Can't Let Go by Jessica Lemmon

smelled good enough to eat.
    She dipped her head, fiddled with the strap of her handbag, and Shane realized he was staring.
    “Shane,” he said, offering his hand.
    She looked at it a beat before taking it. “Crickitt.”
    “Like the bug?”
    “Thanks for that.” She offered a mordant smile.
    Evidently he was rustier at this than he thought. “Sorry.” Best get to the point. “Is there something you need? Something I can get you?”
    Her eyes went to the full drink in front of her. “I’ve had plenty, but thanks. Anyway, I’m about to leave.”
    “I’m on my way out. Can I drop you somewhere?”
    She eyed him cautiously.
    Okay. Perhaps offering her a ride was a bit forward and from her perspective, dangerous.
    “No thank you,” she said, turning her body away from his as she reached for her drink.
    Great. He was creepy club guy.
    He leaned on the bar between the blonde’s abandoned chair and Crickitt. Lowering his voice he said, “I think I’m doing this all wrong. To tell the truth, I saw you crying and I wondered if I could do anything to help.”
    She turned to him, her eyes softening before a harder glint returned. Tossing her head, she met his eye. “Help? Sure. Know anyone who’d like to hire a previously self-employed person for a position for which she has little to no experience?”
    He had to smile at her pluck…and his good fortune. Crickitt’s problem may be one he could help with after all. “Depends,” he answered, watching her eyebrows give the slightest lift. He leaned an elbow on the bar. “In what salary range?”
    *  *  *
    Crickitt scanned the well-dressed man in front of her and wondered what he’d say if she blurted out the figure dancing around her head. Two hundred fifty thousand a year? Then he’d say, Oh, sure, I know lots of people who pay out six figures for a new hire . She took in his streamlined charcoal suit and crisp, white dress shirt. He wasn’t wearing a tie, but she’d bet one had been looped around his neck earlier.
    Well, he’d asked.
    “Six figures,” she said.
    He laughed.
    That’s what she thought. If this Shane guy were in a position to offer that kind of income, would he really be in a club named Lace and hitting on girl like her?
    He saw her crying and wanted to help? It wasn’t the worst pickup line in the world, but it was close.
    Crickitt instinctively slid her pinky against her ring finger to straighten her wedding band but only felt the rub of skin on skin. For nine years it sat at home on her left hand. She used to think of it as a comforting weight, but since Ronald left, it’d become a reminder of the now-obvious warning signs she’d overlooked. The way he’d pulled away from her both physically and emotionally. The humiliation of scurrying after him, attempting to win his affections even after it was too late. Another wave of helter-skelter emotions threatened her composure and she squeezed her eyes shut to will them away.
    She opened her eyes to find Shane had backed away some, either to give the semblance of privacy or because he feared she would burst into tears and blow her nose on his expensive jacket. She could choke Sadie for bringing her out tonight.
    Come to the club , Sadie had said. It’ll get your mind off things , she’d insisted.
    “What experience do you have, Crickitt?” Shane asked, interrupting her thoughts.
    She peered up at him. Was he serious? Either his half-smile was sarcastic or genuinely curious. Hard to tell. But if her former career taught her one thing, it was that opportunities arose in unexpected places.
    “I’m great with people,” she answered.
    “And scheduling?”
    She considered telling him about the twenty in-home shows she’d held each and every month for the last seven years, but wasn’t sure he wouldn’t get the wrong idea about exactly what kind of “in-home shows” she’d be referring to. “Absolutely.”
    “Prioritizing?”
    Crickitt almost laughed. Prioritizing was a