Pink Slipper Page 3

  I pursed my lips. He sounded sincere. "You don’t have thirty dollars?"

  "Legs, I’m lucky if I make thirty dollars a day. I’m barely scratching by. And now the city pulls this shit and raises the fees. To encourage professional quality musicians on the streets. Turn this city into a frickin’ symphony hall. Talk about your regressive taxes."

  "Regressive taxes?" I was surprised he knew the term.

  He shrugged. "I took an econ class."

  Or somebody had scripted his spiel. Despite my better judgment, I felt a tug of sympathy for the guy. What would it hurt to give him a buck? This counted as helping someone else get what he wanted just like the Breakthrough to Greatness book said, right? Maybe fate would smile on me now. I reached into my purse, grabbed a bill and tucked it into his coffee can.

  His face lit up and he flashed me a genuine smile.

  "Good luck. Now may I pass and get my coffee?"

  He nodded. As I brushed by, he said, "I saw a beaut of a white clutch in Anne Klein that would look dynamite with your outfit."

  I frowned at him. "What are you, the fashion police now?"

  He chuckled. "I work Fifth Avenue sometimes. I see the current fashion trends."

  I shook my head. "Not likely I’ll be buying a new bag anytime soon. I’m unemployed, too."

  He raised an eyebrow and did an up and down of my outfit. "In designer fashions?"

  "Sorry, the unemployment fairy didn’t come by and change all my clothes to rags. Figure that." In my case, a fire did the honors.

  He laughed. "Good luck to you, too, then, Legs."

  Inside Starbucks the caffeinated coffee fumes revived my spirits. It might be possible yet to avoid a withdrawal headache. I got in line and ordered.

  "A tall Americano." What I really wanted was a venti hazelnut with whip mocha, but that was too much of a splurge, given that my twenty dollars was all the cash I had until Wednesday when the unemployment pittance arrived again.

  The girl called my order back to the barista in a bored tone.

  I reached into my purse for my twenty and . . .

  Panic! Unexpected heart palpitations. Dang, dang, dang! What happened to my twenty? I found my one and suddenly had a sinking feeling. The street guy! A line was building behind me. I plunged into my purse with the fervor of a kid digging behind the sofa cushions, hoping there was some loose change at the bottom.

  I heard grumbling behind me. Some jerk said, "Would you speed it up, lady? We don’t have till Christmas." Evidently, he hadn’t read Garrett’s book.

  The girl behind the counter said, "We accept debit, Visa, and MasterCard."

  I felt a blush creep up my cheeks. "I left my cards at home. I’m trying to cut back."

  I sounded like the poster girl for a debt consolidation ad.

  "Really I had the money a minute ago, but—"

  Someone behind me slid a ten onto the counter. "That should cover it. Add a venti latte to it and we’re good."

  Deep, sexy voice. Excellent. Kind. Probably five feet tall and married.

  Low expectations fixed, I turned around to thank him and found myself staring at a hot, hot man about my age. I slid a quick glance to his ring finger. No ring!

  It took me mere nanoseconds to run through my single girl checklist. Right age range. Over six feet. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Smiling eyes. Black jeans. Expensive T-shirt. Liked his coffee with milk, not syrup or chocolate. Nice.

  I moved from the register counter to wait by the barista for my order to come up. "Thanks."

  Mr. Fabulous moved with me. "My pleasure."

  Was it really? It’s stupid how standing next to an attractive man had me trying to read meaning into a rote pleasantry. Could this be fate rewarding me for helping that street guy?

  We stood in awkward silence. I thought it was an awkward silence, anyway. He seemed content in silent mode. Not a talker, I supposed.

  I had to rescue the situation. "You saved my life just now."

  He looked at me. Arched a brow. Grinned. "With a cup of coffee?"

  "You saved me from a major caffeine headache, which would have made me feel like death."

  He smiled, appraising me. "Easy heroics."

  "Seriously, without my morning cup of coffee, I’d probably fall asleep in the seminar I’m attending across the street in—" I glanced at my watch "—fifteen minutes. No offense to the speaker. I’m a slow-starter. It takes me a while to wake up and stay up."

  His lips were twitching as if he was suppressing a laugh. "What kind of seminar?"

