Priced to Move

“She called to tell me her flight from New York was delayed, so I came instead of sending Carla after you. I didn’t want you to be late for your launch show.”

The deep breath I take is none too steady, but I’m not about to ’fess up to my nerves. Somehow, this whole TV gemologist thing has grown on me in the last few weeks, and I’m as excited as I am nervous. I figure I’m either as loony as Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby, or else their brand of madness spreads like athlete’s foot in high school locker rooms.

“No way was I going to be late. Does Sally have everything ready for the show?”

Miss Mona points to a stainless steel cart stacked high with tray upon tray of gorgeous gemstones. “She’s as excited as you are about the launch. You should’ve seen her. She looked like a little girl at the candy counter.”

“I don’t know a woman who can honestly say she really, really doesn’t like jewelry. And gemstones are what jewelry’s all about.”

The network’s theme song starts to play, and my excitement ditches my bad case of nerves. Oh, I’m psyched, all right. All the gemstones I could ever want, and a TV audience full of potential gem collectors. What more could a true-blue gem geek want?

A rustle of activity breaks out behind me, and Miss Mona’s face lights up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. “Oh, Andie! Do I have a surprise for you.”

Uh-oh. Something about her excitement scares the pants off me—figuratively speaking, you know. “Can it wait until after my show? I don’t want to let anything distract me.”

“Your surprise is the show, or part of it, anyway.”

I clutch my lists to my green-silk-covered chest. My rose-polished nails dig into the pages for dear life. I take a breath and pray for strength. “Go for it. What’s my surprise?”

Miss Mona unfurls her hand in the most dramatic, most Aunt Weeby–like gesture. My gaze follows that hand, and my jaw drops.

During the last three weeks, it’s become more than obvious that the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network’s feminine atmosphere is part of Miss Mona’s genius. So imagine my reaction when what to my wandering eyes doth appear but a blond West Coast surfer and two comfy armchairs.

He smiles.

I shiver.

Wow!

The tall, Barbie-doll counterpart, towhead blond, silver silk-suited, tanned, blue-eyed surfer boy in Carla’s clutches heads toward me, hand held out. I gape like a goldfish. Then I start to hyperventilate.

Carla grabs the armchairs and brings them to the edge of the set, clearly ready to wheel them into place once Danni and her panties are done. I’m so not ready for this.

Finally, when he’s inches away, I get a grip. “Who’re you?”

“Andie, honey,” Miss Mona says.

I glance at her and catch sight of her canary-feathered grin. Why, why, why, why, why did I ever agree to do this?

Oblivious to my condition, she says, “I’d like you to meet Max Matthews, your brand-new cohost.”

“My who?” Okay, so I’m not proud of the squeaky voice. But what’s a girl to do when she gets a bombshell dropped on her head?

“You heard me. Max will be at your side for all your shows.”

“B-but this is all about us. We’re cable TV’s estrogen pack!”

“Sure, honey, that’s what we’ve been so far, and I know we’ve been very successful. But have you taken a good look at the network’s name? There’s something not quite right about the way we’ve been doing things around here. And then I had me a brainstorm. I figured out how to fix things. Max is my fix.”

Brainstorm? Try monsoon. And just as dangerous. In that scary, red-blooded American woman’s dream-man way. “How so?”

“Sugarplum—” Aunt Weeby’s voice comes from behind me—“how can the S.T.U.D. Network be the S.T.U.D. Network when we’ve got us no stud?”

Gulp. No way was I going to try to answer that sneaky little rat’s question. She was supposed to be home, watching me on her brand-new, flat-panel, hi-def TV. And I had no answer. Other than another question.

“The Stud Network?”

Miss Mona grins. “Isn’t that so cute? That’s what our customers call us. You know, S for Shop, T for Til, U for . . . well, for you, of course, and D for Drop. S-T-U-D. The S.T.U.D. Network.”

I smack the palm of my hand on my forehead right between my brows. I’ve been had. Hornswoggled. Bushwhacked. I knew this job was a bad idea. From the very start.

What do I know about TV? For that matter, what do I know about studs? And I’m so not talking horse. Trust me, I know nothing of horses, networks, brass tacks, or human studs. Especially not the dream-man kind of stud. My track record with the other half of the human race isn’t exactly stellar, as Aunt Weeby will be happy to tell you in mortifying detail.

That’s why I haven’t gone on a date in years.

When I agreed to this, no one said I’d have to take turns talking about jewels with a guy who’s prettier than me and the gems. How am I going to squeak out a sound, much less pretend coherence?