a minute she wanted to crawl back into bed, suit and all, throw the covers over her head and just cry.
No way.
She had to keep going—slog through the day until Game Night, when her friends would help her. She needed their guidance more than ever. Jared the Jerk was proof positive that her judgment was wonky. Where were her instincts anyway? In her butt? Somewhere the sun didn’t shine, that’s for sure. She was clueless about men. And lame about love. Rotten at romance? That had a ring to it. If she were writing a commercial about herself.
No matter what, she would not call Jared. Uh-uh. Regardless of how her fingers itched to hit speed-dial one. No way. She’d walk to work. Early. Better to keep moving and stay away from phones.
She jogged to the elevator, rushed across the lobby, pushed out the glass doors and rounded the corner, where she ran smack-dab into Guitar Guy.
“Oh,” she said, backing up a step. “Hi.”
She had to admit he was a hunk. About her age, she thought, and very tan. This close she could see he wasn’t a druggie. He had intense gray eyes that seemed smart, not frantic and not a bit bleary. Shaggy black hair—too long—hung over his forehead, and he wore comfortable-looking cords and a gray muscle shirt, worn, but clean. A stylized yin-yang tattoo ringed his left bicep, and he wore a stud in one ear. He smelled of soap—Irish Spring?—and patchouli.
Watching his fingers on the well-polished guitar, Claire felt a little vibration shimmy along her nerves. The music was old-fashioned and torchy. Something you’d drink brandy and sniffle to in some smoky bar. And he was good. Very good.
As she walked past, he spoke, the words so soft they were like a whisper in her head. “You’re trying too hard.”
She stopped dead and turned. “I beg your pardon?”
“That getup you’re wearing.” He gave her a slow head-to-toe perusal. There was a little bit of sex in it, but it was more like a friend determining whether something fifty-percent off was really you or not.
“You’re critiquing my outfit?” she asked.
He met her gaze steadily. “Just making an observation.”
“Well, I have one for you then. You need a haircut.”
He considered her words, then gave her a crooked smile.
What? Now she was trading grooming tips with a homeless guy? Why not? She turned and started down the street, feeling Guitar Guy’s eyes on her. Or maybe she was imagining that. Hoping for it? Nothing like breaking up with a guy to make you want proof you were still attractive.
Claire plowed doggedly onward, ignoring the way her pumps pinched her toes and rubbed her heels. Her suit was as airless as a plastic bag. By the time she reached B&V Advertising, she had blisters and felt woozy from being overheated. Oh, well. At least she had something besides her breakup to focus on—survival.
She paused at the door to the office to brace herself for the inevitable cracks from the Morning Madness fans at B&V who, she’d bet, included Georgia, the receptionist. Prepared, she took a deep breath and marched inside, head up, chest out, heels stinging, sweat dripping, but looking successful. Or at least dressed that way.
Luckily, Georgia wasn’t at the front desk. That wasn’t unusual, since she deserted her post whenever the spirit moved her. But at least Claire got through reception without a jab.
Needing coffee, she made a beeline for the tiny kitchen…where she hit a K-BUZ listener jackpot—Georgia and her friend Mimi, the bookkeeper. Claire attempted a backward slink, hoping to escape unnoticed, but Georgia spoke. “Moonlighting on the radio, are you now?” she asked in her smoke-roughened voice.
“You heard?” Blush washed over Claire.
“Was that staged?” Mimi asked. “The call and all?”
“No, it was real,” she said. Vividly, excruciatingly real.
Georgia looked her dead-on. “They bleeped out what you called him. Was it ‘prick’ or ‘dick’?”
“Prick.”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s the best word for him.”
“You look bad, girl,” Mimi said, looking her up and down. “Kinda like you dropped your vibrator in the bathtub—all shocked and jittery.”
Georgia cackled and snorted smoke. This was a no-smoking office, but Georgia didn’t let anyone push her around. “Good one,” she said, then narrowed her gaze at Claire. “How you doin’ with it?”
“Hide the razor blades,” Claire said with a lopsided smile.
“Don’t sell yourself short, honey. You deserve better than that putz.”
Georgia and Mimi were both forty, divorced and okay with being single. Claire envied them their self-sufficiency.
“At least you have a great story to tell,” Mimi said. “I learned my husband was cheating by finding Victoria’s Secret receipts in his suit coat. So cliché.”
“Good point,” Claire said, comforting herself with three sugars and real cream in her coffee. She turned to face the women, resting her backside against the counter.
“Those mechanicals are on your chair to copy,” Georgia said.
“Great. Just what I need—a visit with Leroy the Letch.” The man lurked in the copy room and lived for a pat, brush or slide against some female part.
Georgia cackled again. “If that man gropes me one more time, I think I’ll have to…I’ll have to…”
“What?” Mimi said. “Sleep with him?”
The three women burst into laughter. It felt good to Claire—kind of like a mini Game Night.
“Nah,” Georgia said. “I can’t sleep with him. Mouth breathers snore.”
They laughed again.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Claire said, raising her doctored brew in a toast to the two women. She turned to go.
“One more thing,” Georgia said.
“Yeah?” She turned, expecting something motherly.
“Lose the suit. You look like a stewardess.”
Just the image she was going for. “Honey-roasted nuts, anyone?” she said. Actually, she could think of a pair of nuts she’d love to roast. With no honey involved…unless the nuts were suspended over an ant-hill. Hmm…
“Don’t feel bad,” Mimi said, shrugging. “If you don’t try things on for size, you can’t learn what works.”
“Right,” she said. The advice was good for life, as well as clothes. Except everything Claire tried on was either too tight, too loose or made her butt look big. She set off for her office.
Low on the account exec totem pole, she’d been
