Page 55 of The Re-Proposal

“Shoes,” she mutters, “you need more than just shoes.”

My annoyance at everything that happened today bubbles over and spews out on her.

“Look, lady, I don’t know what you’re selling, but you should probably work on your sales pitch. It’s severely lacking in the customer service department.” My eyebrows slant together. “Have a nice day.”

“Ah-ah.” She stops the door with a hand.

I glare at her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Come with me,” she says like a stern ballet teacher about to show me how to perfect agrandplie.

I frown.

She stops, turns and beckons with a finger. “Come.”

I let out a disbelieving laugh.

Her eyes meet mine again and they narrow when I don’t move.

“Mr. Bolton said you would give trouble,” she mumbles.

“Bolton?”

She gives me a look one would give a stinky dead fish. Lifting her phone, she dials a number. “Bring the girl up.”

“Which girl?” I choke. “Who the heck are you, lady?”

Seconds later, I hear aneep!

I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Laura?” I stumble back when the intern veers into my line of sight. “What are you doing here?”

“Clarissa, youhaveto see this.” Laura grabs my hand and drags me down the stairs of my apartment. It’s three flights. And she’s moving at lightning speed.

The arrogant woman takes her time, hands folded primly in front of her as she alights the staircase like a queen.

“Laura, what’s going on?” I demand.

“You’ll see!” Laura yanks me outside and gestures dramatically. “Tada!”

I stare at the U-Haul trailer. It looks like a regular cargo truck. “Are you interested in being a trucker now?”

The stern lady joins us outside. Without a glance at me, she motions to a man. “Open it.”

Metal creaks.

Joints snap.

The door yawns wide and my jaw hits the grass.

There’s a shoe store hidden in that trailer. Dazzling shoes of every style and color line shelves that go back so far, it seems endless.

“Come.”

This time, when the scary lady beckons me, I follow like a cartoon cat floating in the air.

Laura is right on my heels.

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