Free A Steal of a Deal by Ginny Aiken Page B

you.”
    “Of course you didn’t, sugarplum.” She pats the arm of the matching chair at her side.
    I sit.
    She goes on. “You just urped. I came to pray for you in here on account of I couldn’t shut off all that jibber-jabber going on out there.” She weaves her fingers through mine. “Are you going to be okay? Let’s see how you feel after I give you a good ol’ dose of Great-Grandma Willetta’s cod liver oil—you know how good that stuff is—”
    “No!” Horrors.
    She goes on. “How ’bout we go back home? To a good American doctor?”
    “Of course we can’t go back home—at least, not yet. I’ll be fine.”
    “But you got sick—”
    “Sure, I did. I ate too much and too fast. I know better than that. Don’t worry. I won’t do it again.”
    Aunt Weeby looks puzzled. “Did you like the meal that much?”
    I shrug. “It was yum-oh, to quote Rachael Ray, but that’s not why I ate like that. I just hated the whole ‘Andi-ana Jones’ deal, and it was easier to chow down than to deal with those people. My bad—and I still had to deal with them.”
    “Pshaw!” She stands. “Sugarplum, you just have to learn to . . . what does that there Dr. Phil guy say? That’s it! Embrace your fame. It plumb won’t do to run away from it. Or to eat yourself into a fat-fest frenzy, either.”
    “Now there’s an image for ya.”
    “So’s you running from . . .” She gives me what I call her evil eye, since it sees too much. “Well, y’aren’t just running from the fame thing, you know. It’s that dear boy Max what’s really got you pigging out. Isn’t it?”
    I roll my eyes. “He drives me nuts, all right. It’s no classified secret.”
    Her smile turns indulgent, and I realize the weapon I’ve given her. “You got it all wrong,” I wail. “He’s a pain in the butt—”
    “They’re the best kind, those pain-in-the-butt boys. Your uncle Harris was one of ’em. I like to have pulled my hair plumb out when we first met. I thought him the most mule-ornery male Creation’d ever seen. But he stuck to me like chewing gum to a summer sandal, and then . . . why, I loved him with all my heart.”
    Talk of love and ornery males makes my teeth itch. I don’t want to go there, not about Max.
    Not yet.
    “Nope, Aunt Weeby. Please don’t do this to me.” I shake my head to where I hear a rushing sound in my ears. “That’s not the kind of crazy he makes me. He makes me the kind of crazy that says he’s going to sink our show if we don’t watch out. I think Miss Mona really needs to find him a different catalog to sell our viewers.”
    She arches a brow. “And here I thought he was studying rocks with you. What? You reckon Danni’s panties would be a better fit?”
    Not even with the proverbial ten-foot pole.
    I blush, rise, and slap open the swinging bathroom door. “I know I suggested it once before, but you know that’s goofy. Maybe Miss Mona can start some kind of . . . ah . . . well, how about a motorcycle stuff program? He can sell that—gloves, sunglasses, helmets. You know.”
    As I stalk to the table, I notice how close Max and the gloriously gorgeous Glory have their heads. For some irrational reason, this irritates me.
    “No!” I tell my aunt. “I have it. He should sell ladders and hoses and dead-bug-on-your-windshield cleaning goop—nice and studly stuff.”
    “Dead bugs?” Glory asks when I plop into my seat. “Did you find dead bugs in the bathroom?”
    Figures she’d be the one who’d ask, right? It tweaks my irritation up a notch. “Yeah, bugs. But not in the ladies’ room. Aunt Weeby and I were just trying to come up with a new program to feature Max. Like those women suggested.”
    “You want me to sell dead bugs?” Mr. Magnificent asks, disbelief all over his handsome mug.
    Miss Mona looks thoughtful. “Well . . . it is odd, I’ll grant you that, but you know? There are . . .” She waves in that vague way of hers. “Oh, whatever you call them. People who