Entice Me Box Set: The Truth About Shoes and Men\Cover Me\My Favorite Mistake (2 page)

Furthering my “the shoes make the man” theory, I had shared with my friends Cindy and Denise a picture of what I considered to be the perfect shoe for a guy to wear to a bar Friday after work — rich, saddle-tan loafers with a braided vamp. The girls weren’t as impressed by my choice as I’d hoped, but I reasoned they were still happy playing the field and wearing ill-fitting shoes. They couldn’t see the potential that I saw wrapped up in the gorgeous hand-sewn manly footwear — comfortable, classy, settling-down footwear.

But I pressed on with my plan, meeting the girls at Fitzgerald’s, on a hunt for the shoe that would lead me to a great guy. After two cosmopolitans and a couple of false starts, I had almost given up when across the room, I spotted THE shoes, held my breath and lifted my gaze….

The guy with the perfect shoes wasn’t wearing socks — okay, that was a little off-putting, but I forged ahead. His khaki slacks weren’t exactly crisp, but lots of single guys didn’t own irons. (At least I knew his mother wasn’t doing his laundry.) The dark sport coat was either vintage or just plain old, but not bad. He was holding his beer with a ringless left hand. So far, so good.

His pale dress shirt was open at the neck, revealing a gold chain. Hm. And his face…well, he was no Simon Baker, but Mr. Saddle-Tan Loafers was perfectly fine and average-looking. His whiskey-brown hair needed a trim, and his eyebrows were a little out of control, but he was smiling. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was talking to two other guys and pantomiming a football throw. Hm again. I didn’t feel particularly moved, but I reminded myself it was all about the shoes. Hadn’t I promised to be open-minded?

While I wondered how I might approach the man, he pivoted and walked straight toward me, stopping at the bar to signal for another beer. When he looked in my direction, I was ready with a smile.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi,” I offered, bouncing the leg I had crossed over my knee.

He glanced down at my carefully chosen shoe, then up my leg and finally back to my face. “Do you work around here?”

I explained that I was a commercial real estate agent at a reputable firm a few blocks away. He looked impressed, which disappointed me, then confessed he was a breeder of Great Danes who had just moved from St. Louis and was looking for a new gig. I’m more of a cat person myself, so I started to get a bad vibe. But then he stuck out his hand and smiled.

“I’m Alex Hudson.”

Nice, easy name. “I’m Jacki Kreigerhauf.” Which was why a man with a nice, easy name appealed to me.

“Can I buy you another drink, Jacki?”

“I can’t — not on an empty stomach.”

He shrugged. “How about appetizers then?”

I looked down to remind myself that he was wearing the magic shoes, then manufactured a smile and agreed. He ordered hot wings, I ordered artichoke dip, and he parked himself in the chair that Denise had vacated. We engaged in small talk, which was easy because he was eager to learn about Manhattan. And he was interested in me, I could tell. He kept leaning forward and angling his head. And while I hadn’t yet conjured up a similar level of interest, I wasn’t going to back down now. After all, Alex Hudson didn’t seem maniacal or dim. He deserved the benefit of my doubt.

“Uh, maybe we could see each other again?” he said when one of his buddies signaled they needed to leave soon.

A frown pulled at my eyebrows — was he asking me on a date or simply suggesting that we might pass on the teeming sidewalks of Manhattan on our way to work one morning? On the other hand, considering he didn’t yet have a job, it seemed more probable that he was suggesting we see each other at an arranged time.
He’s wearing the shoes
, my inner voice whispered.

I opened my mouth to agree just as he opened his mouth, inserted an entire chicken wing, then pulled out the bone, picked clean. I hesitated. If he started sucking chicken-bone marrow, I was out of there, enchanted shoes be damned.

Instead, he excused himself to go to the john and wash his hands. I watched him walk away, trying to get a bead on his character, his personality — anything that would reinforce his fabulous taste in shoes.

Cindy and Denise suddenly appeared on each side of me, like shoulder pads.

“Well,” Denise asked, her head cocked, “are you and the shoe man hitting it off…or is he a
heel?
Bwah-ha-ha!”

She and Cindy cracked up laughing. I couldn’t blame them — I was starting to feel a tad silly. Maybe this “shoes and men” theory was a little far-fetched. Maybe I should make a run for it while Alex the dog breeder was washing the barbecue sauce off his hands.

