Page 1 of Finding Jack
Chapter 1
I stared down at the red stilettos. Granted, Nordstrom lights were extra flattering, but these pretty girls would look good under a half-dead parking garage bulb. I turned them from side to side, admiring them.
“Are they too much?” I asked my best friend Ranée.
She arched one of her perfect eyebrows at me. “Um, hi, we’re here because you got a promotion?”
“I don’t mean too much money. I mean…too much.” I made a point of examining my pedicure peeking through the peep-toe so I wouldn’t see the eyeroll I knew was coming. It didn’t matter. It dripped from her voice.
“If by ‘too much,’ you mean you’re worried that Paul will think these are over the top, then yes. He will. But that doesn’t make them ‘too much.’ Buy them. Buy them now. In fact, buy them in every color and wear them on every date with him.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I said even as I debated whether I needed them in black.
“Then at least get them in black,” she said.
It was fate, obviously. I waved the salesgirl over and told her I’d take them in black too, and she hurried to package them before I changed my mind.
Ranée hopped up from the try-on sofa. “I’m going to go see if I can find my brother a shirt for his birthday. Come find me in the men’s department when you’re done paying.”
Five minutes later I found her riffling through lumberjack shirts. I wrinkled my nose. “Does your brother have to wear plaid flannel because he lives in Oregon?”
“It’s not my favorite either, but this is about getting him something he wants. And he’ll wear one of these.”
“It just feels like such a cliché. Does he also have a bird tattoo and drive a Subaru?”
“No and yes, and stop being so judgey.” She nodded at the picture on top of the clothes rack. “I think you’d do better with a guy like that anyway. It showed a guy tethered to the side of a rock face. He was wearing the same flannel shirt she’d just pulled from the rack.
“Definitely not. Rock-climbing man-bun guy? No. Flannel is strike one. Man-bun is strikes two and three.”
“That’s hair-ist.”
“Hair-ist is not a thing.”
“Yeah, it is. It’s like elitist or racist. You’re just biased against long hair.”
“Only on dudes. And only because it’s repulsive.”
She picked up a different flannel. “Whatever. I’ll get this one for my brother and then we can start Phase Two of the Emily Riker Rules the World celebration.”
“Not the world. Just a—”
“Whole fleet of computer programmers!”
“Fleet,” I said, testing the word. “I don’t think a group of coders would be called a fleet.”
“Then what? A herd?”
“No. They definitely don’t travel in herds. They’re more like…pods. Pods of coders.”
“And you’re the boss of your own pod.”
“I’m queen of the pod people,” I said, wrapping the arms of the flannel shirt around my neck to create a cape.
“Just put the red shoes on and you’re Queen of Everything.”
I slid my arm through hers and tugged her toward the register. “All I want to be queen of is the sofa. Hurry and pay.”
An hour later we were at another register, this time debating our grocery store candy choices. I grabbed a king-sized Reese’s four-pack. “Done! Pick and let’s go. Tina Fey is waiting for us.”
