the tight skirt had created a giant muffin top situation, which of course she’d refused to believe existed as she’d tried to zip that damn red skirt, and then had to reveal to him in order to get out of same damn red skirt.
She’d had to suffer the feel of his fingers on her flesh in this most humbling way instead of the way she would like to feel them. Those fingers of his were like fire starters, sending little waves of sparkles through her. And then she’d had to endure that sly smile of his, the one that was a mix of amusement and surprise at her misfortune and, even worse, his unnecessary explanation of the body’s reaction to anxiety. Why, thank you, Dr. Sheffington.
Dr. Sheffington.
“Stop it,” she said to herself, and picked up her coffee cup. “Get to work. You need a plan C pronto and there is no time for this.” She padded back to her room, intending to dress.
But he was a neuroscientist? For real?
She hauled her laptop up onto her bed and settled in against her pillows with her coffee. She opened her laptop again and googled Max Sheffington.
Wow.
It was true.
Dr. Max Sheffington was a professor of neuroscience at the University of Texas, which meant he was legitimately a brain scientist and not, as she had mistakenly assumed, a giant smart-ass. There were two pictures of him—one, a professional picture on the university’s faculty website along with a description of his area of study, which was incomprehensible to her: Discovering cellular and circuit mechanisms of cognitive dysfunction in neurodevelopmental disorders and understanding the neurobiological basis for individual preference and the effect on neural networks.
“What?” she whispered to herself.
The university website listed him as a tenure-track professor.
There was another picture of him, too. This one appeared under the heading of Campus Life. He was standing at a lectern in one of the university auditoriums before a class that was so large it had to be entry level. He was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt over low-slung trousers, a jacket, that awful knit cap, and what looked like high-top sneakers that did not go with the rest of his outfit. And, at the time of the picture, he’d had a full beard.
He was a sexy hipster in that photo. He looked smart and accomplished and masculine, but also like someone who cared about children and animals and important things like straws littering the oceans and parks for all abilities. How had she ever thought he wore too much denim?
Carly slammed her laptop shut. She refused to fantasize about this guy. This strange dog mix-up was over, and he’d taken Hazel and gone back to his world, and she had Baxter and her world. She had problems to fix, mountains to climb, monsters to slay. She would go back to the problem of Victor, and Max would go back to neural whatevers. Which was clearly for the best because she had no idea what that was. This was one of those things that happened in someone’s life, and one day she’d be at a dinner party in some tony New York apartment and she’d say, Hey, did I ever tell you about the time the dog walker mixed up two bassets?
All was right with the world again.
All was right with the world until exactly two hours later, after Carly had called the photographer to cancel his trip to Austin and with it, the exposure she’d worked so hard to get. She was very surprised when Ramona McNeil herself called her back.
“Why?” Ramona demanded curtly. “This is a big opportunity for a young designer. Why would you pull the rug out from under it?”
Carly chafed at the idea that she, a public relations professional, would have any hand in pulling the rug out from under it. “Victor is changing directions and is not ready to present his work just yet.”
“Oh, he’s not ready, poor thing,” Ramona said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, that’s just great, Carly . . . what did you say your last name was?”
Carly winced. “Kennedy.” She would have hoped Ramona had seen it on one of the applications she’d submitted.
“All I can say is that I hope his new direction works out for both of you. But now I have to fill a hole. A hole you convinced me to create, you may recall. Just so you know, since I think you’re pretty new to this business, it’s not cool to cancel a publication at