The DIY Groom (Wrong Way Weddings Book 2) Read online

  The DIY Groom

  Lori Wilde &

  Pam Andrews Hanson

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Excerpt: The Stand-In Groom

  About the Authors

  Also by Lori Wilde & Pam Andrews Hanson

  1

  The young woman in the pink smock dusted Zack’s face with a powder puff, oblivious to the low growl rumbling in his throat. How in Hades had he let himself get roped into this dog and pony show?

  Zack ground his teeth. His brother was going to pay. Cole was the one who’d agreed to be a guest on the local cable program.

  It was supposed to be good free publicity for their construction business, but Cole had ducked out of it. He was in Wyandotte that day preparing a bid on some school renovations. The financial end of the business was his twin’s responsibility, but Zack would rather shovel dirt all day than do this goofy TV segment.

  Megan Danbury, the host of Do It Herself, appeared at his side and waved a sheaf of papers in front of him. She was a polished TV type, definitely a photogenic performer with long ash-blond hair and intense blue eyes. A tiny scar above one eyebrow was her only imperfection.

  He really liked that scar. It gave her an edginess that kept her from being generic.

  “Mr. Bailey, we have to talk about the script.”

  “What script?” He stood and ripped off the lavender sheet that the makeup woman had fastened around his neck. Lavender with dainty pink flowers.

  “I know my show looks spontaneous, but every segment is meticulously planned. You won’t have to memorize the exact words, but…”

  “Stop right there.” He held up a palm. “All I agreed to do was refinish an old kitchen cupboard.”

  “I have all the steps worked out,” Megan went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “If you’ll just scan this—”

  “What do you mean, ‘all the steps worked out’? What steps?”

  “I’ve assembled all the materials you’ll need and planned the procedures.”

  “If you’ve got everything taken care of, why do you need me?” Hope took hold of him.

  Maybe she’d tell him to get lost. His life was already in shambles without making an idiot of himself on television.

  Bailey Construction could always use a publicity boost, and his grandfather was holding Zack’s shares in Bailey Baby Products over his head to pressure him into getting married. Zack wanted nothing to do with his grandfather’s company, but keeping the shares in the family meant his CEO mom would keep her job.

  “It’s good programming to have guests,” she said.

  Zack wasn’t buying it. He raised one eyebrow, a little trick he could do but his fraternal twin couldn’t. He could also wriggle his eyes for what it was worth.

  “Actually, it was my producer’s idea,” Megan admitted.

  “Oh, yeah, Ed Garrison is your brother-in-law, right? Ed sent some business our way last year.” Which was why Zack felt obligated to be there, as powdery as a sugar doughnut and feeling awkwardly out of place.

  “We’re on a tight schedule here,” she muttered, guiding him toward the main set. “Normally we tape live before a studio audience and the edited show airs the next day, but the set was being remodeled earlier this week, and we’re behind schedule.”

  “You’re gorgeous.” He said it matter-of-factly so she wouldn’t misinterpret. “You don’t need me.”

  “My show is geared to women, and our focus group thinks the audience will respond more favorable to a male expert.”

  “You should fire the focus group.” He raked his gaze over her. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. Women are just as good at construction as men.”

  “But you’re an expert,” she insisted.

  “If I’m the expert, why do I need a script?”

  “Please, don’t be difficult.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “Are you always such a pill, or is this something special just for me?” She held out the script again. “Read it.”

  He hesitated.

  She offered a hopeful smile. “Please.”

  “All right, I’ll take a look at it.”

  “Let’s go over it together.”

  “Ms. Danbury, I can read.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. I get a little hyper before a show. On-air, be sure to call me Megan and not Ms. Danbury. We aim for an informal atmosphere around here. If you have any questions…”

  “I’ll raise my hand.”

  She was wearing jeans—designer jeans too nice to mess up doing a refinishing job—and a pale-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She’d left enough buttons open to give just a hint of cleavage.

  He skimmed a few pages and swore softly to himself. Her team must have done their research on an amateur website. If he followed these cumbersome directions, he really would look inept.

  The studio was a barnlike room with lights and cables everywhere. The small studio audience clustered together on metal folding chairs. For no logical reason, his palms were sweating, and his stomach felt funny.

  True, he’d been dreading his TV debut, but he hadn’t expected pregame jitters.

  He couldn’t bolt now without looking ridiculous. He dug his nails into his palms and tensed every muscle in his body, then forced himself to relax. He wasn’t going to be stripped naked and tortured with hot pokers. He could walk a steel beam ten stories up, so he certainly could bluff his way through this, even if he couldn’t remember a single word from her script.

  Ed scurried around waving a tablet computer. He gave Zack a pat on the shoulder and a jumble of instructions that boiled down to: pay attention and take your cues from me.

  The cupboard Zack was supposed to transform was a shabby section ripped from the wall of a kitchen that was being remodeled on the show. It was in sorry shape, and most builders would scrap it. He had a few questions but didn’t get a chance to ask them.

