Strut the Mall (Love at Westbrook Mall #4)

39. Retail Therapy

39

Retail Therapy

People underestimated me. I wasn’t just a model, a sex worker, a shoe sales associate, or a girlfriend. I was a lover. A fighter. A fashionista.

Maybe even a friend.

We never discussed if I was still ‘allowed’ to hang with Shelby, and I didn’t trust any of my city friends not to gossip about me if I opened up about anything. There was only one person I trusted, and he’d judged me.

That night, Zack texted me.

Zack: Goodnight.

What did he expect me to say? Sweet dreams? Hey, it’s okay you think my line of work is sketchy, please date me anyway? No. We weren’t friends. His precious honor would forbid it.

I needed someone to make me laugh and remind me I was fabulous.

So, I’d be that person.

The next day, I experimented by filming myself making my bed. Each jump cut highlighted the designer wares and how much each piece cost. For the last shot, I flopped onto the mattress like a starfish.

Mine, all mine, I joked.

But I wasn’t feeling the solo bed triumph post-breakup. Zack and I never even got to share a romp in the sack. I wrapped myself in the blankets and toddled over to check my camera. Okay, my ghost-in-a-sheet shuffle was kind of funny. I could imagine Zack laughing and asking, “What are you doing?”

I’d made a wrap dress.

“Super classy,” he’d probably tease.

And it was. Sort of ironically, just like me.

I twisted and pinned the sheets, using my live footage as a model to figure out what should go where.

And there, I thought, wrapping a belt around my waist. I posed dramatically and spun in my new ensemble to show it off.

A masterpiece. Classic formalwear.

These sheets were great for the bedroom or the ballroom, which totally justified the expense. Know your worth, I’d caption it.

I laughed.

For a moment, the emotional pain stretching my skin tight snapped in relief.

God, I needed that.

Something silly. Like a kind, blunt voice in the back of my head. I wiped away some unexpected tears. Those were from laughing, right?

Okay, maybe I missed Zack. He hadn’t texted me a good morning. But that was to be expected. I hadn’t responded to him last night, and we were no longer in our arrangement.

I stopped the recording.

At least I had a cute video and fresh sheets. It was still a new year. New me. New possibilities.

I supposed things were always changing, to some degree.

The next time I went to work, I braced myself for running into an ex. No eyeliner, no mascara. Nothing that could smudge with surprise waterworks. However, I did use some undereye concealer and lip stain for confidence.

I strutted through the warehouse with my head held high. Thankfully, I didn’t see my particular brand of broad-shouldered hunk moving inventory, so I approached one of the guys I’d seen rifling through the shoe bins during prior opening shifts and asked, “Hey, do you—”

“Zack’s in the back,” he said.

I inhaled sharply. Even hearing his name stung. Probably because he implied we were still together, which we weren’t. We hadn’t been, and never would be.

“I was going to ask if you had any Zeezy’s, size seven or up,” I said.

A warehouse employee who consistently combed the wares instead of just dropping them off and going to the next batch had to be a reseller or a collector.

He eyed a stack of boxes. “You mean in this shipment?”

I leaned away from it. “No. I don’t want to buy a pair, and they’re not for a customer. I just want to borrow them for a day or a lunch hour, even.”

“For what?” He frowned and glanced over my shoulder.

“They’re for a photoshoot type thing,” I said, trying to be nonchalant.

“A photoshoot?” Zack asked incredulously, his voice booming from behind me.

Fuck my life.

He probably thought I was doing it for my private channel.

The squeak of his dolly rolled up closer. I glanced over my shoulder and hugged myself. There he was: scruffy, strong, and sexy as ever.

Fuck the fucking quarterback.

“It’s not…it’s for a style video on my public channel,” I explained, my cheeks flaming. “Nothing weird, I promise.”

Nothing weirder than dropping sauce on my leg for New Year’s Eve, at least.

I smoothed my ponytail and tried to focus on the other warehouse guy. “I would wear them with socks for two minutes indoors, freshen them up with goodies from the shoe repair station, then give them back, good as new.”

“I don’t know, those are expensive shoes,” the guy hedged. “There would have to be conditions.”

“Totally fair.” I wouldn’t lend out my $300 hair dryer to a random coworker for an hour either.

The guy jerked his chin. “Would you vouch for her, Zack?”

My shoulders sagged. Well, there went my plans.

“I…would,” Zack said.

I whipped around and stared. He’d vouch for me? Even after our breakup and knowing what I did?

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he nodded. “I do.”

