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“The cobbler tried to kick me out of his shop.” I lean closer, bracing my hands against the conference table. “He said to throw my shoes away.”

“But you didn’t?” Mrs. Yaltzinger’s getting it, finally.

“I had just graduated from business school,” I say. “I needed anidea, and I was flipping through them, casting off one bad idea after another. I mean, for designer shoes, you’d need adesigner,right?” I smile. “My shoes—Vincenzo Imbruglia’s—couldn’t be replaced because after the poor man took his family on vacation, there was an accident in which all of them except for himdied. After that, he stopped working. Therewereno more Vincenzo Imbruglia shoes in the world.”

Their mouths dangle open. Every last one.

“It turned out that the cobbler I’d been arguing withfor almost half an hour before he replaced my soleswasa broken, depressed shell of Vincenzo Imbruglia. What were the odds that he would turn up in my neighborhood, essentially disguised as a humble cobbler, just trying to make enough to pay his rent?”

The board is at least listening.

“The passion I had for his beautiful, comfortable product convinced him to try again, with my help this time.” I shrug. “I knew there was a need, and that made it a snap to market.”

“You didn’t have the idea to create a designer shoe label in the beginning?” Mr. Jimenez looks floored.

“Nope. I knew that men’s designer shoes, by and large, looked nice but felt like torture devices. When I realized that the person who had unlocked the code to providing both comfort and beauty was right in front of me, I spotted my first latency in the market.”

“When you added jackets?” Mr. Jimenez asks.

“It was the same,” I say. “Most designer coats were ruined by rain.Rain.” I shake my head. “Something so basic, so common, that in New York City, you’re almost doomed to ruin your designer jackets within a month or two. A latency.”

“But surely finding such latencies in the women’s side of things should be even easier,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says.

“Ah, ah.” I shake my head. “You may not have noticed, but I’m a man.”

Mrs. Yaltzinger frowns. “But surely your girlfriend?—”

“It might be a boyfriend,” Mr. Jimenez hisses.

I splutter. “I’m not in a relationship, but it would be with agirlif I were.”

“Then you should find her,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “She can help you identify latencies.” Her brow furrows.

“I haven’t had time to date,” I say. “I built this business from the ground up.”

“But now you have us,” Mr. Dressel says. “We can, and really should, be picking up some of the slack of management. Let us do our jobs, so you can go do yours.” He tosses his head. “Sniff out the latencies we can find solutions to, and then come back to us so we can actually expand.”

“It’s not that simple,” I say. “You can’t justwishme a girlfriend, believe me. I’d have one with silky hair and big, full lips, if that was possible.”

Mrs. Yaltzinger’s face is pinched as she whips out her phone, taps on a few buttons and holds it to her ear. “Yes, Ursula. I’ve got a new client for you. He’d like to start right away, and look for women with silky hair and big, full lips.”

Oh, boy.

Turns out, I’m still a complete halfwit. Having a board is even worse than being stuck with my parents.

2

BEA

Most people hate their job—there’s a reason you’re paid to do it.

I know I’m not special.

And to be fair, when I started waiting tables, I didn’t hate it. My first time working as a waitress was at Dave and Seren’s inn, and it was small enough that there were never many people.

Thanks to Dave and Seren, it never felt like work.

But when I started college to study music, it never occurred to me that even after I graduated, I’d still be waiting tables. I’m working at the nicest place in Scarsdale, but that cuts both ways. My tips are so good that I haven’t been able to quit. No music job I could find would come close to what I make working five nights a week at the Red Horse.

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