated brow. “What do you think?” he murmured. “Should we try it her way?”
“I like black olives so much, I can probably make it ‘look sensual.”’
“Okay, one sensual olive coming your way,” he warned, leaning toward her, teasing her mouth with the olive, outlining her upper lip and tracing the
lower lip back and forth before slipping it between her teeth. She bit down slowly, covering his fingers with her lips. Slowly he dragged his fingers away. She had no idea that such a simple thing could be so erotic.
“Whew,” he breathed softly, watching her lips as she slowly chewed. “I like the way you do that.”
“Really,” she murmured. “It didn’t look stupid?”
“Are you kidding?” His eyes glowed with approval.
The approval caught her by surprise. It felt warm, wonderful and better than she could have believed.
It would have to be better still without an audience. She whispered, “Don’t you think we’ve been cooperative long enough?”
Nodding, he stood and said, “You’re through here, aren’t you, Meggy?”
Something unspoken passed between the two. Sunny didn’t understand it, but Meggy quickly agreed and managed to get the crew out within minutes. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. It was just good to have their audience gone.
Standing next to Pete in the doorway, seeing them off, Sunny felt awkward, almost shy. It was ridiculous, feeling this nervous about being alone with a guy. She was twenty-eight, not sixteen, and it sure didn’t matter if he invited her to the prom.
Pete closed the door and gave her one of those lopsided smiles. “Coach, you were awesome. Poised. Cute. A dream date, for sure.”
It was a line. It had to be, but she didn’t feel nervous anymore. “You were pretty great your-self,”
she said, wanting to return the good feeling. “An old pro, in fact.”
“That’s me, all right. An old pro. I can’t wait to see myself on TV.”
The sarcasm surprised her. She must have shown it.
He added, “Well, it’s not like I’m the most photogenic guy in town. I always look awkward in home movies.”
Awkward
was not a word she would have used to describe Pete Maguire, not in a million years. “You’ve got to be joking. You couldn’t look bad if you tried.”
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Well, you couldn’t,” she insisted.
As quickly as a cloud steals the sun, Pete’s blue eyes dulled. The sadness, the loss in those eyes took her breath away. What was wrong? Was it something she said?
Pete felt like a fool. It wasn’t the first time he’d forgotten the new cheekbones, Roman nose and classic chin. When he looked in a mirror these days, it wasn’t him. Sometimes he felt like an alien the way people treated The Face as if it were real. The few times he tried to explain, he got pity or skepticism. Even worse was the advice he should be grateful.
Why didn’t people understand he wasn’t somebody brand-new just because he looked it? Whoever said what counted was the person inside had never had reconstructive facial surgery. People wouldn’t let you be the person inside. They reacted to what they saw. Or thought they saw.
It was better to live like a hermit, hang out at the beach by himself and get through the days, one at a time, until he got comfortable with all the changes. If he ever did.
He should never have let Meggy talk him into this date.
Determined to escape, but not wanting to hurt Sunny’s feelings—she was too nice a person for that—he said, “Now that the cameras are gone, I should probably head out, too.”
“Head out?” she echoed, her pretty brown eyes perplexed. “You want to leave now? Was it something I said?”
“No!” He didn’t want her to think that. “It’s just… I think I should go. I’m not very good company.”
She shrugged. “You’re a lot better than Brad.”
He liked her quick comeback even if she wasn’t letting him bow out gracefully. “I may be better than Brad, but believe me, you can do better than me—a whole lot better.”
“The audience didn’t seem to think so. What am I supposed to do with all this food?” she asked, her hands on her hips, her stance defiant, as if she were arguing with a ref who’d just called a foul on a good blocked shot. “We’ve got pot roast, Pete, and mashed potatoes with gravy, corn on the cob and the cheesecake. In fact, everything but your mom and her backyard.”
“What would you say if I told you I don’t eat red meat, I hate cheesecake, my mom never cooks and she has no backyard.”
Surprise flared in those butternut eyes, but she
quipped, “What would you say if I told you I didn’t cook a speck of this food and, in fact, can’t even boil water?”
He felt the smile break across his face.
“You think that’s funny? We’ll see who’s laughing if you don’t eat this food. My girls will track you down and use that ugly tie you wore on
Dream Date
to hang you by your neck.”
Maybe he ought to try the pot roast. If Sunny served it, he might even like cheesecake.
Chapter Three
“W
ho’d you say cooked the pot roast?” Pete said, sopping gravy with the last of his mashed potatoes.
“Leteisha’s mother.”
“Lucky Leteisha. Was your mom a good cook?”
“A wonderful woman named Cook did our cooking.”
“Hmm. A guy named McDonald did most of ours. I learned to love peanut butter. Now it’s a vice.”
She laughed and silently thanked Pete for not pursuing her family background.
“So, do you want to invite the team over for cheesecake?” he said, leaning back in his chair, dangling his goblet in one hand.
“You aren’t trying to slip out on me again, are you?”
He grinned. “No, I just thought the girls had
worked pretty hard on this meal and deserved a treat.”
“It’s more than that. Confess. You want someone to eat your piece of cheesecake.”
He worked that crooked smile and nodded. “Guilty,” he said, not looking it, not for a minute, not with those teasing eyes.
“We’d better not have the girls over. Mouse would have a fit if she knew I’d changed out of that top.”
“That was a great top.” The appreciative gleam in his eye made her as self-conscious as she’d been in the sweater.
“I thought I ought to work on that gravy stain right away. The sweater belonged to her.”
“Very considerate.”
He wouldn’t think so if he knew she’d spilled the gravy on purpose. She felt bad about it, but she’d buy Mouse a dozen sweaters if need be. She’d just had to get out of that thing.
“The way your girls brought this whole thing off, it’s no wonder they won the regional. You must be some coach, Sunny Keegan.”
The words might be pure shmooze, the stock and trade of handsome men, but she didn’t mind, not this once. “The girls deserve all the credit,” she said, trying not to enjoy his praise too much.
“I can’t believe the trouble they went to, getting you on
Dream Date
and all.”
“They were dead serious about getting me a date.”
“They thought they had to fix
you
up?” His astonishment was real and very flattering.
It gave her the courage to tell him what he’d probably find out anyhow. He deserved the truth, and she’d rather it came from her. “I hadn’t had a date since they’d known me.”
His eyes widened in surprise.
She looked away, not wanting to see the inevitable pity her explanation would generate. “Last June I was supposed to be married. Hours before the wedding, I discovered my fiancé with one of my bridesmaids and realized…well, you know.”
She risked a glance. It wasn’t pity on his face, but anger. That was okay.
“I didn’t handle it very well. I knew I couldn’t marry him, but I was pretty confused. Maybe it was cowardly, but I just took off and left the explanations to him.”