If the Shoe Fits

by Megan Mulry

  “You go ahead and stick to your compact little view of yourself, Sar, but something snapped over there in London and it’s all for the better. Just speaking as your business adviser, of course. It’s a nice change. You are just a tiny bit softer around the edges.”

  “Just what I need.” Sarah tried to make light of it as she turned for the door. “More soft, round edges! Have a great weekend, Carrie, and we’ll see you Monday morning at the Drake at ten.”

  “Bye, Sarah. You too. Have a great weekend!”

  Sarah heard her colleague’s low chuckle as she made her way toward the stairs that led to her private domain on the upper floors of the town house.

  She spent the next two hours primping and panicking. She started by drawing the hottest bath she could bear and looking at her face in the cruelly double-magnified mirror that swung out from the wall over the sink while the tub filled. She plucked a few hairs around her eyebrows and thought everything else looked remarkably fine. She brushed her teeth with the electronic toothbrush for two minutes exactly, then flossed with precision. She slid into the tub with a grateful breath for the intense heat that prevented her from thinking too much about anything but the physical sensation of it. She had a Jo Malone candle burning and the entire effect was completely transporting.

  Once the water started to cool, she set about shaving her legs, scrubbing her body, lathering her hair, combing through the conditioner, and then rinsing her whole body from top to bottom with the handheld shower attachment. It was after six thirty by the time she got out.

  Sarah started in on her hair, not sure if she wanted to make it formal and straight and silky, or let it go wavy and unruly and… well, that was a no-brainer. She squeezed some mousse into the palm of one hand, set down the dispenser on the white marble vanity counter, and rubbed her hands together, then flipped her head over and squished the creamy white foam throughout her hair. She stayed upside down and blew it dry while grasping large clumps into disorderly curls. After about ten minutes, it was a Botticellian masterpiece. Jane could say what she wanted about that extra twenty pounds, but Sarah’s hair was the stuff of poetry.

  She applied a bit of mascara and lip gloss, then moved into her dressing room to survey her choices.

  When it came to giving a girl an idea about what to wear on a date, “play it by ear” was tantamount to heresy. She opted for her favorite French blue jeans, slimming, boot cut, comfortable, and paired them with a fitted white cashmere ribbed turtleneck that was sexy in some hard-to-reach way. She topped the simple basics with a glamorous, brocade Favourbrook knee-length jacket. She had purchased it on her recent trip to London, overcome by the sheer, irrational luxury of the entire piece: oversized cuffs and collar of a warm, chocolate mink, attached to a Regency-era men’s jacket that hugged her body to perfection, the pinched waist almost made to measure. The brocade leaf-green silk fabric was hand embroidered with gold thread that shimmered subtly, without being too flashy. She wore a pair of Christian Louboutin corset-lace-up, pointy gray suede-leather mini boots that gave the whole outfit a naughty, Victorian touch.

  Sarah transferred a couple of credit cards, her license, some cash, and a mini lip gloss into a slim gray clutch, then took stock of the whole outfit in the full-length, floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She wasn’t vain, necessarily, but she knew her appearance was also a part of her business and she always tried to be as put together as possible when she went out, especially in Chicago, where she felt a bit more recognized than she did in New York. Manhattan, for better or worse, made her feel like she was one of innumerable successful people trying to spin straw into gold.

  She turned off all the lights on her bedroom floor, except the overhead on the hall landing, then went down to her living room. She wasn’t sure she wanted to invite Devon up for a drink before dinner—everything seemed so fragile, herself included—so she decided to go with one of her favorite decision-making parameters: if you don’t know, you know: no.

  She turned off the lights in the living room and left one light on in the kitchen for when she came home, then locked her front door at the top of the stairs that led to the public floors. Sarah walked down the stairs that went toward her office and the shop, rather than the other set of stairs that led directly out to the street. She passed through the dimly lit office, and the motion-sensor lights sputtered then blinked on with fluorescent authority; she double-checked that everything was locked, then continued down to the shop.

