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Sonja laced up her brogued flats with derby lacing and launched off the front stoop to the sidewalk below. She was running late for work once again (the warmth of the summer nights had a way of charming her so), and there was no telling how angry Mr. Zwillings was going to be when she showed up. Sonja slid onto the leather seat of her bicycle, plopped her purse into the basket and peddled for dear life and livelihood.
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“Nice shoes.”
India brought her eyes and nose up from the array of hard cheeses to find a very tall, very lanky, very attractive young man in some very interesting brown cowboy boots saddled up next to her holding a ball of shrink-wrapped fresh mozzarella. India’s heart fluttered a bit, as she had always considered a man who could appreciate a pair of shoes worth her time and attention.”Thanks. Yours aren’t so bad either.”
“I’ve been looking for a pair of brogued oxfords like those myself. Where’d you get them?”
India nearly fainted. A man who knew that an oxford was not the same as a brogue and that a brogued oxford was not a brogue? This was rarer than any cheese she’d ever found in the dairy section…
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“Kathy, do you fancy a walk across the Mill’ today?”
Kathy was sheepish. “Oh, you know I would, but these shoes I’ve got on today — well, I don’t suppose I’ll be able to last even to Blackfriar’s. Maybe tomorrow, Vicky.”
“What’ve you got there for shoes, Kathy? They’re absolutely gorgeous!”
“Thank you, Vicky, but — as you can see — they aren’t quite ideal for lunchtime strolls, are they?”
“I suppose not, but they are certainly good for putting a few eyes out on the tube, you saucy little strumpet! Promise me you’ll wear something more appropros to going out for lunch tomorrow, will you?”
“I promise, Vicky.”
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Esmerelda never had a chance. She had spent the day walking all about town on a mission to find that perfect bag to go with the perfect boots. She ended up walking into the very heart of trouble with nothing but a four-inch heel and a set of good intentions.
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A Paris winter had a way of making you reflect.
The chill and the gray made the past more vivid and colorful and enticing to think about. Christiane’s mind began to drift along with the whisperings of the Seine and the clacking of her heels on the stones underfoot.
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She had known it was wrong. She had known it was wrong the whole time, and still she hadn’t been able to stop herself. He was too charming. He was too sweet. The cliché wilting words of romance were like dancing fireflies rising into the night sky when they came out of his mouth, and the passion — the passion! — it was enough to make her pull her coat open — buttons be damned! — to throw herself into the sinful mire of love and deceit that this affair had turned into. More pressing to her mind now, though, was how she was to explain the missing button and the late hour of her return to Charles…
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“Reow!” Tracy leaped over the trail of clothes Chad had left behind as he had made his way to bed. He shed clothes like a snake does skin and was totally unabashed about it. She hugged his ribs and squeezed. “How many times do I have to tell you to quit leaving a mess!?”
“I know! I know! Nice sweater.”
“You like it?”
“Yeah. It looks good on you.”
“That’s sweet.”
“And it fits your personality.”
“How so?”
“It makes you look like a cougar.”
“You dummy. Like a leopard. I look like a leopard. Cougars don’t have spots, and if you ever call me old, desperate, and easy again I’ll have your head.” She waved a finger in his laughing face. “Your head!”
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Two days with no electricity. That was just great. Fantastic. It was a good thing she had just bought a great new faux-fur coat that would keep her as snug as a bug in a rug.