Cindy gasped for breath. “Tell me, Jacki — is he your
sole
-mate?”

I frowned, but she and Denise were hanging on to each other, screaming with laughter. Anger sparked in my stomach. It wasn’t
that
funny.

“Did you two play footsie under the table?” Denise whooped. “Is he going to buy you an engagement
toe
ring?”

As my friends melted into quivering masses of hilarity, my chin climbed higher and higher. By golly, I had invested a lot of time in this theory of mine, and I wasn’t going to abandon it without at least seeing it through. I shooed the girls away from the table just as Alex was returning. He smiled and I decided he was pretty cute when he smiled. I smiled back.

We made a date to see each other again the following Wednesday, and exchanged phone numbers. Denise and Cindy continued to tease me mercilessly, which only made me more stubbornly resolute to try to like this man who had such impeccable taste in footwear. But by the time I dressed for my date Wednesday evening, I was a nervous wreck.

After all, my theory (and my pride) was now at stake.

Chapter Four

Okay, so I found the perfect pair of men’s shoes, and although I wasn’t bowled over by the man WEARING the shoes, Alex Hudson, Great Dane-breeder recently relocated from St. Louis and looking for a new “gig,” seemed like a nice enough guy, so despite a colossal amount of grief from my friends Cindy and Denise, I agreed to meet him for dinner.

Some small part of me conceded that I might not have agreed to go on the date if my friends hadn’t pummeled me with bad shoe jokes — I had to follow through to save face. But deep down, I still believed in my “shoes and men” theory, and I really wanted to give it a chance to succeed. So, off to meet Alex…

We met at one of my favorite restaurants, and he wore the shoes. Me, I was sporting low-heeled black sandals with plenty of toe cleavage. I’d been cultivating enthusiasm all week, and as a show of benevolence, had even surfed the Internet for rudimentary facts about breeding Great Danes.

“Hi,” I said.

“This place looks pretty pricey,” he said.

I assumed that meant the business world was not clamoring for former dog breeders. “We’ll go dutch,” I assured him, and he looked grateful. He told me how many interviews he’d endured, and I made sympathetic noises.

“Is your company hiring?” he asked. “I could probably sell real estate. My brother is an architect.”

A plus, I agreed, nodding. But no, we weren’t hiring at the moment.

“You might know my brother,” he went on. “Ted Hudson?”

“He’s an architect here in Manhattan?”

He nodded. “Ted works for Meteor Developers.”

I had heard of Meteor and wondered why good old Ted couldn’t find his brother a job therein.

“Ted could get me a job, no problem,” Alex said. “But I’d rather make it on my own.”

Ah.

“Ted thought you were pretty hot at the bar the other night.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Said he wished he’d met you first.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t noticed the men Alex had been talking to at Fitzgerald’s, but then again, they hadn’t been wearing the shoes. Alex changed the subject to — surprise, surprise — Great Danes. My Net knowledge was exhausted in, oh, about ninety seconds, so at the first break in Dane-speak, I asked him about St. Louis. He barked at the waitress to bring him another drink, then drained the one still sitting in front of him and set the glass down on the table with a bang.

“St. Louis sucks,” he spat out. “You want to know why?”

I really didn’t.

“Because my philandering ex-wife lives there in
my
house with
my
champion dogs.”

Then he teared up.

Mind you, I’m a Realtor, and I pride myself on being able to handle lots of difficult people situations. If Alex Hudson had been crying over losing a house that
I
had sold to him, I might have been more sympathetic, but honestly, the best I could do was offer him a cocktail napkin for a hearty nose-blow. Then I blocked him out. I could see his mouth move but, God help me, all I could think about was how I could pry those shoes off his feet and flee.

Still, the dinner wasn’t a total wash…the salmon was good. Alex and I parted at the curb on vague niceties, although I suspected that he was equally uninspired by me on the second round. Nonetheless, I had to give his mother points for teaching him manners — he said he’d call. I waved goodbye, silently vowing to change my phone number. Then I walked home, reviewing every angle of my “shoes and men” theory, wondering where it had gone wrong.

The next day over lunch, the girls crucified me.

“Jacki, face it — you two were just a mismatched pair,” Cindy said, the corners of her mouth twitching.