  She adored sneaking into her own store at odd hours of the night. She felt like a sexy cat burglar when she prowled through the quiet boutique. The floors were polished every week to best complement the imported parquet flooring. The shoes were displayed in recessed bookcases of a deceptively simple design. Shoes seemed to float on glass shelves that were practically invisible. The lighting was hidden behind tiny inlaid design elements, illuminating each shoe from every direction. Sarah had researched jewelers and other luxury goods display techniques at length before hiring a local art installer to set up the lighting.

  While adjusting a satin red stiletto that she knew was going to be sold out before Thanksgiving, Sarah heard a quick, firm double-tap on the plate-glass window next to the front door.

  She tried to keep her chest from heaving, but there didn’t seem to be anything for it. The best she could do was finish with the sexy red shoe and then make sure she didn’t trip as she walked across the room to unlock the front door. She didn’t have time to worry about any residual awkwardness from last weekend (had it only been one week? it had been a very long one) because Devon grabbed her in a rush of joy, one of his hands around her waist, pulling her flush up against him, and the other tangled into her wild hair. He used his grip to tilt her head back and sweep in for a pounding kiss.

  Her body sang with relief. At last. Simple relief.

  Chapter 8

  She did not even reach around his neck or body; she just leaned back—her arms hanging useless at her sides, her back arched slightly—and felt the wave of his desire (and her own) wash over them.

  He was kissing her fiercely at first, then his lips moved away from her mouth and he kissed her cheek and her neck, then near her ear, and started whispering all sorts of nonsense about how she looked like a Russian princess and how he was going to get those naughty boots off (how had he already noticed those? she wondered), all the while gripping her hair in a possessive, thrilling tug.

  Then Devon stopped all of a sudden and put both of his hands on her cheeks. Sarah almost fell away from him, not realizing how much she had been leaning into his strong hand at her lower back.

  She righted herself a bit drunkenly, then opened her eyes. He was really quite something to look at. Especially at this distance. Four inches looked very good on Devon Heyworth. She licked her lips and smiled from the pure pleasure of staring at his full lips and that inch-too-long hair and those piercing gray eyes that saw right into her fluttering, needy heart.

  “Are you happy to see me?” he whispered.

  She knew there were some rules about not showing your hand or not coming on too strong or some such foolishness, but all of that had flown out the door with that kiss. “Oh, Devon, you have no idea.” She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes, then nearly hummed, “I have been craving you.”

  She felt him respond against her abdomen, and she pushed herself more firmly against him there and ducked her face into his neck. She wanted to eat him. She licked a tiny bit of skin just visible above the upturned collar of his winter coat.

  He groaned, then laughed. “Shall we stay here in the doorway?” he asked, as if that might be a perfectly viable option.

  She looked around and blinked and realized they were standing in the half-opened door of Sarah James Shoes. She made a valiant effort at coherence. “Food?” was all she could manage.

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “Any kind.”

  “What do you like? I don’t even know what food you like.”

 
; “I love food. I adore food. Any food. I have no discretion whatsoever. I like wine too. And beer.”

  She shuffled to move them both out onto the sidewalk, then turned to lock the front door of the store when Devon let his hands drop slowly away from her cheeks. She came back around and linked her arms around his waist and leaned her back against the door. “If you won’t tell me what kind of food, then what kind of atmosphere? What are you wearing?” She reached her hands into the opening of his navy-blue cashmere full-length coat (she heard his breath stop) and felt the crisp, soft cotton of an ironed Oxford shirt, then let her hands trail around his waist and felt a pair of jeans.

  “Jeans and a collared shirt. Nice. All right. I have an idea. I’m thinking something spicy—”

  He smiled at the pun.

  “Very funny,” she added. “How about sushi?”

  He was nodding mutely.

  “Do you want a loud, funky scene or a more laid-back place? Both are excellent.”

