I set up the search filters on the shoe station computer. “It’s not a big deal. I’d probably look this up for my boyfriend, anyways. He’s the same size, and he’s obsessed with Zeezy’s.”
I expected a little camaraderie. A smile, maybe? But the girl clung tighter to her purple purse and stared at me.
“Do you know which style?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Any.”
“Okay, give me a minute.” No preference meant I had to go through every single item, then. Great use of our time.
Cassandra propped her fists on the small of her back and raised her eyebrows so her wrinkles touched her hairline. “Her boyfriend’s a cutie. Used to model at…what’s that store? Armando and Ritch?”
Technically, he was a sales associate, a hot guy for hire who’d stand outside and lure customers in on the basis they could look like him. But that was modeling, in most respects.
“That’s actually how we met,” I said.
“Is it? How sweet.” Cassandra beamed.
I chuckled, warmth blooming on my cheeks. If only she knew the salacious things he’d said to me while I was shopping. “Anyways, it looks like the only store with any size thirteen Zeezy’s in stock is downtown.” That location was at least an hour away. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” Miss Purple Purse scurried out the building.
Cassandra moved shoes from one section of the counter to another as if that organized anything. “That's funny. Usually it’s guys who are embarrassed to buy their girlfriends things.”
“You think she was shopping for a guy?” Not that shecouldn’thave one, even if her choice of purse clashed with the rest of her outfit.
Cassandra leaned so low onto the counter that her chest touched her forearms. “You don’t?”
I didn’t want to say I got reseller vibes. I didn’t know that weird lady, and half our warehouse was guilty of trying to upsell our stuff online anyway. “Maybe she has big feet,” I offered.
Cassandra cackled and pushed my arm. “You are too funny.”
Yeah. And maybe a little bit mean.
Andre’s ‘managerial’ voice cut through the back room. “Cassandra?”
We both flinched. Cassandra scrambled to stand straight as I snatched the shoes off the counter. “Yes, sir,” she said.
He slipped out of the shadows of the stock room, redoing his tie for no-doubt the dozenth time this morning. Managers didn’t have to wear the hideous green shirts. Most did, to show solidarity. Andre wore button-downs and blazers. He probably liked to pretend he had a different job than managing the shoe department at Fancee’s. Delusions fueled his day drinking.
His nostrils flared. “I told you, you have to wear a belt or…keep things covered. When you lean–”
“Whoops. Is my derriere peeking out again?” Cassandra laughed and tugged the waistband of her slacks. “Sorry about that.”
I rolled my lip between my teeth to stop myself from giggling. Underwear wasn’t her favorite thing. We’d all gotten more than a peek of her backside, especially since our job involved a lot of bending.
Andre sucked in his beer gut. “Nicole, you’re on the floor. Cassandra, clean up the window.”
“Yes, sir.” Cassandra saluted him. I had no idea how she dealt with a thirty-year-old has-been on a power trip. He was her stepson’s age. Like she needed another ungrateful, pompous loser to suck up to on a regular basis.
I tilted my chin at him. “Hey, Andre, I was wondering–”
“No one will be leaving early for New Year’s parties. Half our warehouse already called off ‘sick’ today,” he said as he slipped into the stock room.
I started after him and slid the shoes into the sorting rack. “I know, but my boyfriend’s–”
“We’ll be out plenty of time before midnight, especially if we stay on-task.” He uncapped a marker, then wrote our break schedule on the white board mounted to the wall above our shoe repair table.
“My boyfriend has a gig,” I said. The least he could do was let me finish my sentence.
