Bachelorette Blues. Robyn Amos

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      “Enjoy the rest of your evening, ladies and gentlemen, and I hope to see you all Monday night.”

      The minute Ruth stepped back from the microphone, Phillip started droning again. Shayna bit her lip, feeling trapped.

      She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Are you ready to leave?”

      She faced Max, showing her relief in her eyes. “As a matter of fact, I am.” Turning back to Phillip, she said, “I’m leaving now, but it was…nice talking to you.”

      “Sure, sure, Shaunice. If you ever need any business software let me know. I’ll give you a discount.” He winked.

      Shayna put her hand on her hip, staring after his retreating form. “Shaunice?”

      Max took her elbow and began guiding her toward the door. “Don’t take it personally. He thinks my name is Matt.”

      She stopped when they reached the hotel lobby. “Thanks for rescuing me, yet again. I guess I’ll see you Monday night?”

      “How do you plan to get home?”

      “I can take a cab.”

      “Nonsense. I’ll give you a ride. You live in Rockville, right? That’s on my way.”

      “You don’t have to do that.”

      “It would be my pleasure.”

      As they walked down to the parking garage, Shayna couldn’t help admiring Max’s profile. She couldn’t deny that he was a handsome man. His skin was the color of chestnuts and he had sexy chocolate brown eyes shaped like almonds. It really was too bad he wasn’t her type, because he was beginning to look better than the topping of an ice cream sundae.

      But they couldn’t possibly have anything in common. The man made a living playing video games, for goodness’ sake. She needed someone who could share her appreciation for time and order. Max never showed up for a meeting on time—once he was a day late for a Saturday brunch meeting she’d hosted. She’d bet he didn’t even own a calendar. The two of them were such opposites, they’d probably drive each other crazy.

      But he was sweet…She had to blink away the image of Max sitting on top of a mound of vanilla ice cream, wearing nothing but hot fudge. She had a weakness for sweets, which is why she only indulged on rare occasion. If she wasn’t careful, she’d develop a weakness for Max, and she couldn’t indulge in him at all.

      He stopped in front of a dark green Pathfinder and her eyes widened. No, it couldn’t be. She looked down at the license plate. “This is your car.” She turned to him, and when she saw the guilt etched on his forehead, she knew for sure.

      He held up his hands as if to ward her off. “Look, I’m sorry, Shayna. I was trying to make a yellow light. I couldn’t help—”

      “It was you! I can’t believe you were the jerk who splattered my dress with mud. No wonder you’ve been so eager to help me out tonight.”

      “Now, Shayna, I had no idea that was you until I saw your rain slicker in the bathroom. I came looking for you because I was concerned.” He unlocked the passenger door and held it open for her.

      Shayna stood outside debating whether or not to get into the truck with him. The night had been such a disaster. It annoyed her that he had a part in it—even if by accident. She’d actually been reconsidering his dating potential. Clearly the chaos of the evening was getting to her.

      In the morning she’d wake up in her normal orderly world and everything would make sense again.

      Shaking her head, Shayna climbed into the truck. The sooner she got home and got into bed, the sooner this nightmare would be over.

      

      Max took the long route home, hoping to coax Shayna out of her funk before he had to drop her off. He’d been making progress until she saw his Pathfinder. When he offered her a ride, it had never occurred to him that she might recognize his truck. He’d only been thinking of the wistful look he’d caught her sending him from across the room.

      When he’d approached her, her honey-colored eyes had gone soft and fluttery. He’d waited six months for Shayna to look at him like that. Now that she had, he wasn’t going to blow it over his poor driving manners.

      “Are you still awake over there?” he asked. She’d leaned her head against the headrest and her eyes were closed. “I need directions through your complex.”

      “Mmm-hmm.”

      She’d given that same response to all his attempts at conversation. He was fighting a losing battle, but he wasn’t about to give up. He had about a minute and a half to turn the evening around. By the time he drove up to her town house, he had an idea.

      “I’ll walk you to your door,” he said, starting to turn off the ignition.

      She held up her hand. “That isn’t necessary. Here.” She handed him three crisp twenty-dollar bills.

      “What’s this?”

      “The money I owe you for the shoes.”

      He tried to hand it back. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, I need to ask you for a favor.”

      “Take the money.”

      The look in her eyes said she meant business, so he tucked the bills into his shirt pocket.

      “Now what can I do for you?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap.

      The old Shayna was back—all about schedules and routines. The vulnerable young woman he’d met tonight was well hidden behind a professional veneer.

      “Ruth Warner twisted my arm about this bake sale thing, and I ended up promising to bring a chocolate mousse cake.”

      She raised her brows. “I’m impressed. That’s a challenging recipe.”

      “I know.”

      “Don’t feel bad. Ruth can be persuasive.”

      “Well, there’s only one problem—I can’t cook worth a damn.”

      “Why didn’t you tell her that?”

      “I told her I might be able to manage a few of those slice-and-bake chocolate-chip cookies, but in two minutes she had me convinced I was underestimating my abilities. A few choice words about public service and a mention in the Gazette, and I went from frozen cookie dough to homemade chocolate mousse cake.”

      Shayna sighed, nodding in sympathy. “I understand. So you want help breaking the news to Ruth, is that it?”

      “Actually, I was hoping you’d save my…uh, britches and help me figure out how to cook a cake.”

      Shayna winced. “You don’t ‘cook’ a cake. You bake it. That’s why it’s called a bake sale.”

      “So will you take pity on СКАЧАТЬ