A Cut Above (3 page)

But, of course, Evie isn’t alone. Nooooo.

And I’m sure you’ve figured this one out—well before me, no doubt. You see, out the passenger-side door comes a six-foot-something, blond male, a grin on his gorgeous face, his beautiful blue eyes hidden behind a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses. As he ambles toward us, I can’t help but notice the way the light blue polo shirt enhances the gold of his tan. No one could miss the graceful energy in his step.

Max walks up to Aunt Weeby and kisses her waiting cheek. “Good morning.”

My aunt smiles. “
Now
we’re all here. Let’s go find Andie a proper ‘pad.’ ”

She sails up the walk with Evie, who hasn’t quit jabbering into her phone, leaving me on the sidewalk standing next to Max.

“Ready?” he asks.

Seeing how my mind superimposes the picture of a slaughterhouse over the little house, I answer, in character, “Baa-aa-aaah!”

200

Fast-forward four lightning-fast weeks. I have since signed more papers than I ever imagined a person might have reason to sign. And even though I refuse to admit it—it would give Aunt Weeby even more to crow about—I’m excited about my impending homeownership. I’m not so excited, however, about her living alone again.

Oh well. At least my new house is no more than four blocks away from hers, and I plan to spend a whole lot of my spare time visiting. In fact, she can count on it. Once Mickey and his guys get around to repairing the fire damage there, that is.

On the—ahem—male front, Max has been on his best behavior. Come to think of it, aside from some heavy-duty teasing here and there, he’s really always been on his best behavior. True, he did horn in on our house hunting every chance he got, but I don’t hold it against the guy. He gave me terrific input. I wouldn’t have noticed some inconveniences in a couple of the houses on Evie’s short list. Especially that one place with the crazy driveway. It resembled a banana, and early morning departures, since I’m hardly a chandelier-bright bulb (as Max put it) at that time of day, might have proven a mite dicey.

In the end, I put an offer on the blue house with the red shutters, the first one I saw. It’s perfect for me. Now I can’t wait to launch a shopping safari. I need tables and chairs and bookshelves and curtains and rugs . . . oh! A TV. I’ll want a new one of those too. Wonder who’s holding the best sale this weekend . . . ?

What’s that? Oh, you’re reminding me that I’m a reformed New York shopaholic.

Humph! I did reform. But a girl needs furniture, you know. The handful of items I brought back from the glorified closet they call an apartment in the Big Apple will hardly fill a three-bedroom cottage.

But that’ll wait for another day. Today, Max and Josh Ross, my good friend Peggy’s husband, are loading my belongings in one of Josh’s pickup trucks, then moving me into my very own brand-new—to me—home. Josh owns a highly sought-after landscape design firm and its pickup-truck fleet. I’m saving my pennies to have him do something faboo to the front yard.

Ooooh! My very own yard. How cool is that?

Well, it’s mine and the bank’s. When it was all said and done, Aunt Weeby wouldn’t take no for an answer on the subject of a down payment. She insisted it was a gift. She also said she could afford it now, thanks to me, since my shows have so increased the value of the nest egg she invested when Miss Mona started the S.T.U.D. Network.

But the mortgage? Ah . . . the mortgage is all mine. What’s more, I can afford it. So the bank says. Actually, I
can
afford it—according to moi. I never would have thought I’d feel so good about that kind of commitment, but I do. I’m thrilled the Lord brought me back to Louisville, and the sweet little house crystallizes for me my determination to make a life here, in my hometown.

I scoot the kitchen chair away from the table just as the back door to Miss Mona’s glam kitchen opens. “You ready?” Max asks.

“Readier than ready.” I swig down the last drops of my too-cold coffee. “Is Josh with you?”

The door opens again. “Reporting for duty, ma’am, yes, ma’am.” Josh gives me a jaunty, two-fingered salute. “You said you don’t have a whole lot to move, so let’s get it moved. The sooner we’re done with that, the sooner we can get to that pizza-for-payment you promised.”

