Tight-Fittin' Jeans

“If that’s meant to be funny, it isn’t.”

“Look,” Tiffany said, pushing a wad of natural blond hair behind her ear, “if we don’t do something soon, the competition is going to continue to kick our butt right into oblivion.”

“And you seriously think your idea of half-naked models parading through the racks serving pineapple is going to up the sales?”

“I do.”

“Well, I don’t.” Hazel’s tone was as cold as her blue eyes. “Even if I agreed with the beach-party idea, which I don’t, that line of swimwear you want to buy is simply too far-out for our ladies.”

“I beg to differ with you,” Tiffany countered, standing firm. “Anyway, how will we know until we try?”

“It’s simply too costly a gamble. And since I have the final word, it’s not going to happen.”

Tiffany literally had to bite her lip to keep from voicing another opinion, one that would most likely get her fired, even though keeping her thoughts to herself went against her grain. She wanted to lash out at this woman, whose face now reminded her of a prune, it was so severely wrinkled in distaste.

She doubted Hazel’s hair had ever been out of that bun, or that she’d ever done anything daring, such as wearing a two-piece bathing suit The idea of her parading naked in front of a man was even more incredible. How she’d ever had two kids was beyond Tiffany. She would bet her favorite Magic Lift Bra that Hazel and her husband made love with the lights out and the covers over their heads.

“Well?”

Tiffany shook her head and stared at her boss. “Well, what?”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“Right”

A few minutes later, Tiffany was back in the stock-room., staring at the boxes of clothing that had arrived late yesterday afternoon. Ordinarily, she would have torn open the boxes filled with lovely clothes and accessories with vigorous anticipation, thinking of how lucky she was to have Christmas on a daily basis.

But not today. She was still seething from her goround with Witch Hazel. These confrontations were coming far too often. Tiffany loved her work, though she didn’t necessarily love the company she worked for. As a buyer for women’s clothing for Cunningham’s at the Galleria, she had her own ideas of the market and what would sell and what would not

Unfortunately, her boss did not agree with her.

Feeling her frustration and anger rising, Tiffany turned her back on the boxes and made her way into her office, which was nothing but a cubbyhole. But it was hers, and she could be alone there and give in to the emotions churning inside her.

She perched on the edge of her desk and swung her foot. Hell’s bells, maybe she ought to quit. But she wasn’t a quitter. Too, she wasn’t ready to give Hazel the satisfaction of running her off. She couldn’t deny, though, that she was going home every day with a headache.

Suddenly Tiffany’s frown burgeoned into a smile as thoughts of her best friend, Bridget, leaped to mind. At one time, Bridget’s career as an attorney had been in the toilet, or so she had thought. Now she was happily married and living in a small town in Utah.

Tiffany’s smile broadened. She took full responsibility for her friend’s sudden and unorthodox marriage. Why, if she hadn’t insisted Bridget attend that crazy bachelor auction, she wouldn’t have bid on Jeremiah Davis and won him.

Tiffany laughed out loud as she thought back on the moment when Bridgat had lunged out of her chair and yelled, “One thousand dollars!”

Aghast, Tiffany had jerked Bridget back down in her seat. However, the damage had already been done. Bridget had gotten what she paid for, a tall, slow-talking rancher who wasn’t about to let the best thing that had ever happened to him slip through his fingers.

Shaking her head, Tiffany eased off the desk and walked over to where she kept her two-cup coffeemaker. She filled a cup full of French vanilla and sipped; although it soothed her stomach, it did nothing for her clicking mind.

While she envied Bridget many things, her marriage was not one of them. Tiffany had come close to getting married only once; thank God it hadn’t come about. The man had been—and still was—a lush, though she hadn’t realized it. Even at thirty, which years ago would have classified her as an old maid, a ring on her finger wasn’t what she wanted. Her desires leaned more toward life’s amenities: a great job, a nice house, a fancy car and a hefty bank account, and not necessarily in that order, either.

Although she had none of the above at the moment, Tiffany intended to remedy that. Her goal was to eventually have enough money, borrowed or otherwise, to open her own shop, a shop that catered to rich and privileged women. Working at Cunningham’s was merely a stepping-stone.

Tiffany took another generous mouthful of coffee, savoring the taste, only to have it tainted by sudden thoughts of Hazel. She wasn’t sure just how much longer she could take the woman’s abuse, along with her lack of enthusiasm. She had about as much innovative energy as molasses running uphill.

“Grrr,” Tiffany muttered, then drained her cup.

There had to be a way to get through to her boss without jeopardizing her job. At the moment, however, nothing came to mind. She was always walking that fine line between getting ahead and getting canned.

Another smile flirted with her lips as thoughts of Bridget resurfaced. It had been only a little over a year since she and Bridget had had that conversation about how low both their lives had sunk.

Of course, Bridget’s hadn’t, not really, since she was from a wealthy family here in Houston, with money of her own, to boot. Tiffany, on the other hand, had nothing to fall back on—no family and no money.

That was why she couldn’t waltz into Hazel’s office and tell her what she could do with her antiquated ideas and this job.

“Yo.”

Tiffany, unaware that her privacy had been invaded, jumped, then whipped around. The intruder was Gretchen Wheeler, one of the salesclerks.

“Sorry,” Gretchen said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t. What’s up?”

Gretchen made a face. “Hazel’s dander.”

“Great.”

“She wants to see you.”

“What else is new?” Tiffany’s mouth curved downward. “I get out of her sight for five minutes and she goes berserk.”

Gretchen gave her a sympathetic look, though she appeared uncomfortable at being the go-between who bore the unhappy message.

“Thanks,” Tiffany finally said, letting Gretchen off the hook. “I’ll see you later.”

Gretchen nodded, then left. Tiffany stood for a moment, contemplating walking into Hazel’s office and telling her what she could do with both her demands and the job; then the phone rang.

Thinking it was the witch adding insult to injury, Tiffany grabbed the receiver and said a curt “Yes.”

“Whoa! Down, girl.”

Tiffany threw back her head and laughed, having recognized the voice right off. “Why, Jeremiah Davis, fancy you calling me.” Then her voice sobered and her stomach lurched, as it dawned on her that something was amiss. First off, Jeremiah was calling, instead of Bridget, and second, it was in the middle of the day. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”

“You’re right.”

Her stomach gave another lurch, and at the same time fear clogged her throat; she couldn’t utter a word. Something must have happened to Bridget or Jeremiah’s six-year-old daughter, Taylor, from his first marriage.

As if Jeremiah had picked up on her fear, he went on, “ices Bridget. She’s been injured in a car accident, but she’s going to be okay.”

Tiffany picked up on the desperate ring to his voice, but she didn’t acknowledge it. “Thank God,” she whispered, sitting down before her knees could give way under her. “Was she alone?”

“Yeah. She slammed into a school bus, which caused damage to her spine and legs.”