Dawn Atkins - A Perfect Life?

In the closet, she faced another dressing quandary. That made her think of Guitar Guy calling her outfit a getup and she smiled. What should she wear? Forget the trying-too-hard suit. How about professional separates? A plaid skirt with a navy blazer. Conservative, but not so coffee-tea-or-me.

For shoes, she needed those damned navy heels again. She slapped a couple of adhesive patches over Wednesday’s still-angry blisters—she wouldn’t let a minor injury slow her down—and headed for the kitchen.

One good thing about having Kitty as a roommate was that she added cool stuff to the kitchen—a combo coffee-espresso maker, an industrial-grade blender and gourmet food. Claire scooped a spoonful of paté out of a plastic tub Kitty had plopped into the refrigerator and ate it. Mmm. Expensive protein. She’d read somewhere that protein eased depression. Or maybe that was only turkey, not duck liver. Duck liver probably depressed you because you realized you could never afford it on your salary…sigh.

On her way out the door, Claire paused to survey the living room. Even as her heart had emptied out, her apartment was filling up. Rex had placed Kitty’s zebra-striped sofa where Jared’s commitment futon had been slated to go. And beside it was a leopard-spotted chaise with pillows shaped like lips and a glass coffee table on a black lacquer base. Propped against the wall were a couple of paintings of abstract nudes from a former lover of Kitty’s. The place was beginning to look like a singles pad. Not exactly Claire’s style, but fun. Definitely fun.

She called a farewell to Kitty, who probably had her mouth too busy to reply, and hurried outside, pleased to see the bus hadn’t arrived. Standing beside the bus bench, she shifted her weight from foot to foot, blisters throbbing slightly through the bandages, looking down Central.

“You were right.”

The liquid voice came from behind her. She turned to see Guitar Guy, wearing jeans, a snug black T-shirt and his guitar. He looked better than the other day, and when he brushed back a strand of hair, she realized it was shorter.

“You got a haircut,” she said.

“Yeah. I took your advice.” He gave her a crooked smile, then tilted his head, indicating her body. “But you didn’t take mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“The nuns make you dress like that?”

She looked down at her skirt. God. He was right. The blazer and plaid skirt did seem like a Catholic school uniform. She shrugged. “All my idea, sorry to say. Maybe I should go change….”She bit her lip.

“Don’t ever change,” he said in mock seriousness.

She laughed. “You’re just full of advice, huh?”

“That’s why I get the big bucks.”

“You’d probably make more money in Scottsdale. Lots of tourists.”

“Too snooty. I like downtown people.”

“Really?” Did he mean her?

As if in answer, he launched into the Billy Joel classic, “Just the Way You Are,” a song about not changing to please him.

He was flirting with her. She grinned. Except maybe he just wanted her to tip him. But if he was flirting, a tip might insult him. Her instincts said he liked her, but where had her instincts gotten her so far? In love with a married schmuck.

The bus arrived, saving her a decision, and she climbed the steps. While the driver looked at her pass, she glanced out the door. Guitar Guy saluted her as the bus doors shut. He liked her. And his voice stayed in her head all the way to the office.

Inside B&V, Georgia and Mimi stood at the receptionist desk. “So let him think you’re a lesbian,” Georgia was saying. “Men love lesbians. They want to convert you. Plus, they think they have to be re-e-ally good at oral sex.”

Mimi looked unconvinced. They both looked up at Claire.

“Well, lookie here,” Georgia said, leaning over the reception counter. “Muffy’s stopped in on the way to her tennis match.”

“Oh, for cripe’s sake,” Claire said. “I give up.” Catholic school or prep school—either way it was a bust. Despite what Guitar Guy had said, she should have changed clothes.

“Mr. Tires called again. He thinks the radial in the ad looks like a glazed doughnut.”

“Great.” The man spent no money on his tiny newspaper ads, but he wanted new creative every week. Small flippin’ potatoes. She saw that Mimi held a folder with Ryan Ames’s name on it.

“I’ll take that to him,” she said, tugging it from Mimi’s fingers. She needed to schedule their first mentor meeting anyway—her first step up the career ladder.

At Ryan’s office, she saw through his glass door he was reading the paper. She tapped. He frowned at the interruption, but when he saw it was her, smiled.

“Hi,” she said, entering. She handed him the folder.

“Thanks.” He smiled again. A big smile. A too-big smile. A definite man-woman smile. “So, how’s my mentee doing so far?”

“Just great.” Well, except for that broken heart, ruined life thing. “I was hoping we could get started on some strategy for me,” she said. “Maybe over lunch. I’ll buy.” Paying for lunch was a power move, she’d read.

“You’ll buy, huh?” Isn’t that cute? his smile said. “For now, why don’t you have a seat and we can get to know each other better.” He patted the chair kitty-corner to his desk, tugging it closer to him.

Oh, ish. Claire sat delicately on the edge of the chair, then pushed it back a couple feet.

“You settled?” he said, resting his hand on her arm as if to steady her. Gross. The man was hitting on her.

“I’m fine.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” Ryan said, leaning forward.

She pushed back a bit farther. “There’s not much to tell except I want to get ahead here.” She would make sure he knew she wasn’t interested in putting in any couch time to get there. “I want to prove myself through my work, of course. On my own merit. But I hope you can advise me where to concentrate my efforts. My work efforts.” That couldn’t be more clear.

“Sure, sure,” he said, smiling. “We can talk all about that over lunch. How do you stay in such good shape?”

“How do I…?” Blech, puke, retch. She had to nip this in the bud. “Tae Kwan Do,” she blurted. “Black belt, with a specialty in self-defense.”

“Oh, really?” Ryan’s brow lifted in surprise.

“Absolutely. I can make a guy walk lopsided for the rest of his life.”

“Well. That’s impressive. I guess I know who to take with me when I cross a dark parking lot at night.” He seemed to find her amusing, not life-threatening.

“So, how about we start with your top ten tips at lunch?” she said.

“Sure. Sounds good,” he said, smiling. “But I’ve got the first tip for you right now?”

“Really? What is it?” This was a good sign.

“Quit dressing weird. You look like a hooker dressed as a schoolgirl.”

“Check,” she said, pretending to make a mark on a pad. Yet another fashion expert had weighed in on her style statement. “So, I’ll meet you out front at noon for lunch and more tips?”

“Sounds good,” he said, his words tinged with man-woman energy, despite her hint that she could cripple him. Why did everything have to be more complicated than it seemed?

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