  Ed hustled him behind a chalk line to keep him out of camera range until his time came. “Make your entrance when Megan says, ‘Let’s welcome our guest to Do It Herself.’ In TV, timing is everything. Move briskly. Smile like you’re glad to be here.”

  That hit close to home. The last time he’d been this reluctant to do a job was when he’d flushed a skunk from underneath an old pier-and-beam house that he and Cole were renovating.

  Ed told a few G-rated jokes to warm up the guests, who were already squirming on the metal seats, then he had them practice applauding. Lukewarm didn’t cut it with this producer. He kept at them until their response was over-the-top fever-pitched.

  With perfect timing, Megan strolled onto the set at the apex of the applause.

  She was smooth. He had to give her that. Her smile came across as genuine, and she managed to sound enthusiastic without phony perkiness.

  Zack resented Ed’s nudge in the small of his back, then realized Megan was waiting for him.

  “Our guest is a little shy. Let’s give him a big welcoming hand,” she said.

  He walked into the glare of the lights, conscious of the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. Already perspiration stuck his blue plaid flannel shirt to his back.

  He couldn’t remember a word of the script, and his mouth was so dry his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. What in blazes was wrong with him? He hadn’t felt thi s whipped when the flu knocked him off his feet for a week last winter.

  “Tell us, Zack, what’s the first thing you’d do?” She cocked her head and folded her arms.

  “Haul this to the dump.” He hadn’t intended to be so blunt, but the rickety old cupboard was no antique.

  “That’s not what we’re about, Zack.” She laughed, but the humor did not reach her eyes. “Our viewers enjoy turning castoffs into treasures. Now if you’ll show us how to strip off this unsightly green paint…”

  She poured paint stripper from the can into a metal mixing bowl and extended it to him, apparently expecting him to take it.

  “There’s a lot to do before we begin stripping, Megan,” he said, grateful that his well-stocked toolbox was on the floor beside the cupboard. “First we take off the doors and remove the hardware.”

  “I’m sure that isn’t necessary, Zack.” Obviously, that step wasn’t in the script.

  Audience members tittered as if mistaking their dislike of each other as banter. Or maybe they were laughing at her tone of voice. She was definitely displeased.

  Okay, okay. Think. What was in that script?

  He was supposed to smear on some stripper so it would cut through the paint during the commercial break, but the stuff wouldn’t work that fast.

  He flipped open his toolbox and took out a battery-powered screwdriver to remove the screws holding on the hinges.

  “I’ll have one of these doors off in a minute. You can get a table ready for stripping, Megan.” He got into the swing of it. Giving her orders helped. “If you do this at home, folks, always remove the metal hardware before using any kind of paint remover. And remember, wear rubber gloves. You’re dealing with chemicals.”

  Zack resisted an impulse to glance up. He didn’t need to look at the beautiful blonde to know she was seething with disapproval. She didn’t like last-minute script changes, but she was pretending to go along, hovering beside him with the bowl of stripper.

  “We’ll be right back to show you the easy way to remove old paint,” she said in her professionally chipper voice.

  Ed announced that they were off.

  “You’re ruining my show.” She snorted, apparently forgetting about the audience on the edge of their chairs.

  Hoping for a brawl, he wondered.

  She sank her hands on her hips. “I gave you a script.”

  “You invited an expert to show you how to do the job right.”

  “So you know more than the people who write DIY books?”

  “Assuming I’d do a stupid project like this—and I wouldn’t—my time is money. It takes less time to do a job right.”

  Ed hustled a couple of guys to set up a folding table and cover it with newspaper and a sheet of plastic. Megan whispered to the producer, but she didn’t seem to get the answer she wanted. She scowled and pursed her lips and shook her head.

  Zack wanted to walk away, but when the program credits rolled, their company name would be listed. He had to get through the rest of the show. He put a cupboard door on the table and steeled himself for round two.

  When they were on camera again, she was still holding the bowl of stripper as though she’d forgotten she had it. He did give her acting credit for turning on the charm. She gave him a two-hundred-watt smile and launched into the next segment of the program.

  “Do this in a well-ventilated place,” she said.

  Zack stood over the battered old door on the table. “Outside is even better,” he added.

  Megan extended the bowl full of stripper to Zack. “You’ll need an inexpensive paintbrush and a—”

  A big shaggy dog bound from backstage, streaking straight toward them, leash flying behind him, wanting to play. A harried-looking attendant chased after the creature. “Prince, here, boy! Come here.”

  But Prince was out of control; he leaped on Megan, sending her and the bowl flying.

  Megan shrieked.

  The trainer scolded and lunged for the dog’s leash,

  Zack took a direct hit from the bowl full of stripper, the thick chemicals splashing across the front of his shirt. Instantly, he reacted, ripping off all his buttons in his haste to shed the shirt before the solution soaked through to his skin.