  "One my family is sending me to." I rolled my eyes to show I wasn’t particularly enthused about it. "At The Northwest Institute, where greatness begins." I hoped I didn’t sound too sarcastic.

  "You don’t believe in greatness?"

  "I don’t believe it can be taught," I said. "But I’m sure this Garret guy who’s speaking is sincere in his desire to help people. He’ll give us anecdotal evidence about successful people rising up from poverty and bad circumstances to the very pinnacle of success to encourage us." I shrugged. "I just believe everyone has their own path. Not everyone can be great, not as defined by society’s standards, anyway. That doesn’t mean they can’t be content with their lives."

  He watched me, almost studied me really, with a gaze so intense I didn’t know whether to be pleased or frightened. "Then why are you going?"

  "To please my family." I was an intelligent professional who made a good living. When I had a job. I was just going through a tough time. A tiny blip on the career waveform. That’s all. That’s what I kept telling myself. Positive thinking, like that silly greatness book preached. So I shouldn’t be ashamed to admit my misfortune. "Like a lot of people, I’m between jobs right now. In this tough economy, Dad thought the seminar might give me an edge over all the other unemployed electrical engineers out there."

  "Tall Americano." The barista plunked my coffee on the counter. "Venti latte." Plunk.

  Mr. Fab grabbed his cup and lifted it in a toast. "Here’s to your luck changing then." He nodded goodbye and turned to leave.

  "Wait!" I called after him, probably a little too desperately. "I owe you for the coffee. If you give me your business card, I’ll just drop a few dollars in the mail to you." I tried not to look too hopeful, or too conniving.

  "It’s on me." He walked away.

  I’d finally met an attractive man and he was strolling out of my life. I hadn’t even gotten his name.

  Just then I heard the strum of a guitar, followed by a newly familiar voice that distracted my attention from Mr. Fab just long enough for me to lose him.

  "I’ll take a venti hazelnut with whip mocha." The street guy! At the counter ordering my drink while I was stuck with a stupid old Americano!

  He pulled my twenty out and handed it over to the girl at the register. It was obviously my twenty, right down to the pink stamp on it asking the bearer to go to a website and enter in the bill number so that some class somewhere could track it around the country. Which, I’d done, of course.

  I stormed over to him. "Hey! I thought you needed money for a permit."

  He shrugged. "Yeah, but I need coffee, too. Wouldn’t want to die of a caffeine headache."

  "Eavesdroppers—"

  "Often hear very interesting stuff." He laughed. "He just disappeared around the corner. If you run, maybe you can catch him."

  "Thanks for the tip."

  "My pleasure."

  Sarcasm was wasted on some people. Sigh. So much for being nice and fate smiling on me. Had I really been that obvious with Mr. Fab? I slunk out of Starbucks with what was left of my dignity.

  Chapter 4

  The Northwest Institute

  Where greatness begins

  Suite 301

  * * *

  The Northwest Institute occupied a suite on the third floor. A receptionist directed me to a conference room decorated in muted colors. A podium stood at the front with a video screen beside it. Round tables were scattered abou
t. Soft music was playing. A table at the back had bottled water and free coffee. Starbucks even. I should have known. I refilled my cup and surveyed the room. I hated attending these things alone.

  The room was already filling. The smart attendees were grabbing the best tables, the ones in the far back. I sighed. I’d just have to buck up, sidle into an empty seat, introduce myself, and make the most of it. It was only one day.

  "You look thrilled to be here."

  I’d been so absorbed, I hadn’t heard anyone approach me. I turned toward the voice.

  A fortysomething man stood beside me, sipping his coffee, his hand extended. "Roger Duncan."

  "Leesa Winsome." I shook his hand.

  "Here by yourself?"

  I laughed. "What gave me away?"

  "The lost lamb look." He grinned.

  I wrinkled my nose. "That obvious? I’m terrible at these kinds of things." I lowered my voice. "I’m not even sure I want to be here." I knew I didn’t want to be here.

  "Really?" Roger looked surprised. "Garrett is one of the best motivators in country. High rate of success. Highly recommended."

  I remained uncertain.

  Roger gave a little laugh. "And the rest of us won’t bite."

