Strut the Mall (Love at Westbrook Mall #4)

1. Jingle Bells

1

Jingle Bells

The only thing ‘fresh’ about Fancee’s stock rooms were the fashions hidden in its depths.

I grunted and pushed aside giant yard-waste sized bins of tennis shoes and flip-flops to get to the good stuff: a treasure trove of untouched designer footwear. I popped open a box and took a whiff of the perfume. New shoe smell was on par with new car scent: that fresh, high-quality leather interior, the reassurance of comfort and performance. These shoes would lick the arches of my feet and pump up my calves. With these, I was powerful, elegant, and rich. Or I would be, once I posted enough pics.

A few warehouse guys eyed the bins–and me. It didn’t matter how garish my neon green uniform tee was or that I barely used makeup today; my clear skin, symmetrical features, and hip-hugging pants were enough to garner an extra glance. Fancee’s should put me in their ads, but so far, they'd only used models with ‘catalog and TV experience.’ Whatever. I’d get there. For now, I got a great discount on designer goods.

I dragged the high-quality bins closer to the shoe department service window for a shot at lighting other than our warehouse yellow-tinted dinge. It was easier to sort everything here–not by size, but by value.

I texted pics of a few of the designer shoes to my boyfriend, Theo.

Me: New inventory. What do you think?

Theo: They look like money!

I smirked and shook my head. Yeah, they were money. But which ones were the best investment? We had to be smart about these things.

Theo: Anything in there for me, baby?

I checked my hair, then sent him a selfie of me leaning against the bins with the mini ring light on my phone case activated for the ultimate flattering lighting.

Theo: haha, no, I meant any high-end kicks for men. Any Pippins or Zeezys?

Oh, I should’ve known. Warehouse guys usually snatched that stuff up right away, so there wasn’t much point digging through the bins, but I lifted a few boxes anyway.

Me: Not today.

Theo: Ok, keep an eye out, baby. It can be for the holidays ;)

I rolled my eyes. The holidays were over, and we’d been on-and-off since our one-year-anniversary. I wasn’t about to drop $400 on a pair of Zeezys unless he gave me a ring. At least then I could sell it for greater or equal value when he did something stupid. Well, if he did something stupid. No point being pessimistic. After all, there was a chance we could get married. But not until I was at least thirty and agencies no longer wanted to hire me. Single girls always did better at casting calls. We still had time. I was only twenty-three.

A bell dinged behind me.

Ugh, a customer.

I sighed and strolled out to the shoe counter. There weren’t many windows on the first floor of Fancee’s after last year’s smash-and-grabs, but we had enough overhead fluorescents to fake daylight for ambiance. It was supposed to make people happy, which higher-ups thought meant more spending. It was less strain on the eyes, anyways, except the blinding change in light quality from warehouse to the sales floor.

A woman with limp hair held out a silver flat. “I need this in a size eight.” She was probably going to a New Year’s party this weekend. Sparkly dress, shiny shoes, it was all very ‘classic’ by most standards. But no heel and no ring meant she was probably resigned to a mediocre time. Well, whatever. Maybe she had friends. Most people did.

I took the shoe and wandered to the stacks in back, ignoring the unsorted discards on my right. I wiggled my fingers at labels and tapped my long, white nails against the boxes to track down the silver flats in size eight. Got it.

I marched to Miss NYE and offered her the box. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” She clutched the shoes and hurried to a far chair instead of taking a seat in the closest section to try them on. Some people avoided salespeople like the plague–as if I was going to kiss her ass for a commission. Fancee’s employees mostly relied on hourly pay. I’d get a bonus if she signed up for a store credit card, but it wasn’t worth the ten extra bucks to sell it beyond a general ask, in my opinion.

I sauntered through the open doorframe and unsheathed a pair of luxury heels. These would get me my dream job. Or at least my rent money. I popped off my tennis shoes and took the heels for a spin on the concrete floor, the dim lights, narrow hall, and muted pop music from the store providing a catwalk effect. As I ‘worked’ the runway, schooling my expression, future fan edit possibilities filled my imagination.

Would I go by ‘Nikki’ or ‘Nyx,’ Queen of the Runway? Stage names affected personal brand. I wasn’t sure if I should be hot-but-accessible urban chic or You Wish You Could Be Like Me HBIC.

Ding.

At the sound of the bell, I wobbled and flapped my arms for balance. Someone kept smacking the bell to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells.’

Ding-ding-ding. Ding-ding-ding. Ding-ding-Ding…ding-dnn.

The last note muffled like someone smashed their hand over it.

A man’s voice boomed through the walls. “Hey, get back here.”

“Just a minute,” I called. What an ass. There was no such thing as a shoe emergency in the suburbs out here. I hurried into my work shoes, accidentally squashing the heel tab. Hopefully, my manager didn’t wake up from his hangover nap with all this racket. Shifts were always easier when he slept at his desk.

