"He was very doofy-looking."

"Yes. And you're not." Another giggle bubbled up and she coughed to cover it. "Except for right now, of course. Right now you're extremely doofy-looking."

"I'm delighted you think so. Personally, I don't find this all that amusing."

"Then you must have had your sense of humor surgically removed, because this is funny." Reaching out, she flicked a peel from his shoulder. "Trust me on this."

"You realize the timing of that request is not the best."

Unable to stop herself, she allowed her palm to drift over his wet shoulder and settle on his chest. His muscles jumped and his heart thudded against her fingertips. "I'm truly sorry, Chris. Forgive me?"

Chris looked down at her hand resting over his heart and sighed. The woman was an environmental hazard. He wanted to suggest that she consider looking for a nudist for her next boyfriend, since she was such hell on clothes. But since he wanted to fill the boyfriend shoes himself, he kept his mouth shut, not a difficult thing to do as the damn potato starch was starting to tighten his skin.

He should have been furious. Or at the very least angry. Or annoyed.

But when he looked into those big brown eyes, brimming with remorse, a dozen feelings swarmed through him, and not one of them resembled anger.

Desire? Yes. Anger? Not even close.

In fact, he actually found this episode pretty amusing. Of course, he wasn't about to tell her that.

Arranging his stiff face into a stern expression, he said, "I suppose I can forgive you, provided you promise never to do such a thing again."

"You mean the flick-the-switch-before-the-repairs-are-done maneuver?"

"Precisely."

"I promise. I've learned my lesson. Yes, sirree. No more flicking for me. Ever."

He nodded slowly, considering her vow. "All right. But I insist we seal your promise with a kiss."

Mischief danced in her eyes. "Oh, my. I haven't kissed a Mr. Potato Head since I was five. As I recall, he was rather stiff-lipped and his nose poked me in the eye."

"Serves you right." Leaning forward, he touched his mouth to hers and his heart zinged into overdrive.

This is what he'd wanted to do from the moment he'd walked into her kitchen. Touch her. Taste her. Feel her.

The damn woman hadn't left his thoughts the entire time he'd been out of town. In fact, she was the reason he'd been able to come home early. He couldn't sleep for thinking about her. Her smile, her laugh, her kissable lips. So instead of restlessly tossing and turning in an empty bed, he'd worked every night until two or three in the morning, cutting an entire day off his trip.

Never had three days seemed like such an eternity. But now he had her in his arms again. And he certainly wasn't going to allow a few potato peels to come between them.

Crushing her to him, he deepened their kiss.

By damn, he wasn't going to allow anything to come between them.

Chapter 8

By Friday evening, Melanie had everything in perspective. Sort of.

So she had a date. And he was picking her up in five minutes. So what. Big deal. They'd have dinner, share a few laughs, end of story. One date, that was it. Nothing serious. Besides, he'd promised to be ugly. Totally gross were his exact words. Gross was good.

It didn't make any difference that he'd kissed her socks off last night in the Pampered Palate's kitchen. And who cared that he'd then helped her clean the potato mess off the floor and walls? What difference did it make that in spite of the disaster she'd caused, he'd proceeded to finish his repair job and unclog her garbage disposal?

So he was a nice guy. A nice, fun, smart, sexy, gorgeous guy whose kisses could melt brain cells into puddles and who had the patience of a saint. Whoopdee-doo. Lot of guys were just like that. Probably. Just because she didn't know any of them didn't mean they weren't out there. Somewhere.

After dressing in a pair of lightweight turquoise pants and a matching sleeveless cotton blouse, she slipped on her Keds and laughed aloud at herself for making such a big to-do over nothing. She'd just finished spritzing on her favorite cologne when the doorbell rang.

Perfectly calm, she walked down the stairs, giving herself a last-minute pep talk, like a coach encouraging his team before the big game.

"He's just a guy like any other guy. Probably leaves dirty socks, damp towels, and empty pizza boxes on the floor. His kitchen cabinets are no doubt full of sugar-frosted cereals and Spaghetti-O's. Undoubtedly mixes last week's Chinese takeout with scrambled eggs and calls it Egg-Foo Breakfast. So snap out of it, Melanie! This is just a date. He's just a man."

She pulled open the door and froze.

Just a man.

Good grief, and what a man.