  “Oh, oh, my!” Megan exclaimed.

  His eyes met hers. “Are you okay?”

  She raised a palm to her mouth. “I’m okay, but you…”

  “Guess I’ll need more stripper,” he said mildly, feeling more in control now. He was so much better at pivoting in real life than in front of a camera. But he was sure of one thing—this was his first, last, and only appearance as a guest expert.

  “Of course, there’s no reason to waste all this.” Bare-chested, he picked up the ruined shirt and used it to rub the chemical directly onto the cupboard door.

  “Um…um…” Megan stuttered.

  The audience laughed louder than before. The trainer led the dog away.

  Megan rallied and launched into mostly accurate directions on removing paint, and Zack stood naked to the waist pretending he cared a rat’s rear end about stripping cheap wood pitted and scarred by heavy usage.

  The lights were hot; his chest itched, and he wanted out. Thank heavens the stripper hadn’t gotten on her. He didn’t think he could have handled seeing Megan without her shirt on.

  “Don’t you think so, Zack?”

  “What?” He’d missed most of her lecture, probably straight from the script.

  “There’s no reason a woman can’t renovate her home all on her own,” she repeated.

  “No reason at all, Megan. Just hire someone for the tricky stuff and go to it.”

  “Tricky stuff?”

  “Working with stripper around dogs.”

  The audience roared.

  Megan’s cheeks flamed red. “Our guest has been Zack Bailey of Bailey Construction. Thank you for being with us today. We’ll be right back with hints on staining stripped wood.”

  Thank God, his part was over.

  Zack bolted, grabbing his toolbox and leaving the TV studio, indifferent to the cool spring rain pelting his bare shoulders. He never again wanted any part of a fiasco like that. At least none of his friends watched the home handicraft show.

  Left alone in the little closet she liked to call her dressing room, Megan didn’t know whether to cry, scream, or leave town. The show had been a disaster. She was humiliated. The station owner would give her spot to Pets on Parade, and she’d never work in TV again.

  It was all Ed’s fault. Guest expert? Why not hire a clown with a pony act instead? She was ruined, her hope of someday taking her show to a streaming service in shambles.

  She loathed Zack Bailey. If he’d intentionally set out to spoil her show, he couldn’t have done it more effectively. Maybe he was a ringer working for Pets on Parade.

  It was bad enough that he got cold feet and had to be pushed onto the set. Then he refused to start the stripping process without taking the cupboard apart. Most of her viewers weren’t going to run out and buy an electric screwdriver just to remove hardware that could be covered with masking tape.

  She shuddered when she replayed his big scene in her mind—ripping off his shirt and revealing that brawny bare chest. He’d popped off the buttons, then made a joke of the whole segment by using the shirt to spread the paint remover.

  For the first time since Broadcasting 101 in college, she’d lost it in front of the camera. How could she remember her script when she had to stand there looking at sexy dark nipples and silky chest hair on the most amazing masculine torso she’d ever seen?

  She’d gone to half a dozen salvage yards to find an old cupboard with character, and he’d belittled her treasure and her plans to restore it. Where did Ed get him? She could drag someone off the street at random and have a more satisfactory guest expert.

  All she could do now was go home and wait for the phone call. Her show would be moved to the six a.m. slot, if it wasn’t canceled outright. With eight months to go on her contract, she might even have to be the next stooge on the Bulgarian chef’s show.

  She’d had such high hopes. There was a real need to teach women ways to make their surroundings more functional and beautiful without great cost—or reliance on men. Her mother had made a wonderful home for her two daughters after Megan’s father deserted the family when she was seven and Georgia was nine. Mom eventually married a kind, good man, but before she did, she worked full-time and turned their small, aging house into a place that radiated love and good taste.

  Until she learned the worst about her show’s future, all Megan wanted to do was sneak home and forget her woes with a good book.

  Her sister swore by a good cry followed by chocolate-marshmallow cookies, but Megan turned to a happily-ever-after fantasy every time. She was nearly twenty-nine, and she couldn’t afford the luxury of gaining even half a pound. Not in a business where looking your best was essential.

  “Megan.” Her dressing room door flew open, and Ed barged in, his handsome but jowly face flushed bright pink.

  “You could knock.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been going crazy. The phones are ringing off the hook, and we’re trending on Twitter.”

  “That bad?”

  “Bad? Are you kidding? Mr. G. himself had me on the line sixty seconds after the wrap.”

  “Mr. Gunderdorf?” Now she did feel sick.

  The owner was an old-money big shot, but he pretty much had a hands-off policy at the station, one of his many investments. If the television profits were enough to buy him a couple of pricey antique cars for his collection every year, he didn’t trouble himself with program content. If he made a personal call to pull the plug, her career was toast.

  “He caught your show today.”

  “I assumed.”

  “He said it was more entertaining than he dreamed possible on our humble little endeavor.”