  I let out a breath I was barely aware of holding. Roger looked like a nice guy. On closer inspection, I placed him at forty-five. I had a rule about men over thirty-six or seven. I didn’t date them. And men over forty, especially if they were confirmed bachelors, no way. They were likely to stay that way, mired in their selfish noncommittal ways. No real chance of reforming them or mending any bad habits, so claimed my women’s magazines.

  "Glad to hear it." I paused. Roger inspired trust. I wasn’t trying to impress him. I tried to sound a bit flippant, put a smile in my voice, banish my skepticism so I wouldn’t offend him. He sounded like a true believer. "The truth is, my family signed me up. I’m between jobs, actually. And they thought this might help me focus."

  Roger beamed. "Excellent. Fabulous! You’ll fit right in."

  I think I looked surprised at his reaction. Who wouldn’t be? Joblessness wasn’t generally a cause for celebration, praise, or accolades.

  "You have to meet my pal, Bud. He’s saving a table." Roger looked jubilant. "We’re both unemployed." He nodded to emphasize his point. "You have to join us, now. Swap war stories."

  "Really?" I felt a little lighter. A fellow sympathizer.

  "Oh, yes. Sacked. Laid off, technically. But forced out in reality. I was a marketing director. Didn’t see eye to eye with the jackass VP, an unethical, cheating, lying, loser. Been out for a year and a half. You?"

  "A little over a month."

  "Oh, well, you’re a newbie, then."

  I laughed, appreciating his enthusiasm. "Not really. This is my third time in the ranks of the unemployed."

  "No? Maybe you can teach us a thing or two then."

  "I don’t know about that. A year and a half? You must be pretty adept at surviving. You look put together and, well, not exactly homeless." I hoped I wasn’t wrong, that I hadn’t overstepped.

  Roger didn’t appear to mind. "I’m a single guy. I had a bit put aside. Bud and I room together, cuts expenses. We’re both former navy guys. I used to be a pilot."

  Which explained his confident cockiness. It was kind of endearing, actually.

  "Now I’m back in school with a bit of government help. I’ll have my degree in another semester."

  "Good for you," I said. "What are you studying?"

  "Nursing. Going to be an RN."

  I did a comic jaw drop, trying to picture him in white or maybe a pale, muted frock with pastel flowers. Nope, couldn’t do it. "Why?"

  Roger laughed. "I get that a lot. I was damned tired of being laid off, of corporate shenanigans. So I did a study of hot jobs, good pay, steady work, lots of openings. Stability was my number-one goal. Nursing. What with the baby boomers aging in droves, there’s a shortage. I plan to fill it. Going to specialize in operating room work."

  I still couldn’t picture it. "Sounds good if you can tolerate the sight of blood."

  "That I can. Never been squeamish."

  I nodded.

  "Bud and I run an informal club for the jobless. To keep our spirits up. Happy people are more employable than depressed ones. We studied it. So that’s what we’re about and that’s why we’re here today. To pick up pointers.

  "We call ourselves the Job Camp Group, JCG. We meet twice a week for moral support and to hang out, have fun, socialize.

  "Do a lot of free stuff. Go to parks. Outdoor concerts. Museums on the days they waive admission. Sometimes we splurge, go to a matinee. You’re invited to join."

  I hesitated, a little uncertain.

  "Amend that. You’re commanded to join. We won’t let you bail out."

  I nodded like a robot. "Sure." But I still wasn’t. "Um, who else is in the group?"

  Roger cocked his head and then grinned. "I see, a little worried it’s just Bud and me, are you? Well, don’t be. We have plenty of ladies who show up. We’re informal. People drop in when they feel like it. We usually have twenty to thirty people per meeting."

  "Excellent." And I was relieved.

  "What type of work are you looking for?" he asked.

  "I’m an electrical engineer."

  "A girl with a head for math and science. A real brain."

  I hated being called a brain. It brought back memories of high school taunts. I winced.

  "Sorry, that’s a compliment. Women should be smart." He took my arm. "Come on. Let’s go meet Bud."

  We turned. As Roger scanned the room, there was a commotion at the podium. A man in dark jeans bent over a laptop. My heart stopped.

