Feet First. Leanne Banks

to design.

      During the lunch she took at her desk, the phone rang again. She frowned at it and almost didn’t pick up. Mentally grumbling, she answered the phone. “Jenny Prillaman for Sal Amoré.”

      “Take the Tarantino job, Jenny. You can do it,” Sal said.

      She nearly dropped the phone in shock. “Sal! Where are you?”

      “In rehab. I had to sneak this call. I won’t be able to call again. Just do the job.”

      “But Marc Waterson thinks I have a degree from a design school.”

      “In this case, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Sometimes upper management doesn’t understand the way an artist creates.”

      “But I’m not an artist,” she protested. “I’m a doodler.”

      “Don’t diminish your talent. You’re an assistant designer now, Jenny. Do your job. I’ll call you after I get out. Ciao.”

      “But they think I’m something different from what I really am,” Jenny said. “Sal, Sal—” The line was dead. She was talking to nobody. Panic raced through her. She really was all alone on this. She would fail or succeed totally on her own efforts.

      Self-doubt swelled in her throat. What if she couldn’t pull it off? After all her huffing and puffing and diva pretense, what if she fell flat on her face?

      She took a deep breath and looked at the evening shoes she’d drawn during the last couple of hours. It’s not world peace, she told herself. It’s just shoes.

      Most workers skedaddled out of the building by 5:30 p.m., so she decided to take advantage of the quiet to doodle some more shoes. Doodling, she’d decided, was less threatening than designing.

      Some time later, her stomach growled and she glanced up at the clock, surprised that nearly two hours had passed. Taking a second look at her sketches, she was pleased with her start. Time to go, she thought and debated which takeout she would grab on the way home.

      She stepped outside the building’s back door to rain falling in sheets. She hadn’t brought an umbrella, so she would get soaked. Better at the end of the day than at the beginning, she thought philosophically and ran toward her car. She got inside and shook some of the moisture off her, then pushed her key into her ignition and turned it.

      A grinding sound followed.

      Jenny made a face. Not a good sign. She tried again and was rewarded with the same grinding sound, only weaker. Sighing, she stepped out of the car and walked to the hood. Lifting it, she stared at it, looking for answers.

      MARC STEPPED INSIDE his vehicle and pulled down his compact umbrella. He slid it just behind the front seat so he could easily reach it when he arrived home. He’d worked late today due to an out-of-office appointment tomorrow. And because he didn’t want to face an interrogation from Gino over last night’s date. If he evaluated his date strictly by the list he’d created, she should have been perfect.

      Marc eased his car out of his assigned space close to the building and headed down the lane. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a pair of dim headlights. He glanced to the side and saw a figure standing over a car with the hood open.

      Poor fool, he thought. This was what OnStar was for. This was what AAA was for. Rain beat against his windshield and he felt an attack of conscience. The parking lot was deserted except for his car and that one. Grumbling under his breath, he made a hard turn and drove toward the vehicle.

      He lowered his window and peered out. “Need me to make a call for you?”

      The dark figure turned around and Marc immediately recognized her. Sal’s assistant.

      She met his gaze and he watched her eyes widen in an expression that looked like horror. Hell, he thought, he wasn’t that much of a sonovabitch, was he?

      “Mr. Waterson,” she said.

      “You can call me Marc,” he said, irritated at how she continued to stand there in the rain. “Listen, why don’t you get into my car and we’ll figure out what to do about your car, Ginger.”

      She blinked and swiped her hands across her face. “Jenny,” she said, still hesitating. “I’ll get your seat wet.”

      “I’ve got towels. Come on.”

      She reached inside her vehicle, turned off her lights, then darted to the passenger side of his car and slid inside. She smelled like rain and peppermint and chocolate.

      His stomach growled. “What have you been eating?”

      “Peppermint patty. I keep a few in my purse for emergencies.”

      “But no AAA card?” he asked.

      “Doesn’t taste as good. Want one?”

      “Yeah, thanks,” he said, accepting the candy. With her hair plastered to her head and her eyes wide behind those weird glasses, she reminded him of a nearly drowned puppy. He reached behind his seat and handed her a towel. “Here. What do you think is wrong with your car?”

      She pulled off her jacket and rubbed herself with the towel. “Battery, alternator or starter. Or if I’m really unlucky, all three.” She made a face. “I guess I need to get it towed. I knew I should have renewed my AAA service.”

      He noticed a piece of her hair was sticking straight up in front. “I’ll call a towing service. Do you have a garage—”

      “Yep, Ron’s Garage on Peachtree.”

      Marc made the call for the tow then hung up. “Is Ron’s Garage open this late?”

      “No, but there’s a key drop-off,” she said.

      “And how will you get home?”

      She bit her lip. “Oops. Hadn’t thought of that. There’s bound to be someone I can call.”

      “Or not,” Marc said. “I’ll take you.”

      She met his gaze for a long moment. “That’s very nice of you.”

      There was no artificial flattery in her voice. “You sound surprised.”

      “Uh, well.” She cleared her throat. “I thought you would have something else more important to do.” Her eyes widened as if something came to mind. “Don’t you have a date?”

      “That was last night. How did you know?”

      “I was in your office when you were talking about it on the phone.”

      He nodded. He needed to be more careful about discussing his plan in front of other people. Lord help him if everyone at work started talking about it.

      “How’d it go?”

      Surprised at the question, he looked at her. “Okay. She was pretty, nice, a good listener. High maintenance,” he couldn’t help adding.

      “Ah,” she said with a knowing nod. “You’d prefer no maintenance.”

      “Low or medium,” he corrected her.

      “You should probably start with a dog,” she said.

      The suggestion seemed to come out of nowhere. “Why?”

      “It would be like training. If you’re not used to maintaining, dogs are very forgiving. They won’t make you sleep on the sofa or freeze you out, but if you ignore them too long, they make themselves known.”

      “With a mess on the floor,” he said and shook his head. “I don’t want a puppy.”

      “I wouldn’t recommend a puppy for you. Older dog.”

      “Are you with some kind of animal shelter group or something?”

      “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I was just suggesting a solution for your problem with maintenance.”