Page 6 of Secret (Chicago Underground 6)
Major’s expression was flat. “Like a gay stripper.”
“So…not that far off.”
A woman brushed up against me as she left the store, and I recognized her from the hallway with Luke. She sent me a scathing look before leaving the store in a huff.
“What’s her problem?” Major muttered.
“She saw me with Luke earlier. She probably thinks I’m a hooker or something.” I snickered. She’d lose her shit if I told her it was true.
“Well, she was totally checking you out.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling vindicated.
We walked out onto the sidewalk—or rather, he strode while I hobbled on my heels, feet aching, struggling to keep up in the crowd. As bodyguards went, he left something to be desired.
A block later found us in a runner’s shop. From the window we could see tennis shoes and workout clothes—perfect. We started to go inside but were blocked by runners exiting en masse. They took off like a swarm down the sidewalk in some sort of group-run activity.
“Wow,” I said, watching them go.
Major snorted. “Someone will probably twist their ankles on the sidewalk.”
“You remind me of someone. Eeyore, that’s who.”
He held the door open for me. “He speaks the truth.”
“He’s a downer,” I said, brushing past.
He joined me by the shoe wall. “If we were doing character profiles, you’d be Winnie-the-Pooh.”
“You say that like it’s an insult. You do realize he’s the star of the show?”
The shoe salesman waved to us. “Be just a minute.”
“We’ll be waiting,” I said.
The salesman blushed because, yeah, my voice had been low and suggestive. Professional hazard.
Major spoke out the side of his mouth. “Winnie-the-Pooh is annoying. The other animals just let him get away with stuff because he’s cute. And kinda dumb.”
“Oh, very subtle. How do you even know about him? You have kids or something?”
He snorted. “No kids. Everyone knows Winnie-the-Pooh. He’s been around since the Great Depression.”
“You would know,” I muttered, right before the salesman ran over to us. He literally ran. It seemed a little overenthusiastic, even for a running store.
“Welcome to Ralph’s Running Mart,” he said breezily. “What kind of racing gear are you in the market for today?”
Major glowered.
I cleared my throat. “I think just ordinary tennis shoes for me.”
“Oh, we don’t sell tennis shoes, ma’am. Our shoes are specifically designed with runners in mind.”
“Get her some shoes,” Major growled.
The poor guy seemed to be shrinking in on himself, though perhaps that was because Major seemed to be expanding, filling the space around us as if his annoyance were a balloon and the salesman kept blowing and blowing.
I smiled brightly. “Don’t mind him. I’m looking for something simple. In fact, what’s your simplest shoe?”
