Her mind flitted through odd thoughts—her futon-no-more, her now-too-expensive apartment, her new mentor Ryan and Mr. Tires, her biggest tiny account—anything but the nuclear blast that had just vaporized her heart.
Maybe she was still asleep and this was a nightmare. She pinched herself on the forearm—ouch—and then again just to be sure. Ouch again. She was awake, all right. And filled with the feeling she got when she’d done something dreadful—like spilled red punch on Mr. Biggs’s Italian loafers at the Christmas party or bit down on a walnut shell, cracking her tooth—situations where she’d give anything to do a quick rewind of the moment. Turn left instead of right. Spit instead of swallow.
She grabbed the railing and took in more air. Blindly, she watched traffic pass. How many people zipping down Central had just heard her on-air humiliation? Her gaze caught on a man heading toward her building. She recognized him as the musician who’d been playing on her corner for tips the last couple of mornings. She’d dubbed him Guitar Guy. She was certain that he hadn’t been listening to K-BUZ. He was about her age.
Claire stepped back into her bedroom, slid the door shut and thumped her head on the cool glass a couple of times before dropping to sit on the floor. Resting her chin on her knees, she let a couple of tears slip down her cheeks and onto her shins. But just two. That was all the leakage she’d allow for that rat. Jared, how could you be married?
And how had she picked him to fall in love with? She’d taken her time, looked around, chosen very carefully. Oh, yeah. She’d very carefully picked out a cheating bastard.
Well, she couldn’t sit here feeling sorry for herself. Heartache or no, she had a job to get to. And a career to boost. She’d feel better once she got moving. Shine it on, her friend Kitty would tell her. Climb back onto that little red tricycle and pedal on, sister.
Managing a smile at the thought, Claire tromped to the bathroom and turned the shower on ultra hot. She grabbed the loofah Kitty and her other two best friends had given her as part of their apartment-warming gift and dragged it across her back. Too scratchy. No pain, no gain, her friend Emily would say. She’d call the Jared disaster a learning experience. Zoe, who’d picked out the raspberry face soother, would tell her to be gentle with herself to get through the hurt.
Claire sighed. She needed to talk to her friends about this disaster. The four called themselves the Chickateers—all for one and one for all—sharing the good, the bad and the dreadful every Wednesday for Game Night. They gathered at Talkers, a bar not far from Claire’s apartment, to talk, drink wine and play a game they took turns choosing.
Thank God tonight was Game Night. She would share her tale of woe and the Chickateers would tell her what to do. And it would all be okay.
Scalded pink from the sizzling shower, Claire wrapped herself in a thick Egyptian-cotton towel—also from the Chickateers—and headed for her huge walk-in closet—another thing she loved about this apartment and did not want to lose.
What to wear? Now that she was getting serious about her career, clothes were an issue. In advertising, appearance was everything. She had to make the right statement. She pulled out a Lycra tank top and suede miniskirt. Too casual. How about this kicky gauze tie-dye number? Too femmie. She flipped more hangers. At the back, she found the suit her mother had given her when she first got hired at B&V. Navy blue, tailored lines. Very dress-for-success.
Perfect, because from now on, Claire would focus on success. Without Jared in her life, she could stay late at work, take work home. Not that her piddly-ass accounts required much extra effort. Penny-saver ads and newspaper flyers mostly. She sighed.
That’s what Ryan Ames would help her with. He was new to the firm, but a very hot exec who’d brought some top accounts with him, and she was pretty sure he liked her. When she’d proposed the mentor idea yesterday, she’d thought she detected a flicker of the man-woman thing on his face, but it faded so fast she figured she’d imagined it. She’d definitely talk to him today. Anything to distract her from the misery that kept rising in her throat like one too many Jell-O shooters.
Clothes on, Claire headed into her bright white, melamine-cupboarded kitchen for something to put in her stomach. There was nothing but Crystal Lite and celery in the fridge. Just as well. She felt like hurling.
For 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