A strange sense of hope fluttered through my chest like a hundred downy feathers.

He trusted me with a coworker, or at least one of his casual friends.

Maybe one day, he’d trust me with his heart again.

Holding his gaze was as uncomfortable as squeezing myself into shapewear, so I whipped back around. There was nothing wrong with who I was now, I reminded myself.

Besides, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Reconciliation wasn’t on the table or in the racks. We were over. Done. I had to move on from the fantasy of the wallflower and the quarterback.

“Okay,” the warehouse guy said. “I’ll get them to you along with the care rules.”

“Thanks.” I twisted myself into a knot and glanced at my ex. “Thank you, too.”

He tightened his grip around the dolly. “No problem, Nic.”

I hurried past him before I did something stupid like ask how he’d been. We weren’t friends anymore. Just acquaintances.

My heart pounded, and my butt sweat. I fanned myself with my hideous green T-shirt.

Why was I more nervous talking to him now than I had been in high school? Maybe because I’d let him in since then. I’d taken a chance. Gotten rejected. Well, I wouldn’t give him a chance to do that again.

Hell, I’d probably quit. I could find another part-time job or switch departments to one less localized by the warehouse. Maybe I didn’t need Fancee’s health care.

Better make the best of my discount while I still had it, though.

Between bouts of helping customers, I used the computer to browse our wares. I could build whole outfits like this. It’d make great video content. But what was worth the investment? Footsteps clanged down the stairs, so I switched to the shoe department tab.

Andre strode up and scoffed. “Shopping during your shift?”

At least I wasn't drinking on it, I almost chided back.

“I’m analyzing trends so I can predict what to recommend for the season.” I gave him a plastic smile.

For whatever reason, he bought it.

“Good job. I like to see that initiative. Can you straighten those displays? I want them all angled toward the walkway.” He demonstrated how to adjust it as if we hadn’t done the same damned thing every single day.

“Will do,” I said.

God, I couldn’t wait for Cassandra to get in and relieve me of this man, even if it was only for my lunch break.

I twisted the shoes in the right direction and tidied up our section. At least a few areas of my life were in order. I had money, and I had a plan.

I dropped some discarded single-use footie socks in the back and shuddered. I had no idea who’d been in those or how hygienic they’d been. I squeezed some hand sanitizer into my palm and spread it through my hands.

“Not big on feet?” Zack asked.

I started and turned to find him smiling and rubbing his ear.

Why was he back here? No dolly, no boxes… Did he want to talk to me?

I sat against the shoe repair station. “I already told you, it’s not my thing.”

“I know. And the Zeezy’s stuff is not for your clients.” At least it sounded like he believed me. He leaned one arm on the wall, his muscles straining his shirt. In this dark little corner, the dim lights were sensual.

Don’t touch him, I warned myself.

“You look good,” he said.

After five hours’ sleep, I doubted it. “Thanks.” I had to stay strong. Do not return the compliment.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine.” Not pining. Not touching anything. I slid the sticky hand sanitizer between my finger webbing. “And you?”

He looked down. “I kind of feel like an idiot.”

“For what?” Trusting me? Loving me? Letting me go?

“For everything.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “I’m still trying to understand…” He furrowed his brow and met my gaze. “I’m sorry for my reaction. You opened up to me, and I appreciate that.”

“Okay.” It didn’t mean his views on my side gig had changed.

“I’m not used to… I’ve never…” He rolled his shoulder. “I mean, firefighters do the whole calendar thing for charity, right?”

I choked on a laugh. “Yeah?”

“Some of them also auction off dates. Not promising anything besides conversation, but, you know, they talk to people who’d be into that kind of thing,” he said, his neck flushing red.

This was almost painful to witness.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re suddenly okay with it,” I said.

“I’m not,” he insisted, though I wasn’t sure he meant he wasn’t pretending or he wasn’t okay with it. “We’re not fake anymore, remember?”

Were we ever?

He stepped closer. I looked at his lips and—

Ding!

The bell sharpened my resolve. “I have to get back to work.”

His posture sagged as I slipped away.

For some stupid reason, I paused in the doorway to play with the trim. “For what it’s worth, you’d make a really great fireman.”

His lip twitched up. “Yeah?”

I nodded and gave him a real but small smile. “I would’ve bid on you.”

He stood straight and beamed at me like the fucking furnace of warmth and wonderful he could be.

Ugh, what was I doing?

I dashed to the counter before I got myself into any more trouble.

I probably needed therapy. For now, good old retail therapy would have to do.