  He kissed her again, just to taste her and reassure himself that he was really here, standing on this ludicrously freezing, blustering American street, in her arms. “I am going to want my hands on you the whole time, so wherever that will cause the least trouble, that’s where I want to go.”

  He was kissing her neck again and she wondered why he was staying at a hotel after all. It seemed so silly now that he was actually standing here in her doorway. “Let’s go to Wakamono, then. It’s loud and delicious, and we can grope each other all we want.”

  They stood there for a few more minutes—necking, Sarah supposed was the word for it—then dove into a taxi and continued necking in the backseat until they arrived in the Lakeview neighborhood where the hip Japanese restaurant was located. The booming of the DJ’s bass beat was audible all the way out onto the street and through the closed window of the taxi. Sarah tried to get Devon’s attention and asked if he thought it was going to be too loud in there.

  “I don’t care. Let’s just eat and get back to bed.” He kissed her again, then hopped out of the taxi, paying the driver through the passenger side window.

  She was a bit slower getting out of the taxi, seeing as how her jeans were feeling a little warm and confining and her lungs were not taking in as much oxygen as her blood demanded. Sarah tried to take a few calming breaths, then moved carefully out onto the street. Her boots were despicably high on a good day, but given her present tumult, she almost toppled over when she stood up on the sidewalk.

  “Easy there, tiger.” Devon had grabbed her, quickly and firmly, around her waist, and held her until he was sure she had regained her balance. He somehow made her feel much lighter than she normally did. That extra twenty pounds (The Jane Twenty) did not seem to present the slightest impediment to his interest. How was that possible?

  Sarah leaned in to take all the steady comfort she could get. “You feel good,” she murmured gratefully into his ear. “I feel drunk and I haven’t had anything to drink in days.”

  They stood there as the taxi drove away, the two of them reveling in the mere pleasure of one another. “I suppose we should go in out of the cold, love,” he whispered, his hot breath coming through her jumbled hair and tickling her ear.

  She squirmed against his shoulder, then pulled away and grabbed his hand, leading the way into the crowded restaurant.

  It was only eight o’clock on a Friday night, but the place was already packed: the after-work crowd was still three thick at the bar; the hip college crowd was lounging along the banquette that ran halfway down the exposed brick east wall; the sushi bar was buzzing with customers in low-backed barstools facing busy chefs sporting white coats and efficient expressions, interspersed with bottles of sake, little bowls of soy sauce, wasabi, and ginger, and a hum of jovial conversation. Waiters and waitresses were cutting their way through the thick crowd with trays of drinks and what looked like an endless supply of perfectly presented sushi. And above and around and through it all cranked the aforementioned techno-jazz bass beat, giving the whole room a throbbing vitality.

  Two seats opened up at the sushi bar at the far end of the room. Devon gestured in that direction and Sarah followed single file because of the crush of people. Since they were no longer standing next to each other, Sarah started to let her hand fall out of Devon’s grasp, but he kept his hand behind his back, loosely but possessively holding hers, unwilling to let go of her even for the short walk to the end of the sushi bar.

  “This is going to be fun,” Sarah thought, then realized she had said it aloud. Devon must have heard her, because he turned his profile over one shoulder and gave her a ruinous wink.

  When they finally got to the two free barstools, Sarah realized that Devon was waiting to help her with her coat. She started to undo the fur tie at the collar, then slowly undid the beautiful, hand-embroidered buttons that were tight as they passed through the hand-sewn buttonholes.

  “You and buttons,” Devon complained.

  “Oh, admit it, you love it.”

  He looked up and away from her fingers, where he had been enjoying every movement of her hands as she worked the well-made fastenings through the fabric, skimming her fingertips mindlessly across her breasts. He held her look for a moment too long, he supposed, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “I admit it.” He spoke so quietly that she thought she must have misheard, the din of the music making even a shout hard to process.

