Free A Steal of a Deal by Ginny Aiken

a sincere effort to learn about the gems we offer our customers. But he hasn’t done a thing to shield me from his melt-me smile, his wow voice, or his oh-my baby blues.
    Yeah, yeah, yeah. My problem, not his. I’m a coward.
    And if I don’t get a grip on myself, this up-and-down teeter-totter emotional mess is gonna be the end of me.
    As the chatter flies around the table, my overactive conscience keeps up its efforts for a while longer. I study the swanky linen napkin on my lap to keep from peeking at Max.
    It’s time.
    I have to quit dancing around the truth. I have to be honest and face what’s bugged me most about Max from the very start. What’s made me treat him like dirt a time or two . . . or ten.
    There’s way too much about Max Matthews I like.
    There! I’ve admitted it.
    Now what?
    With my track record with men—or lack thereof—a guy like Max is way out of my reach. The last thing I need is to fall for him. If that happens, then, BAM! Soon enough, he’ll find a princess, and there I’ll sit with my broken heart.
    At twelve, puppy love is cute.
    At thirty, it isn’t. It’s not even puppy love anymore. It’s unrequited love, hard and painful, and I don’t want to go there.
    Lord? What am I going to do about Max?
    I glance up and notice the baby blues on me. Then the deafening silence hits me. Everyone at the table is staring at me.
    Swell. “Ah . . . did I miss something?”
    They fill me in. All at one time.
    The result? A Tower of Babel replay.
    I catch snippets about the Musgroves and their mission. I hear about the mountain village where they’ve built a school. I hear about Kashmiri sapphires and played-out mines.
    “I knew it!” I cross my arms and stare at my boss.
    Miss Mona clears her throat, smiles what I call her “Queen Liz” smile, and when she has everyone’s attention, launches her speech. “As all y’all know,” she says, posture regal, expression serious—have I mentioned the woman has star-quality flair?—“I was tickled by the results of our trip to Mogok.”
    When I croak, she has the decency to blush.
    “True, Andrea.” Her nod can make an emperor weep. “We did have us some unpleasantness, but we bought magnificent stones, and you and Hannah filmed wonderful video of the mining operations.”
    “I’m not into reruns,” I mutter.
    “I’m not into Muslim guerillas,” Max adds.
    “Oh, pshaw!” Aunt Weeby says. “Guerillas are people too. Why, I reckon they put on their trousers—well, those baggy things they wear like trousers—just like the rest of us do.”
    Her voice sets off the beep, beep, beep of my Aunt Weeby– alert system. Patience, please , I pray. “Have you lost your marbles?”
    She frowns—something she rarely does, but when she does . . . watch out, world! “Andrea Autumn Adams!”
    No question. I’m in deep, deep doggy-doo. And with Aunt Weeby among us, headed for a close encounter of the Muslim rebel kind.
    I sigh in resignation. Remember the sinking ship? It’s coming nearer. “Yes, Auntie?”
    She sniffs—she’s an expert. “You know perfectly well my daddy’s marble collection is back home in his secretary in the parlor. I couldn’t possibly lose all those precious marbles.”
    Trust me. The woman knows what I mean. Her brain just does curious things to her squishy logic when she wants to play fast and loose with it.
    I waggle a finger. “Don’t go there. You and Miss Mona are just plain dangerous to my hide—and yours!”
    Miss Mona laughs. “Ah . . . but isn’t it better to be . . . umm . . . unconventional and adventurous than to be boring and mindless ol’ rocking chair residents?”
    Can you see these two pushing rockers? Me neither.
    I wave my white napkin in surrender. “Okay. You’ve got me there. Just give it to me straight.” I square my shoulders. “And I don’t want the ad campaign you’ve cooked up to sell me on this latest scheme.”
    In one of her hokiest and most theatrical moves, Aunt Weeby does