Read Online A Steal of a Deal by Ginny Aiken - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ginny Aiken
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table.
Phew! I’m as bloated as the next blimp. And happy to report that, not many minutes later, they stand, wave goodbye, and trot away. I relax.
But not for long. You know what’s coming, don’t you?
Not ten minutes later, the sound that fills me with the weirdest awareness I’ve ever known reaches my ears.
“There you all are!” Mr. Magnificent says.
I spin in my chair. “YOU!”
He smiles.
So does Miss Mona.
Aunt Weeby cheers.
There! That’s the stinky-fish scheming I’ve been sniffing all along. You knew the Daunting Duo weren’t about to take a vacation from their Cupid efforts, didn’t you? My frustration with the meddlesome seniors steams to a head and then pops.
“How ’bout that vacation I’m supposed to be taking, Miss Mona?”
500
Max winks. “Yes, it’s me. And this”—he waves—“is your vacation.”
Fight it, Andie, fight it! I don’t want to melt at that grin. I face Miss Mona. “Why? Why would you do this to me?”
Canary feathers float from hers and Aunt Weeby’s mouths as they swap yet more looks. “Why not?” she chortles.
Yup. You know it. I’ve been had. A dull drumbeat starts up in my head—Max’s presence does that to me. And the super-awareness thing too. It’s a gift.
I grit my teeth. “Are you trying to tell me,” I ask my boss, “that he’s here to help the Musgroves?”
“I plan to pitch in with whatever’s going on.” Max pulls out the chair right across from mine. Rats! How’m I gonna avoid the blue, blue of those eyes now? “Who’re the Mus-groves?”
See what I mean? Rats! All of ’em. Lovable, yes, but rats, nonetheless. Well, the seniors among us are lovable. Dunno about the male.
Yet , whispers a mischievous imp in the cobwebs of my subconscious.
No! No way. There are not gonna be any “yets” around here. I can’t deal with relationships—I’m a total zero at the boy-girl romance thing. And with a gorgeous guy like Max? Hah!
“Well?” That very same gorgeous Max guy asks. “Who are the Musgroves?”
I blink. “Ah . . . um . . .” Get a grip, woman! “The missionaries we came to help.”
Under his dove-gray polo shirt, Max rolls his shoulders and flexes his biceps—very nice ones they are, too. “I can tote and fetch with the best of ’em. Just tell me what I need to do.”
What’s a girl to do? Even when I travel halfway around the world to help defenseless orphans and, to tell the truth, put some distance between me and Mr. Magnificent himself, I wind up with the man glued to my side. I hope he’s better at toting and fetching, as he calls it, than he is at rocks.
I sigh. You know exactly how much trouble I’m in here, don’t you? I don’t get it—still. Why did nutty Miss Mona, in the worst moment of her nuttiness, ever get the random idea that the S.T.U.D. needed on-screen “chemistry”? She’s known me since forever. Doesn’t she—and Aunt Weeby too— remember how lousy I’ve been at “chemistry” for them to betray me and pull out all the matchmaking stops?
A great-looking guy + Andie Adams = disaster.
At the very least, bad idea.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s their worst idea ever. I mean, until the dark day when Miss Mona suffered that particular brain burp, her flaky brand of wisdom had only led her to hire women. The Shop-Til-U-Drop Shopping Channel was the by-women, for-women, all-women network. And it worked. The channel was wildly successful. It made sense for her to hire me and for me to work for her.
You follow? Good.
So, if that’s the case, then why, oh why, when she wanted on-screen “chemistry,” did she go hire a man who could give a doofus a run for his money? And why, oh why did she then stick me with the gorgeous creature? Me! The relationship phobe. The dating dud. The chicken-hearted romance flop.
Just as I think this, my conscience, hitched at the hip to heaven as it is, puts in an appearance. It does that a lot.
Okay. So Max isn’t a doofus. And he has made
Phew! I’m as bloated as the next blimp. And happy to report that, not many minutes later, they stand, wave goodbye, and trot away. I relax.
But not for long. You know what’s coming, don’t you?
Not ten minutes later, the sound that fills me with the weirdest awareness I’ve ever known reaches my ears.
“There you all are!” Mr. Magnificent says.
I spin in my chair. “YOU!”
He smiles.
So does Miss Mona.
Aunt Weeby cheers.
There! That’s the stinky-fish scheming I’ve been sniffing all along. You knew the Daunting Duo weren’t about to take a vacation from their Cupid efforts, didn’t you? My frustration with the meddlesome seniors steams to a head and then pops.
“How ’bout that vacation I’m supposed to be taking, Miss Mona?”
500
Max winks. “Yes, it’s me. And this”—he waves—“is your vacation.”
Fight it, Andie, fight it! I don’t want to melt at that grin. I face Miss Mona. “Why? Why would you do this to me?”
Canary feathers float from hers and Aunt Weeby’s mouths as they swap yet more looks. “Why not?” she chortles.
Yup. You know it. I’ve been had. A dull drumbeat starts up in my head—Max’s presence does that to me. And the super-awareness thing too. It’s a gift.
I grit my teeth. “Are you trying to tell me,” I ask my boss, “that he’s here to help the Musgroves?”
“I plan to pitch in with whatever’s going on.” Max pulls out the chair right across from mine. Rats! How’m I gonna avoid the blue, blue of those eyes now? “Who’re the Mus-groves?”
See what I mean? Rats! All of ’em. Lovable, yes, but rats, nonetheless. Well, the seniors among us are lovable. Dunno about the male.
Yet , whispers a mischievous imp in the cobwebs of my subconscious.
No! No way. There are not gonna be any “yets” around here. I can’t deal with relationships—I’m a total zero at the boy-girl romance thing. And with a gorgeous guy like Max? Hah!
“Well?” That very same gorgeous Max guy asks. “Who are the Musgroves?”
I blink. “Ah . . . um . . .” Get a grip, woman! “The missionaries we came to help.”
Under his dove-gray polo shirt, Max rolls his shoulders and flexes his biceps—very nice ones they are, too. “I can tote and fetch with the best of ’em. Just tell me what I need to do.”
What’s a girl to do? Even when I travel halfway around the world to help defenseless orphans and, to tell the truth, put some distance between me and Mr. Magnificent himself, I wind up with the man glued to my side. I hope he’s better at toting and fetching, as he calls it, than he is at rocks.
I sigh. You know exactly how much trouble I’m in here, don’t you? I don’t get it—still. Why did nutty Miss Mona, in the worst moment of her nuttiness, ever get the random idea that the S.T.U.D. needed on-screen “chemistry”? She’s known me since forever. Doesn’t she—and Aunt Weeby too— remember how lousy I’ve been at “chemistry” for them to betray me and pull out all the matchmaking stops?
A great-looking guy + Andie Adams = disaster.
At the very least, bad idea.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s their worst idea ever. I mean, until the dark day when Miss Mona suffered that particular brain burp, her flaky brand of wisdom had only led her to hire women. The Shop-Til-U-Drop Shopping Channel was the by-women, for-women, all-women network. And it worked. The channel was wildly successful. It made sense for her to hire me and for me to work for her.
You follow? Good.
So, if that’s the case, then why, oh why, when she wanted on-screen “chemistry,” did she go hire a man who could give a doofus a run for his money? And why, oh why did she then stick me with the gorgeous creature? Me! The relationship phobe. The dating dud. The chicken-hearted romance flop.
Just as I think this, my conscience, hitched at the hip to heaven as it is, puts in an appearance. It does that a lot.
Okay. So Max isn’t a doofus. And he has made
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