  Sarah turned her back to allow him access to remove the tightly tailored coat. He managed to slide off the jacket while grazing his fingertips along the length of her arms. As if on cue, a helpful waitress came by and offered to take their two coats to the coat check upstairs. Devon handed them over, then gave Sarah a full head-to-toe perusal before offering his hand to assist her on the small climb up onto the barstool. She figured he was going to get into his own chair immediately, but instead he remained standing behind her chair, lifted up her hair with one hand, pulled down the fold of her turtleneck with the other, then kissed her bared neck with a long, slow, patient caress of his tongue along the tender skin near her nape.

  She felt her legs begin to tense and worried she might explode right there at the sushi bar. “Please stop, Devon. Seriously,” she whispered.

  “Only because you said please.” He released her hair and the fold of cashmere, but let his right hand rest where his lips had just been, his fingers blatantly reenacting what he had been doing with his tongue. After a few endless seconds, Devon let his hand come away from her neck, and he slid into his own chair. He shifted the barstool as close to Sarah’s as he could without sitting on her, his right hand coming to rest lightly across her shoulder.

  The manager came over and smiled warmly at Sarah. “Sarah! What a pleasure to see you. It’s been a few months, no?”

  “Hi, Steve!” She smiled. “This is Devon Heyworth. He’s visiting from London.”

  Devon smiled and said hello to the trendy, thirtysomething Japanese man who sported the obligatory black mock turtleneck that served as the unspoken uniform of stylish restaurateurs the world over.

  “I have a wonderful hot sake I just got in. Would you both like to try some?”

  “That sounds perfect. Thank you.” Sarah gave the man another broad, open smile that made her eyes sparkle and Devon was fleetingly miffed.

  That was his smile. For him.

  He had no interest in pursuing that line of thinking, so he forced himself to unwrap his chopsticks, making a tidy, little architectural tent out of the paper on which to rest the sticks, then put his napkin on his lap and started to look at the menu.

  “Would you rather I didn’t speak to anyone but you?” she whispered hotly into his ear, letting her left hand settle with delicate pressure on his right thigh.

  He smiled but did not look up from the menu. He drew his eyebrows together in mock consternation and set his jaw with a fairly good approximation of a disgruntled child. “Yes. I would. Rather. And while you’re not speaking to anyone, you’d best not
look at anyone either. Or wave. Or smile. Or really acknowledge anyone but me.” He kept his eyes on the menu, smiling, as if this were a perfectly natural conversation, akin to telling her about his flight or the delay in customs or the paperback he’d read on the plane. As usual, he thought his blatant honesty would be misconstrued for humor, so he looked up expecting Sarah to join in on the joke.

  Instead, she reached her right hand up to his face and slowly traced the smile away from his beautiful mouth with the pad of her thumb. “Okay,” she said, so only he could hear. “Ask and you shall receive.”

  He put his mouth next to her ear, so his words could be heard over the reverberating sound system. “I don’t like to ask for things,” he said, but what he really meant was that he’d never had to.

  She smiled as he spoke, both of them enjoying the easy excuse of the loud music, which forced them to more or less kiss one another’s ears every time they spoke. She put her lips near his ear next and replied, “But if you don’t tell me what you like, how else will I know…”—she paused for bravery—“how to please you?” She pulled away enough for him to see the mischief in her eyes, but also the truth of it. She wanted to please him. Without guile or manipulation, she simply trembled at the pleasure it would be to send him into raptures as he had done to (for? with?) her.

  Devon’s thigh tightened under her hand for a moment, and the muscle in his jaw tensed in response to her words. His eyes clouded with something so much more than desire. Sarah might have been frightened if she weren’t so thrilled by the prospect of peeling it all away: the clothes, the veneer of jollity. He was a beast. She wanted to see his raw insides. She was going to hammer and scrape at that facade of jovial, superficial levity. She wanted him to attack her. She wanted to taunt him.

  Sarah let her hand wander a few inches up his thigh, and he slammed his own hand over hers, preventing her from feeling the hard proof that he was already quite well pleased.