I worked my heel to edge the tab the rest of the way out of my shoe and power-walked to the counter.

Some meathead wearing a cheap, salt-dusted coat glowered to his left. The guy wasn’t even paying attention.

‘How can I help you?’ was too nice for this jackass.

“Yes?” I seethed.

As he turned, I recognized his boxy face and body: Zack Turner.

Underneath the crappy jacket, he wore a Westbrook High sweatshirt. Of course our old quarterback would wear a tribute to his glory days. As if he didn’t get enough attention then. Now, he had to ring the bell fifteen times for mine. I gave him my darkest glare.

Zack frowned. “Uh…hi.”

I cocked my head at the bell and crossed my arms. “Was there an emergency?”

He slumped his considerable weight to one side and slung a thumb into his jacket pocket. “No.”

“You were ringing that pretty urgently.”

“That wasn’t me,” he said.

“That was you yelling.”

He rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t yelling.”

“You’re naturally that loud?”

“Yeah. So is everyone in my family.” He huffed and gestured to the left. “I was talking to–”

Bells chimed as a young woman in a puffy coat rushed toward us and waved. Her long, reddish-brown hair sparkled with melting snow. “Nicole, I’m so glad you’re working today. I was hoping I could say hi. Hi.”

I awkwardly waved back. “Hi.” Was I supposed to hold a pair of shoes for her?

She grinned, her round cheeks rosy from the cold. “I played ‘Jingle Bells’ as a hint it was me.”

“Super annoying,” Zack grumbled.

Sparkles waved him off. “She gets it. Don’t you?”

I wracked my brain for what that clue could mean. She did look familiar. Had we met at a casting call? Although she was kinda short for runway shows, and I didn’t remember auditioning for any Christmas plays.

She pressed her knees together and wrung her hands, each twist of her toes creating a jingle. Bells dangled from her boot laces. Based on the velvet ribbon that didn’t match the brand, she must have tied them there herself.

Was she eccentric or some kind of Christmas-freak? I gasped as it all came together: she was the bubbly mall elf who sat with me in the break room for a few weeks.

I smiled and welcomed her into a one-armed hug at the side of the counter. “Of course, how are you? I almost didn’t recognize you without the uniform.” That thing was brightly colored polyester. She had worn it with way more cheer than I tolerated my hideous neon-green Fancee’s tee.

After the hug, she bounced on her heels and clasped her hands. “I’m going to be a party princess. I’ve decided to be Sugarplum again–or at least a variant. But I need fun shoes to complete the outfit.”

I gestured to the unofficial New Year’s Eve display. “Party shoes are over there.”

She reeled back. “I can’t dance in heels.”

Zack cracked his neck and scanned the store. “Pick out what you want, then.”

“But she’s my friend. And a shoe expert. I want her opinion.” She smiled at me, all faith, hope, and naivete.

“I’m not an expert,” I said. Nor was I her friend. But she was nice enough. What was her name again?

Zack narrowed his eyes. “You work with shoes every day.”

“I put them on a shelf and check for sizes in the back. I’m not trained in party princess etiquette,” I said.

Sparkles deflated in her puffy coat. “That’s okay. I’ll browse on my own for a bit. It was nice to see you again.” With a weak smile and a wave, she meandered toward the shelves, shuffling to a depressing tinkle from the bells tied to her laces.

I jerked my chin at her backside. “Is that sad-puppy routine how she convinced you to go shopping?”

“Basically,” he deadpanned.

Well, I wasn’t going to follow her around while we played Find the Subjectively Perfect Pair For Me. Zack lingered, vaguely casting his gaze across the shoe counter. Why was he here instead of hanging with her or browsing for his own stuff? She was into that tatted-up barista from The Bern, if I remembered correctly, so she and Zack couldn’t be dating.

Leave , I silently commanded him. I crossed my arms and cocked my hips. Once they were gone, I could get back to my catwalk practice. “Do you need anything?” I asked.

He glanced at the Help Wanted sign on the desk by our leather polish kits. I was tempted to slap that sign down so he couldn’t read it. Five minutes with Zack was one thing. An entire shift? No thanks. We had four years of high school together, and that was enough for a lifetime.

He furrowed his brow. “No, we’ll be fine.”

“Great. Just ‘ding’ if you need anything.” I flashed him an insincere smile, then retreated to the back. I frowned at the piles of everyday shoes and boxed designer goods. I couldn’t hear my boss’s snores or the sound of his chair rolling around, so I had no clue if I had free reign of the bins for a few more minutes. The pink gym shoes a few layers deep made me think of ‘Sugarplum,’ though.

No way she could make a living entertaining at someone’s birthday party. Maybe if she was stripping. But she said she couldn’t dance in heels, so what the hell was she doing? Didn’t she want to make her own money?

I snatched the pink shoes, then stormed to the front. At the very least, I’d make sure she was cute and comfy. The girl needed my expertise, and I could handle the quarterback no matter how much he tried to ring my bell or push my buttons.