What Maxi Needs (Leave Your Shoes On 3)

Lola dragged her gaze from Hot Stuff. “Doesn’t it seem like we’re the only women not getting laid in this town? I mean, I can’t pass a watercooler in the office without hearing about Samantha’s wild weekend romps, Jill’s lovefest with her fiancé, and Stephanie’s latest ‘Oh, my God, she makes me come again and again’ girlfriend. I’m happy for them, don’t get me wrong. But I feel the cobwebs coming on.”

Along with a serious bout of loneliness.

“Depressing, I know,” Maxi said on a sigh. “I don’t get it. I’m not exactly an ‘ug.’ And you’ve got that whole modern-day Marilyn Monroe thing going on.”

“You are gorgeous,” Lola assured her dark-haired, sapphire-eyed friend. They were direct opposites in appearance. Maxi sported a sassy long-bob, which she accentuated with beachy curls, while Lola wore her blonde hair in a fluffy blowout style that tumbled over her shoulders and midway down her back.

Maxi’s eyes were a deeper blue, whereas Lola’s were as bright and clear as a summer sky. Maxi was tan, with a lithe runner’s body; Lola had a creamy complexion and curves. They complemented each other nicely, and certainly garnered their fair share of attention. But something was amiss.

Lola said, “My problem is I just don’t spark with anyone. I’ve given up counting the days, weeks—oh, hell—the many months since my dry spell hit.”

“We definitely need men. And wine.”

“Wine is not going to cut it tonight.”

Maxi’s brows dipped. “We came to the trendiest bar in Baltimore Harbor to drink water? Not this girl.”

Lola smiled again. “We’re celebrating with champagne.”

“You got the promotion!”

“I did.”

The very pert and fashion-forward Maxi Shayne clapped her hands and bounced in her seat. “I knew you’d get it! I’m so happy for you. I know how badly you’ve wanted a marketing position—and to move back to Scottsdale to be closer to your family.”

“Not to mention, this East Coast humidity is killing me.”

“So it’s true what they say about the Arizona dry heat?”

“We might be able to fry eggs on a sidewalk in July, but I prefer a hundred and fifteen degrees over needing another shower two seconds after I walk out my front door.”

Maxi reached for a cocktail napkin and fanned herself. “I’ll admit, I’m feeling a bit moist myself. And not in the good way.”

Lola laughed. “Makes two of us.”

A female server finally swooped in, blowing from her forehead a lock of light-brown hair that had escaped her high ponytail. She looked sufficiently f

razzled by the Friday night crowd.

“Sorry for the delay, ladies. We’re shorthanded at the moment. What can I get you?”

Maybe it was because she was feeling particularly pleased with her climb up the corporate ladder—or because there truly was no place like home, and she had a one-way ticket back there—Lola announced, “A bottle of Taittinger, please.”

“Coming right up,” the server assured them before rushing off to wait on more tables.

Maxi whistled under her breath. “Expensive champagne, no less.”

“It is a promotion—with a sweet bump in pay. Plus, the company is footing the bill for my relocation costs. And you, my friend, are worth every Taittinger penny. I say we splurge!”

Maxi grinned. “Really, who am I to dispute that kind of logic?”

“You’re the one who convinced me to pitch my Web campaign to the vice president of Marketing when he came out for those executive meetings. I gave him a provocative idea for reaching the stiletto-wearers of the world and he totally jumped on it. So…thank you very much.”

Granted, she’d had to stalk Todd Connelly, the VP, for two days—finally cornering him outside the men’s room. A girl had to do what a girl had to do, right? His usually stoic expression had turned enthusiastic when Lola had proposed a risqué online campaign with a brazen social-media blitz.

She said, “Even our ad agency hasn’t gone where I boldly decided to go with this campaign. We might not be Prada, but then again, we don’t come with a lofty price tag, either. There’s absolutely no reason why women around the globe shouldn’t have a closet full of sassy Staci Kay shoes.”

“Amen to that, sister.” Maxi high-fived her. “Suggesting Staci be featured in the ads was sheer genius. Every time I see our fearless leader strutting through the office in a pair of five-inch, siren-red, patent-leather heels, I can’t help but think, Hell, yes! You go, girl! ’Course I also wonder if I have bisexual tendencies…”