Free Hell on Heels by Anne Jolin

until I made sure he nodded before listening again.
    “No,” Dave said. “You’re the unit directly across, but with the configuration of the old structure, they think the water has carried. I need your permission to enter your unit, so the workers can assess the damage.”
    This was definitely not something I planned on dealing with today.
    “Listen, I’m swamped here. Do you need me to be there while you assess?”
    “I can let the workers in with the master key, but the foreman onsite will likely need to speak with you at some point today so they can show you what they’ve found.” Dave was sympathetic. He knew I worked late most days.
    Looking at the open calendar on my desktop, I scanned through the day’s appointments, mentally doing an inventory of what could be cancelled or moved to tomorrow. “I’m swamped, but I can be out of here by four. Will that work?”
    “I’ll let him know. I’m real sorry about this, Charleston,” Dave apologized.
    Scribbling a note down on a sticky, I positioned it at the edge of my screen.
    LEAVE BY FOUR.
    “Things happen, Dave.” And they did. It wasn’t his fault the building was old. “Thank you for letting them in, and give my love to Susan.”
    “Will do,” he said before hanging up.
    Sighing, I leaned back in my chair and pinched the bridge of my nose. I prayed my unit hadn’t been damaged that much.
    My cellphone buzzed on the desk and I got the pick-me-up I needed.
    Beau: I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. Looking forward to seeing you next week. Campaign food sucks.
    “Everything good?” Kevin asked, resting a hip against my doorjamb.
    I looked back down at the text message from Beau, still engaged in the mini high.
    “Pipe burst in my building.”
    He whistled low. “Yikes.”
    The screen on my phone went black. “Can you reschedule my afternoon appointments to make sure I’m out of here by four?”
    “Sure thing, boss. Want me to bring her back?”
    “Please.”
    Kevin left and returned a minute later with Caroline Clarke, the newest Housewife of Vancouver, and also my eleven o’clock.

    I was early.
    Somehow the heavens had aligned and I was climbing the stairwell of my apartment building at three fifteen in the afternoon on a weekday.
    This was almost as much of an accomplishment as the contract I’d just signed to host Caroline Clarke’s private party for the viewing of her first episode on The Real Housewives of Vancouver . Truthfully, I’d never seen the show, nor did I care to, but I did care that her budget was big and she was giving Smith & Co Productions carte blanche over the entire event.
    Lifting my purse higher on my shoulder, I ascended quickly due to the fact that I was, once again, barefoot and carrying my heels.
    The street outside the building had been completely overran with construction vehicles, and thus I’d inevitably been forced to park underground. That being said, it was a good excuse to take the stairs, which included an extra flight, seeing as I hadn’t joined Leighton at the gym…well, ever.
    Opening the door marked 3 rd Floor , I balked at the sight of the hallway.
    It was a disaster.
    Tarps were strewn every which way, and there was a massive hole in the ceiling, which had been blocked off by warning tape. It was horrible.
    My perfect, pretty building looked like Jason Bourne had used up the entire arsenal of the Vancouver Police Department destroying it to protect his identity.
    “Ma’am, you might want to put some shoes on.” A younger man in a reflective vest and hardhat stepped out of my neighbour’s unit. Which, from what I could tell, was completely destroyed.
    He gestured to my ensemble and smirked.
    “Oh.” I looked down. “Right.”
    Leaning against the wall, I hopped awkwardly on one foot and then the other, while I slid back into my pastel pumps. Not that I really thought they were going to protect me should the floor give way, but hey, why not see what happens?
    I gawked at the