Thanks. For a threat.
“You’re ridiculous,” I said, tossing a closed sensor at him.
He snorted and bumped the sensor with his chest so it’d fall into his hands. “You’ve gotta stop throwing stuff, or I’ll start thinking you’re the one who played football in high school.”
“Yeah, right.” There was no mistaking me for any of his giant friends. Or someone with one iota of athletic talent, even if I did have decent calves. I strutted to the shoe counter with more than one set of eyes on my backside.
Cassandra raised her thin brows at me. “That took a minute. Everything okay?”
“I…went to the washroom,” I said. It wasn’t a lie.
She wagged her brows. “Oh, I know how that can be. Especially after my first morning coffee.” She patted her stomach and chuckled.
I tried to school my expression. Was she so eager to talk she’d actually tell me about her bathroom visits?
I flagged down the closest customer, some grumpy pregnant lady with a ponytail. “Hi, can we help you with anything?”
Please?
“No,” she snapped.
“Actually, yes.” A woman with thick mascara pageant-walked to our desk, sort of gliding as she towed Miss Preggo by the elbow. “My daughter needs some new shoes.”
I glanced at her daughter’s feet and smothered an audible gasp of horror. Socks and sandals. She was wearing fuzzy woolen socks and open-toed sandals. How did she make it across the frozen parking lot in those without wiping out or spontaneously combusting from lack of fashion sense?
Cassandra didn’t even look at her feet. She just smiled at the mom. “Ooh, new shoes, how exciting.”
“My shoes and feet are fine.” The daughter glared at us while hugging her belly as if she was preparing to launch a baby at us like a T-shirt at a concert.
“You can’t go anywhere if your shoes don’t fit,” her mother said through her teeth.
“So what? Where am I going, exactly? Unless you plan on dragging me out here again–”
“You were all too happy to come out at the prospect of Cake Warehouse,” the grandmother-to-be said, rummaging through her purse.
Miss Preggo scowled. “This is stupid. Can’t we just go eat?”
“Only if you behave.” She offered her daughter a granola bar.
Miss Preggo snatched the bar. “These are disgusting.” She stormed off to our clearance shelving to unwrap the crinkly, crumbly snack and stuff it in her face.
She was in her twenties, way too old for temper tantrums about free shoes, especially if a baby was on its way. Maybe she was just hangry.
I guessed I’d kinda had a tantrum over ‘free’ Zeezy’s. But that was a different scenario. Totally. After all, I’d thrown things. Fighting a smile, I shook my head. That memory shouldn’t be amusing to me.
Cassandra gave me a funny look, then addressed our customers. ”You know, my feet swell based on the weather.”
I almost laughed at her lack of subtlety. This girl bloated because she got pregnant, not because it was cold. We could ignore the figurative elephant in the room if it meant a quick sale, though.
I threaded a sensor through a designer sneaker. “Are you looking for house shoes, winter boots, or heels for a special event?”
“Something she can use for running errands like grocery shopping,” Miss Mascara said, walking closer.
Miss Preggo called to us from afar. “I can order delivery.”
Her mom glared over her shoulder. “Those fees add up quickly.”
“We have to eat,” Preggo said snidely. “Someone could also pick it up for me.”