I laugh. “Peggy warned me about you, you bottomless pit. How do you stay so skinny?”

“What?” Max asks, his voice full of overdone outrage. “Are you going to let her get away with that kind of insult?”

Josh shakes his head, a mournful expression on his craggy face. “What can I do? I’m just a poor old weakling.”

That sets the tone for the rest of the day. By mid-afternoon, the three of us are sitting on the hardwood floor of my new kitchen, a giant pizza box in the middle, the cardboard decorated with grease stains, and only a handful of boxes left in Max’s SUV.

“Are you guys done with that thing yet?” Peggy wails from the living room. “I’m sorry to be such a party pooper, but this baby doesn’t like the smell of pizza. Pepperoni’s the worst.”

I scramble upright and head to her side. “I can’t imagine foregoing pizza for nine months.”

She rubs the mound in her middle. “It is a pain, but the end result’s purely amazing.”

A momentary pang of envy zings through my heart, but I squash it with the determination of an elephant on stampede. That’s dangerous territory for a single woman. Especially when the man that makes her heart go pitter-patter is sitting cross-legged in the next room. A man who hasn’t revealed his feelings for her yet. Maybe he never will reveal them.

Or maybe he has no feelings to reveal.

Other than those he revealed when he kissed the stuffing
out of you one stressful night, whatever they may be.

Groan. One of these days I’m going to have to do something about the little voice my conscience uses on me at the most inconvenient moments.

“Umm . . . well, yeah. I admit your Andrew and Sophie are both pretty cute.”

Peggy gives me a squirm-inducing stare. “Maybe you oughta do something about getting yourself a couple of pretty-cute little ones of your own.”

I gulp. “Ah . . . I’m waiting on God. You know. He’s in charge. He’s driving this bus. I’m just the passenger doing the trust thing during the ride.”

“You’re protesting way too much, my friend.” She grins. “And just so you know, I heard all about the mega-smooch in the PD’s parking lot.”

I cross my arms. “Just because I work in front of millions of curious eyes doesn’t mean I want every part of my life to be put out on display, you know.”

“I’m hardly one of those million viewers,” she tried but failed to hold back a laugh. “You’re just blushing and blushing and trying awful hard not to show what’s written all over your face.”

“Hmm . . . now that I think about it, that pizza
has
smelled up the house. Let me get rid of the box.”

I spin on my heel, but get nowhere real fast. My escape is foiled by a football—not mine. Max never travels without more than his fair share of sports paraphernalia. Not even to the exotic locations we’ve visited for work.

Here I haven’t fully moved in yet, but his junk has. And no. I’m
not
going to look at it as some kind of sign. I’m still on God’s bus trip here.

“Hey, Max!” I yell. “No footballs, golf clubs, or tees allowed at my place. Come collect your stray toy.”

My cohost saunters in, a wide grin on his face. He winks at Peggy. “She’s cute when she’s mad, isn’t she?”

“Aaaaargh!” Enough with the goofiness. I have too much to do. “Have a lovely time chatting, folks. I’m more into moving into my new place. See ya when I’m done.”

I march into the kitchen to the sound of their humor. But, seconds later, they join me. Before long, my pots and pans—the few I accumulated in New York—fill the first two shelves in the wall of cabinets, and I’ve set the glass and iron café table with my Pfaltzgraf dishes. Peggy and Josh have left to rescue their poor babysitter, and Max has gone out to his car to bring the last box of books inside.

“Andie!” he yells from the front stoop. “Get the door for me, please.”

I let him into the tiny foyer, and he nods toward the living room. “Do you want them in there or in that extra room upstairs?”

“I don’t know if I’ll have enough room for this box of books in the shelves you and Josh took up there, but I don’t think I want them in the living room, either. At least, not now.”

“You’re the boss.”

And with those inspiring words—which suggest multitudinous future furniture-arranging episodes—we relocate the final boxes. After I drop off a load of linens in the dining room, the beautiful built-in corner cabinet catches my attention. It’s that kind of detail that made me fall in love with the house. Then there’s the delft blue tiled fireplace in the living room. It’s wonderful. Oh, and I love the luscious natural woodwork throughout. You don’t get that kind of workmanship in newer homes.

