Smart vs. Pretty by Valerie Frankel Read Free Book Online Page A

Clarissa’s artful outfit—a lime green power suit emphasizing her wasp waist with sheer tights and patent pumps—or for the contest to begin.
    Clarissa held a couple of index cards in one hand and a Mr. Microphone (that’s right) in the other. She announced, “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of Romancing the Bean, I’d like to thank you for coming.” The customers applauded demurely. “The rules of the contest are simple. One man will be crowned Mr. Coffee of the Week. He’ll be awarded free drinks and muffins for himself and ten of his friends for the next seven days. Then, next Friday night, he’ll turn over the crown to his successor.”
    At the counter, Frank—dressed in the all-black uniform of stretch pants and turtleneck—wondered how long this gimmick would work. She thought ahead a few weeks to the time when the Mr. Coffee contest was no longer novel. Then Moonburst would roll all over them again, like nothing had changed. Maybe she and Clarissa could put their heads together and come up with something else. They could brainstorm for ideas, like Frank used to do at the magazine. They could inspire each other to greater glory as a team. And maybe hit a movie together once in a while. Frank was snapped out of her reverie by a tap on her shoulder.
    He wore a denim shirt tucked into green chinos with a brown leather belt. He was clean shaven, but his skin was chalky and blotchy, like that of most natural redheads. Signs of impending baldness were visible under his curly hair. He had a couple of extra pounds around the middle, but he dressed well to hide them. Like she cared. “Lonely tonight?” Frank asked the man.
    “Hardly,” he lied. The overcast gray of his eyes darkened.
    “Poor Benji,” she said. “For once I’ve got you beat. Ordinarily I’d be honorable about it, but not tonight. I’m going to be small and petty and gloat, gloat, gloat.” She cocked her chin toward the crowd. “I’ve counted off at least two hundred heads.” An exaggeration. “I’d watch my back if I were you. A chain store is only as strong as its weakest link.” Benji Morton was the manager at Moonburst. When Amanda and Frank’s parents had died last year, he sent flowers. Frank despised him.
    He pursed his thin lips. “I’d mention something about a battle and a war, but I think that goes without saying. Mark my words, Francesca, in a couple of weeks, only one Montague Street coffee bar will remain standing or I’m a deluded asshole.”
    “I agree with everything you just said.”
    “I’m not going to be a small-business manager forever,” he spit out. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life cleaning up coffee grinds and spilled milk. To be honest, I don’t understand why you do. Why is this rivalry so personal for you? I’m not your enemy.”
    “Why are you here if you’re not sizing up the competition?” she asked.
    “I don’t think of you that way,” he said. “But I am sizing you up.”
    Was he flirting with her? A revolting thought. “By competition, I meant the contest.”
    “No, you didn’t,” he said. “But now that you mention it, I’d vote for the tall guy. He’s a sure thing.”
    Frank hadn’t realized that Clarissa was busy introducing the contestants and trotting them around the center of the room like ponies. Benji snickered behind her. Frank suddenly felt foolish, as though the whole contest idea was pathetic. She blamed Benji for blowing her mood.
    Clarissa arranged the men in line. She said, “Okay, now that you’ve had a good look at all five contestants, it’s time to vote for a winner.” She held her Mr. Microphone over the head of the editorial assistant. The crowd applauded weakly. Too young. Next she held her hand over the construction worker. A more enthusiastic response. She moved to the tall, outdoorsy guy. Thunder. The model: tepid, despite encouragement from Clarissa—he was too polished. The neb registered nary a ripple of applause. So