She took one look at him and all her resolve trickled away like sand drifting through an hourglass.

He stood on her porch, a tall, dark, lethal hunk of manhood dressed in snug Levis faded in all the right places. A baby blue Polo shirt stretched across his chest, accentuating his shoulders and strong arms and bringing out the color of his eyes. A sprinkling of dark, intriguing chest hair peeped above the top button on his shirt. Wildly windblown ebony hair, a sexy half smile, and the subtle scent of his woodsy cologne completed the picture. The single long-stemmed red rose he held didn't hurt either.

What the heck had happened to ugly and totally gross?

Melanie gulped. She was a goner.

She would have said hello, invited him in, something, but it seemed she had suddenly forgotten how to swallow. And talk. Her hormones, however, were annoyingly vocal. Zippity doo dah, they sang, strutting their little hormone tushies.

He handed her the rose. "Hi."

She brought the bud to her nose and inhaled its sweet, heady fragrance. We love roses, her hormones said.

Okay. She'd say hi as soon as she remembered how to speak English. Resisting an urge to pound her chest with her fists à la Tarzan and shout, "Me woman, you man, let's mate," she managed to say, "Hi."

"You look great, Mel Gibson," he said in a soft, velvety voice that brought to mind long, slow, deep kisses.

She cleared her throat and somehow managed to smile at him. Good. That's good. A smile. Now talk. "Thanks. You look nice, too." Melanie almost groaned at herself. Nice? That was such an understatement, it fell into the realm of a blatant lie. "Thanks for the rose. They're my favorite."

"You're welcome." Reaching out, he tugged gently on one of her curls. "You ready to go?"

"Yup." Thank goodness she remembered how to speak. Now if she kept her eyes closed so she didn't see him, and stopped breathing so she couldn't smell him, she just might survive the evening.

He peeked around her into the foyer. "Where's Nana?"

Melanie smiled. "She and Bernie went to the latest James Bond flick. She said not to wait up and not to call the cops if she wasn't home until morning."

"Sounds like fun. I'm happy for them."

"Me, too." Remembering her manners, Melanie asked, "Do you want to come in? Have a drink before we go?"

He shook his head. "No thanks. We need to leave. It'll be dark soon."

"So?"

"So, I want to get where we're going before there's no light left. Let's go."

Melanie ran inside long enough to put her rose in water, then grabbed her purse and locked the door. She was halfway down the porch when she halted. "Where's your car?"

He grabbed her hand and tugged her along. "Home."

"Home?" Allowing him to lead her, they walked past her Dodge, which sat in the driveway. When she saw what was parked behind the Dodge, she halted.

She peered at the huge black and chrome machine and felt her stomach roll down to her feet. "Wha… what's that?"

"What does it look like?"

She stared, slack-jawed. Uh-oh. This smelled like big trouble. "It looks like a motorcycle."

"Not just a motorcycle," he said with a wide grin. "A Harley Davidson."

"This is yours?"

"Sure is. Had it ever since college." He slapped a shiny black helmet into her hands and swung one leg over the leather seat. "Let's go."

She gaped at him, then at the monstrous gleaming steel machine nestled between his long legs. Sweat popped out on her forehead.

"Go?" she asked in a weak voice.

"Yeah. Go. You know, the open road, the wind in your hair, the asphalt beneath your feet."

Melanie puckered her lips. It really irked her when someone tossed her own words back at her. And verbatim, no less. What did he have, a photographic memory?

She plastered a false smile on her face. "As appealing as that sounds, I, ah, I'm afraid I can't. Maybe some other time. Why don't we take the Dodge?" She handed him back the helmet. He leaned over and plopped it on her head.

"Better buckle that up." He chucked her under the chin and grinned. "It's the law."

Melanie stood rooted to the spot and watched with mounting trepidation as he released the kickstand and backed the motorcycle down to the street. He strapped on his helmet, then turned to where she still stood on the driveway.

"Hey, you're lookin' kinda green, Mel Gibson. What's up?"

With as much dignity as she could muster, Melanie walked over to him. So she'd lied. So what. Lying wasn't a crime. She stood next to the motorcycle. Holy smokes. He looked totally sexy sitting astride all that steel and chrome. She almost swallowed her tongue.

"I'm not green," she reported in her haughtiest, queen of England demeanor. "I simply don't want to ride on that… thing."