Building The Perfect Daddy. Brenda Harlen

Lauryn followed. If it had been up to her, she would have ignored the summons. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with some kid selling chocolate bars or magazine subscriptions, especially when she could afford neither. And why anyone would be going door-to-door on a Wednesday morning in this weather was beyond her comprehension, but since Kylie had already climbed up on the sofa in the living room and was pushing the curtains apart to see who was at the door, she could hardly pretend that no one was home.

      “There’s lotsa peoples outside,” Kylie told her.

      Lots of people?

      Lauryn knew she was frowning when she unlocked the door and pulled it open—a frown that deepened when she saw that her daughter hadn’t been exaggerating. In addition to the mouthwateringly handsome and impressively muscled man on her porch wearing a hard hat and a tool belt—Oh, please God, do not let this be some kind of stripper-gram, because I have no idea how I’d explain that to my daughter—there was a man on the lawn with what looked like a video camera propped on his shoulder, a trio of people standing a little farther away under an umbrella and a van and two pickup trucks parked on the road in front of the house.

      The hunk in the hard hat and the tool belt smiled, causing a fluttery sensation in her belly, along with a nagging suspicion that she’d seen him somewhere before.

      “Are you Lauryn Schulte?” he asked.

      “I am,” she confirmed, her tone giving no hint of the unexpected and unwelcome awareness she was feeling. “But unless you’re from the North Carolina State Lottery with one of those big checks for me, you can get yourself and your camera crew off my property.”

       Chapter Two

      The experiences gained from three years in front of the camera had taught Ryder Wallace to keep a smile on his face under almost any circumstances. Circumstances certainly more challenging than a frazzled mother with a baby on her hip and what looked like baby vomit on the shoulder of the pale yellow T-shirt she wore over faded denim jeans.

      Except that she then closed the door in his smiling face.

      And locked it.

      He actually heard the click of the dead bolt sliding into place.

      Not quite the reaction he’d anticipated.

      “Cut!”

      Owen Diercks jogged over to the rickety porch, where Ryder was still staring, slack jawed, at the closed door.

      “What in the hell just happened?” the director demanded.

      “I think we came at a bad time,” Ryder said.

      “I’m tired of standing around waiting for these women to primp for the camera,” Owen grumbled. “Whoever decided to surprise the contest winners obviously didn’t think that one through.”

      “I believe the surprise aspect was your idea,” Ryder said, although the home owner’s tone made him suspect that Lauryn Schulte’s reasons for closing the door on his face were about more than an unwillingness to face the cameras without her lipstick on.

      “Which is probably why no one ever listens to my ideas,” the director acknowledged as lightning flashed in the distance. He glanced at the sky, a worried look on his face, then at his watch. “I don’t particularly want to stand around in the rain for God only knows how long while our home owner does her hair and makeup.”

      “Do you want to wrap for today?” Ryder asked him.

      “No, I want to stay on schedule,” Owen grumbled as thunder rumbled and lightning flashed again. “But it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen today.”

      Ryder glanced back at Carl, who was using a garbage bag to keep his camera sheltered from the rain while he waited for further instructions.

      “Pack it up,” Owen called out to him.

      Carl nodded and immediately moved toward the van with his equipment. The assistant to the director and the AV tech followed the cameraman.

      “We need to get back on schedule,” Owen said. “Which means that someone needs to remind Mrs. Schulte of the terms and conditions she agreed to when she submitted her application.” He looked at Ryder. “Do you want me to do it?”

      “I will,” he offered. Because as great as Owen was in handling the numerous and various aspects of his job, he also had a tendency to piss people off. And after only a brief interaction with Lauryn Schulte, Ryder got the impression that she was already pissed off.

      Owen nodded. “I expect to be back here first thing Monday morning with everyone ready to go.”

      “They will be,” Ryder promised, with more conviction than he felt.

      As the director made his way down the driveway to his own vehicle, Ryder considered his options. For him, walking away wasn’t one of them.

      He was accustomed to home owners opening their doors wide and inviting him and his Ryder to the Rescue crew to come inside—not just happy but grateful to see him. Because it was his job to fix other contractors’ mistakes, to finish the projects that do-it-yourselfers gave up on doing. In sum, he gave people what they wanted and they were appreciative of his time and efforts. They hugged him and sent him thank-you cards. They were never dismissive or disinterested.

      Clearly Lauryn Schulte didn’t understand what was at stake here, so he knocked on her door again.

      There was no response.

      He knew she was home, and she knew that he knew she was home, and thinking about that began to piss him off.

      He knocked once more, and once more she ignored him.

      But the little girl pushed back the curtains at the front window and waved to him. Something about her looked vaguely familiar—or maybe she just looked like most little girls of a similar age, even if he didn’t know what that age might be.

      He lifted a hand and waved back.

      She smiled and twin dimples creased her cheeks. She really was a cute kid. Through the glass, he heard her mother say something. Though he couldn’t decipher the actual words, the message was clear enough when the child gave one last wave before the curtains fell back into place over the window.

      He sat on the porch, mostly sheltered from the rain pounding down around him by the overhang, and waited.

      As he did, he made a quick visual scan of the surrounding area. It was a decent neighborhood, showing some signs of age. Most of the houses were simple designs—primarily bungalows and two stories, between thirty and forty years old—but well kept, the lawns tidy, flower beds tended. There were no flowers in Mrs. Schulte’s garden, only a few scraggly bushes and a plastic bucket and shovel likely intended for digging in beach sand rather than potting soil.

      He heard a click behind him—the dead bolt releasing—then the sound of the door opening.

      “Why are you sitting on my porch in the rain?” Lauryn asked wearily.

      He stood up and turned. Though her sweetly curved mouth was unsmiling and her soft gray-green eyes were filled with suspicion, neither detracted from her beauty. But he’d known a lot of beautiful women, and he wasn’t going to be distracted from his task by an unexpected tug of attraction.

      “Because you didn’t invite me to come inside,” he responded.

      “And I’m not going to,” she said firmly.

      “Let’s start at the top again,” he suggested, with a hopeful smile. “My name is Ryder Wallace—I’m the host of WNCC’s home improvement show Ryder to the Rescue.”

      She was unimpressed. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

      “I’m here to discuss the details of the work you want done, and it would be really great