"Max, would you relax?" the optimistic brunette interrupted. "Of course it'll work out! We've got chemistry, compatibility. Sizzle. We're like ketchup and mustard; what's one without the other?"
Sliding his hands into the front pockets of his tweed trousers, Maxwell took a step forward, minimizing the space between himself and his love interest. "Right you are, Miss Fine. Fran. You know what just occurred to me?"
"Oy. Another revelation? What's next, the apocalypse?"
"No. What's next . . . is this." A pair of arms extended, encircling the nanny's slender waist and delicately pulling her against a robust torso and a neck that smelled of Aramis.
Eyes closed. Lips melded. Mouths emitted faint sighs.
When the duo separated, both felt as though their bodies were filled with helium and would float away at a moment's notice.
"That was Frantastic."
"What were we talking about?" the fantastic Fran slurred, legs quivering like gelatin jigglers.
"I'm not quite sure," replied an equally disoriented Maxwell. "I think I was about to compare you to Lucy Ricardo."
"Is that so?"
"That's so."
"How so?"
Entwining his fingers behind her back, Mr. Sheffield gazed into the incandescent glow of Fran's umber irises. "Because even though you don't exactly make my life simple," he explained, "you most certainly make it adventurous."
"Awww, Ricky. You're such a mensch."
"And you, Lucy, are a beautiful girl." Flaunting his grasp of the Yiddish language, Maxwell translated, "Schein meidl. I must say, I'm very glad things didn't work out with Leslie."
"I concur. Why settle for an imitation when you've already got the original? It's like Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell say: 'Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby'!"