Blushing Pink by Jill Winters Read Free Book Online Page A

sedan and locked the door behind her, then hurried across the garage, her clunky brown heels clicking on the cement floor as she went.
    Once inside the elevator she tugged on some of her clothes to straighten herself out. Under her jacket, she wore boot-leg khakis that were too tight on her hips, and a chocolate-brown turtleneck sweater that barely concealed her rounded tummy. Okay, the diet starts tomorrow. (She'd already had a croissant for breakfast, with some fatty egg-cheese thing her mother made, inevitably containing a quart of heavy cream, so today was out.)
    On the ride up, she steeled herself for the wrath of her boss, Darcy Chipkin, who took totalitarianism to a new level. Darcy was always on the warpath about something, but because she was only twenty-three, everything came off more as a temper tantrum. Of course, the baby tees and face glitter didn't help.
    Darcy had been there since she was sixteen, and apparently had worked her way up. So bully for her. That didn't explain why, along the way, she'd developed no actual managerial skills, just a knowledge of the store and a bitter need to whip her subordinates into submission at every turn.
    The ultimate irony of Reese's job was that before she had applied, Roland & Fisk had been one of her favorite stores. But as soon as she'd begun working there, the place had lost a lot of its appeal. Sure, she got a 25 percent employee discount on books, and 40 percent on cappuccinos, so at least there was that. And the decor still rated high—big, roomy, and clean, with shimmery green carpet, warm lighting, and long wooden shelves punctuated by thick, suede armchairs.
    So it wasn't the actual physical place that had failed her. It was the spiritual place—the ambiance the place took on when it was put into an employee context, which inevitably included clock punching and disgruntlement.
    The elevator doors opened and let Reese off in the back of the store, right next to the dreaded break room, which always felt more like a sterile examining room than a place to unwind and luxuriate in the permitted fifteen minutes. She had a theory that the room was intended as a form of psychological torture—the only hole, of course, was that Darcy Chipkin wasn't that bright.
    Now Reese opened the door and entered the fluorescently possessed chamber of despair. As usual, there were a couple of people sitting at the table, not speaking. She smiled hello and, as usual, people averted their eyes and continued pretending to read.
    Nothing new. Most of the people at Roland & Fisk fell somewhere between unfriendly and mute. She'd never forget her first day there, when she'd learned that important lesson. She'd been excited about her new job, and had this corny vision that she'd arrive and see everyone ensconced in ice-breaker games and camaraderie.
    Hah! More like, she'd walked in and the managers hadn't stopped to introduce themselves. When Reese had said hello, nobody had even looked up! Finally, after several long moments, someone had motioned for Reese to go to the back, where others were unloading stock. She'd gone, and nobody had acknowledged her there either, or given her further instructions. They were all too busy mechanically opening boxes like drones.
    She'd asked what she could do to help, and a long silence had followed before a manager silently responded. He'd pointed to Reese, then to a box. A bizarre directive to say the least, but she got the point, and began unloading the box—hence joining the silent ranks of work mules who didn't believe in formal or informal introductions.
    That was the same day she'd met Elliot, who was also new. Her only impression of him had been that of a chubby little guy who didn't say much. But then out of the blue, when they were Windexing the front glass, he'd looked at her and whispered, "Bookstore or Gestapo headquarters? You decide." After that, she knew she'd like Elliot.
    Now Reese punched in on the wall computer. Good, she still had two