Free How to Look Happy by Stacey Wiedower Page A

for Candace, I’ve never heard anyone dare to speak a word against her. At least, not to me. I wonder briefly if that’s because up until now, I’ve been her protégé. I certainly typed my way out of that title.
    “Oh, come on,” Brad says, his face slightly flushed from alcohol. I’m starting to realize he’s a little drunk, and Quinn’s right there with him—her usual MO on a weekend night. His voice is so loud that I glance up to see who else might be here tonight and who might be listening. Nobody in the restaurant seems to be paying attention to us. “Everybody knows she was banging Lane Bickers.”
    At that, a few heads do swivel in our direction, mainly because Brad’s voice is so loud . Even though I’m not the one who said it, my face heats up with guilt and embarrassment.
    “Nobody can prove that,” I mumble, at this point unsure why I’m even defending Candace.
    “Oh, come on .” Quinn repeats Brad’s words. “She totally dicked you over, and you’re still acting like her minion. You’re better than that.”
    My forehead wrinkles as I try to figure out if she just insulted me or complimented me. With Quinn, it’s never easy to tell. Finally I say, “I’m not talking. For the obvious reason that Candace Greenlee writes my paychecks.” I narrow my eyes at Quinn. “And yours.”
    She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
    Spoken like a girl who’s had most things in life handed to her on a privileged platter. If she lost her job at Greenlee Designs, Quinn would just use her daddy’s connections to land a spot at another prominent design firm. If I lose mine, though, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to look outside the market just to find another designer who will give me the time of day. Badmouthing your boss on social media isn’t exactly a skill that looks great on a résumé. And Memphis is like an overgrown small town. Everybody in the local design community is talking about my Facebook faux pas. I frown as I suddenly realize Candace is my only professional reference.
    A smile is dancing around the corners of Brad Pepper’s lips, and I realize Quinn’s and my bickering has given him all the confirmation he needs about the rumor I started. He pushes out of the armless chair, which is covered in a green-and-gold swirly pattern and is much too small for his long and lanky frame. “You ladies enjoy your evening.” He tips an imaginary hat and winks at me. “You should think about tossing your hat in the ring on the Midtown Bike project,” he says. “You do good work.”
    I half-smile at him as Carrie observes the whole conversation with a worried look on her face. “Thanks,” I say in a bemused voice. As he walks away I shake my head, so buried in my thoughts I’ve almost forgotten I’m not alone. I take a long, deep drink of my wine.
    “He’s right,” Quinn says, and I glance up to find both her and Carrie watching me.
    “Right about what?” I say, still distracted.
    “You should bid on the Rasmutin project,” she says. “It’s right up your alley. I’ve thought about it, but I’ve got enough on my plate.” She pauses. “Screw Candace. You can write your own ticket, girlfriend. You’ve got it, and she’s losing it. That’s why she’s resorting to taking your clients away from you.”
    My jaw slackens as I stare at her, and I see Carrie nodding out of the corner of my eye.
    I shake my head. “I’ve got enough on my plate right now too.” My voice falters a little at the end of the sentence. I did have plenty of work until Candace lifted Brewster from me. But now…
    “You’ve got to let her stop getting to you,” Carrie says. “So you screwed up with the Facebook status. All you can do is move on.”
    Quinn rolls her eyes, the serious turn of the conversation obviously boring her more than gossiping with Brad Pepper about the scandal I exposed. She stands, wobbling slightly on her stilettos—silver peep-toes with five-inch, clear acrylic heels. “Have fun,