  Mr. Fab from the coffee shop.

  All that derogatory stuff I’d said about Garrett came flooding back. This couldn’t be. He couldn’t be Garrett! I guess he hadn’t saved my life. Right about then I felt like dying of embarrassment.

  Roger spotted Bud. "Ah. There he is."

  Roger took my arm before I could escape. "Bud secured us a table right up front. Excellent. Always sit up front, that’s my motto. That way you get all the attention and a clear, unblocked view."

  I didn’t want to sit up front. I wanted to hide out.

  * * *

  Newton’s First Law—an object in motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by an opposing force. In this case, I played both the object and the opposing force. But Roger managed to propel me forward to a table directly in front of the podium anyway. Now I’d have to look like I was paying attention to the presentation every solitary minute and . . . think fast!

  I went over scenarios in my mind. Walk right up to him, make a flippant comment, laugh off my faux pas? Bold plan, if I could muster the nerve.

  How about this? Catch his eye. Flash a small apologetic look.

  "Leesa, Bud Fields. Bud, Leesa Winsome."

  I shook Bud’s outstretched hand and tried to concentrate. "Pleased to meet you."

  "The same." Bud pulled a chair out for me, a chair that sat sideways to the podium. "Have a seat."

  I hesitated. Roger made a sweeping "your chair awaits you" gesture. What could I do? We all sat.

  "Leesa is an unemployed engineer." Roger proceeded to spill out my story, in an overly loud voice.

  I wasn’t as pleased with his mega volume now that Garrett, alias Mr. Fab, was within earshot. He didn’t need any more details of my down-and-outness.

  Bud gave approving nods.

  To divert attention away from my troubles, I addressed Bud. "Roger says you’re looking for work, too. What do you do?"

  "A bit everything. When I met Roger I was a technician. Used to work on some of the equipment on Rog’s plane. When I got out of the service, Roger got me on at the help desk at Ventig Computers."

  "Really?" I tried to appear fascinated and focused on Bud and Roger when in reality, I was all too aware of Mr. Fab at the podium and my own embarrassment.

  "Yeah. I’v
e basically been following Rog around and mimicking his career. Up to now. I haven’t got the stomach for the medical profession. And I’m not ready to put a uniform on again."

  They both laughed.

  "Ventig pink-slipped Bud three months after me. I think I tainted him. He’ll have to tell you the story someday." Roger shot Bud a grin. "About how Ventig asked him to work out of his home because they were short on office space and then fired him for not showing up at the office. Those corporate shenanigans I was talking about."

  "No way?" I said. "You should sue them and make big money."

  Bud shrugged. "It’s in progress."

  Bud gave me a few details of the lawsuit. Interesting as it all was, I only listened with half an ear. The other half was cocked toward trying to listen to whatever Mr. Fab said to anyone.

  I did, however, ask the odd, polite question. Several times during the conversation, I thought Mr. Fab looked my direction. I put on the apologetic look and prepared the flirty wave only to be mistaken and have him gaze right past me.

  "Something bothering you?" Roger looked around, trying to see what distracted me.

  "Just a fly." I swatted and waved at the air, shooing an imaginary bug.

  Roger frowned. "I don’t see anything."

  "The little gnat kind," I lied. So much for alluring waves.

  Bud, I gathered, was also single. Divorced for some time. Looked a lot like you’d expect a guy named Bud to look. He was closer to my age, but as he was stocky and under six feet tall, I didn’t feel inclined to run through the checklist a third time inside an hour.

  Finally, Mr. Fab stepped to the mic, which boomed with a burst of feedback, interrupting our conversation.

  "Welcome to the Breakthrough to Greatness Seminar, ladies and gentleman." The silky, sexy tones of Mr. Fab.

  I cringed, waiting for him to confirm he was Garrett, and put on the apologetic look in case he looked in my direction.

  "I’m Ryne Garrett, head of the Northwest Institute."

  This was one of those times I wish I’d been wrong. But no. He was the head of the institute. I broke in to a full-body blush. To cover my embarrassment, I shifted in my chair, fanned myself and whispered to Rog that it was warm in here. Someone should turn up the air-conditioning or we’d all swelter.