Denise sighed and shook her head. “It was just a matter of time before the other shoe dropped.”

I frowned as they dissolved into peals of laughter. “Hardee-har-har. I admit my theory still has a few kinks that need to be worked out, but I’m not giving up on it yet.”

Denise rolled her eyes. Cindy felt my brow for fever.

I was a little concerned that Alex would be at Fitzgerald’s again Friday night, but I didn’t see him. Of course, I was looking at the floor, but I didn’t see the shoes. Cindy and Denise had abandoned me again, and I was starting to rethink my scheme, my priorities and my entire life when a pair of dusty thick-soled work boots came over and stopped in front of me.

Chapter Five

Admittedly, my date with Alex Hudson had bombed, putting my “shoes and men” theory in serious peril. My friends thought I had gone completely over the edge. Indeed, I found myself sitting in Fitzgerald’s on Friday after work wondering if my medical insurance covered mental health checkups.

I considered calling Kenzie, the fourth in our friend quadrangle, for her opinion, but she was still swamped with her new job at
Personality
magazine, and besides, I was half afraid she might expose me in an article on the lengths desperate women will go to just to meet a good man. And then a pair of dusty thick-soled work boots came over and stopped in front of me.

I lifted my gaze to a smiling man who looked vaguely familiar.

“Hello,” he said with a nod. “I’m Ted Hudson, Alex’s brother.”

My tongue was firmly glued to the roof of my mouth because back in the days when I sized up men based on their looks, I would certainly have paused to reflect on Ted Hudson. Strange how the same colored hair and same basic features could be arranged so differently on two men.

“I’m Jacki,” I managed to say.

“Alex went back to St. Louis,” he said. “He and his ex-wife are making another go of it.”

“That’s nice,” I said, and meant it. Ted Hudson’s smile made me overflow with goodwill.

“Can I buy you another drink?”

I seriously regretted that I’d already downed two drinks while sitting all alone. “I can’t — not on an empty stomach.”

“Dinner then? As long as it’s somewhere casual.” He looked apologetic. “I usually spend Fridays on building sites.”

Ergo the work boots. I counted to six so as not to appear too eager, then shrugged and suggested a pizza place within walking distance. The owners waved at him when we entered. I loved that. And he helped me out of my coat. I loved that, too.

“I hope this isn’t awkward for you,” he said as we slid into a booth.

For a few seconds, I was at a loss as to why being with this man in a lively, aromatic place with our knees brushing thrillingly beneath the table would be awkward, then I remembered the brother, what’s-his-name. “Oh…no, this isn’t awkward for me,” I said. “Your brother, um —”

“Alex,” he supplied.

“Right,” I said, nodding. “He was nice, but…”

“You weren’t a matched pair?”

I blinked. “That’s one way to put it.”

A slow grin spread over Ted’s marvelous mouth. “I’ll miss my brother, but I can’t say I’m sorry that he’s out of the picture…at least long enough for me to get to know you better.”

I swallowed. “What do you want to know?”

His warm laugh floated out, then walked in and leaned on my heart. “Let’s start with what you like on your pizza and see where it goes from there.”

I can’t remember everything we discussed over ham-and-pineapple pizza, because none of it was particularly notable, but I could definitely feel something significant coming on. The knee-brushing evolved to hand-holding and, hours later, when Ted walked me home, a good-night kiss seemed necessary. Ted said he was leaving town the next morning on business for a few days but asked if I’d like to go to a movie when he returned. I counted to three and said sure.

* * *

“See,” Denise said on Monday. “Your ‘shoes and men’ theory was a big fat bust.”

“It led her to a promising guy,” Cindy argued.

I admit it — I felt smug. “The scientist in me agrees with you, Denise, but the romantic in me agrees with you, Cindy.” I lifted my hands. “The wrong man in the right shoes just might have led me to the right man in the wrong shoes.”

Ever the pessimist, Denise shook her head. But I caught her smiling when she thought I wasn’t looking.

When Ted arrived at my place the next week to pick me up for the movie, my feeling that this relationship had a future was reinforced by the little lift of my heart and the little scared look in his eyes. Then I glanced down, and blinked in astonishment — he was wearing
the shoes
. With socks.

“Your shoes,” I said in a vague tone.