I can fill the china cabinet with the dainty teacups I started collecting back in my teens. Those two boxes remained packed the whole time I lived in New York. Not only did I not have the room in my postage-stamp-sized place, but I also felt . . . well, not exactly embarrassed, but their feminine nature and touch of antiquity seemed out of place there. Now, in this beautiful home, they’ll fit right in. I can see myself pouring cups of tea for Peggy and me.

I will need a new table, though. The café set looks spindly in the middle of the room. I’d like something more substantial, with more staying power. I envision a gleaming wooden table and chairs— “Congratulations,” Max says at my side.

I blink and blush.

He lays an arm over my shoulders. “I’d be smiling too if I’d just bought this place. You made a great choice.”

Oh my! That arm . . . and his warm, solid presence at my side, in my brand-new house . . .

Enough!

“Ah . . . er . . . well, you did give me some good advice during the house safari.” Is that breathy, girly voice really mine? Whooo-boy! Am I in trouble, or what?

He gives me a little squeeze. “What? You didn’t want to drive right off your driveway every morning? Let’s face it. You’re not at your best bright and early in the day.”

I glance up and give him a wry grin. “You noticed, huh?”

“There’s not much about you I haven’t noticed, Andie.”

My eyes widen at his deepening voice. Oh my! A girl could become a puddle of melted mush just from hearing Max talk. And me? I’m way too susceptible to those beautiful blue eyes looking at me as though I’m the only woman around.

Come to think of it, I
am
the only woman around. In my house.

Before I can get my act together enough to cobble a response, he goes on. “I mean that, you know. I’m always tuned in to you, no matter whether we’re doing a show or you’re bossing me around some foreign hole-in-the-dust dead gemstone mine.”

I want to answer but find myself unable to break the spell of his gaze.

Hands on my shoulders, Max turns me to face him.

Dum-de-dummm . . .

As “Stranger in Paradise’s” familiar notes echo from the farthest corner of my mind, Max presses a tender kiss on my forehead. “I’ve never felt like this before, Andie, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I’m hoping you feel the same way too—”

BAM!

A pair of gasps follow the crash of the flung-open door.

“Oh, Mona, dear. Look! Don’t they just make the cutest couple—”

“Didn’t I tell you we should just leave ’em alone, Livvy—” As if in slow motion, I slip out of Max’s clasp. Don’t ask me where my head is right now, because I really don’t know. Half of me wants to cheer at their appearance—that’s the chicken half. The other half, the one determined to stay on God’s bus trip, is ready to toss the Troublesome Twosome back out.

I do neither. I step forward to hug them both. “Hello, ladies. Welcome to my home.”

Either I’m having one of those out-of-body experiences or Max’s effect on me is even more powerful than I know. Well, I know which one’s which right about now, but . . . wow! I sound just like some sappy, chick-flick heroine. Max is dangerous. And I no longer feel like sniping him out of the picture of my life. Instead, I’m excited, scared, confused, and filled with anticipation.

Please, Lord! Don’t let him rip my heart to shreds.

But no matter how hard that twinge of fear tries to take over, it can’t smother the little hitch of excitement that hits my midsection every time I look at Max.

Especially when those blue eyes zero in on me as if I were too pretty and precious and priceless.

Oh, Father, I’m falling . . .

“But I don’t know what I’m doing!” I wail into the phone three hours later.

Peggy, the rat, laughs. “Who does? I didn’t when Josh began to stick around. I was scared, yeah, but no way was I going to push him away. That might have sent him right into Lynnie Nash’s arms. I wasn’t going to be so dumb as that.”

I remembered the jealousy I’d felt during that trip to Kashmir. Every time I’d seen Max’s blond head near our gem thief’s gleaming black one, I’d seen red. And not the red of my own locks, either. Oh, okay. So green’s the color most associated with the jealousy monster, but I’d been
red
-hot angry mad. And scared.