Entice Me Box Set: The Truth About Shoes and MenCover MeMy Favorite Mistake

by Stephanie Bond

  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 handholding 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.

  He looked down. “What about my shoes?”

  “They’re…like Alex’s.”

 
Ted grinned. “I let Alex wear them to interviews. He didn’t have much of a professional wardrobe.”

  A little shiver went through me. “They’re your shoes?”

  He nodded. “Ready?”

  Ready or not, my inner voice whispered. As we walked away, he twined my fingers with his. Happiness bubbled up in my chest. My theory on the truth about shoes and men had worked after all.

  Wait until the girls heard this….

  Cover Me

  Stephanie Bond

  1

  “I’M ALLERGIC to men,” I announced to my three girlfriends between forkfuls of my wickedly garlicky Caesar salad.

  Being accustomed to my somewhat obscure proclamations, their vigorous chewing proceeded unchecked. I looked from face to face to see who would cave first. My gaze stopped on Denise and she gave me an eye roll. I could always count on Denise to nibble at my conversation tidbits, however begrudgingly.

  “Okay, Kenzie, I’ll bite. Are you talking allergic in literal terms, or figurative?”

  “Literal,” I declared. “I am physically allergic to the male gender.”

  Cindy squinted. “Like ragweed?”

  “Exactly.”

  Jacki shook her head. “You are hopeless. You’re allergic to feathers, mold, pollen, dairy products, rubber and now men?”

  “Don’t forget pet dander,” I said.

  Jacki pointed with her fork. “Kenzie Mansfield, you are a hypochondriac.”

  Admittedly, I was. My copy of Disease and Diagnosis was as dog-eared as were most women’s copies of Kama Sutra. At different times in my life, I had been sure I’d had an enlarged spleen, Tourette’s syndrome and a brain tumor. Even though those ailments had all been disproved by various and sundry tests, my extensive allergies were documented and real, so I clung to them.

  “If I’m a hypochondriac, then you are delusional, Jacki,” I said defensively. “You with your theory of choosing men by the shoes they wear.”

  Jacki bristled. “Hey, it worked for me. Ted and I have been going strong for two months. Plus Cindy and Denise have both met guys while testing my shoe theory.”

  The girls nodded with enthusiasm, and I bit into my lip. I’d missed out on a lot of fun with my friends while working crazy-long hours at Personality magazine. They all had boyfriends with nice footwear. I had no boyfriend and seemed to be developing an itch that I suspected was a result of inadvertent contact with our burly Italian waiter.

  Jacki gave me a censoring look. “Besides, my theory is simply an extension of human tastes. I never claimed it was scientific—unlike this cockamamie allergy hypothesis.”

  “But me being allergic to men makes perfect sense,” I insisted. “Instead of being attracted by male pheromones, my body now goes haywire. My sinus passages close up, my skin gets all blotchy—both of which are medically recognized clinical reactions, by the way.”

  Jacki was unmoved. “Did you develop this allergy before or after James dumped you?”

  My back straightened. “I dumped James. But now I think my growing aversion to him was actually the onset of the man allergy.”

  One of Jacki’s eyebrows shot up. “Personally, I think your growing aversion to James was the onset of sanity.”

  “That, too,” I conceded. “But toward the end, I couldn’t bear the smell of him, even after a shower.” I wrinkled my nose. “And every time he came near me, my neck and chest got all blotchy.”

  “Do the men you work with give you a reaction?” Denise asked, clearly humoring me, probably to aggravate Jacki.

  But I’d given that topic some thought. “No, but most of the men I work with are gay—I don’t think they’re emitting pheromones directed at me.” I pulled a notebook from my purse and flipped through the pages. “For the past two weeks, I’ve been keeping track of my reaction to all men I come into close contact with—cab drivers, doormen, strangers on the elevator—and it seems that the more macho the guy, the more severe my reaction.”

  Our handsome dark-haired waiter materialized to leave more bread at the table. He winked at me, and I clawed at the instant skin irritation that developed. He hurried away.

  “See,” I said, extending the white underside of my arms, now red from scratching, as irrefutable proof of my rant.

  My friends still seemed dubious.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Jacki said. “You’re allergic to big, strong, alpha men?”

  “Exactly.” I sank back into my chair, relieved that she finally understood.

  Jacki nodded thoughtfully. “There is a name for what you’re describing.”

  I did a double take. “There is?”

  “It’s called being a lesbian.”

  Denise and Cindy cracked up, but I wasn’t amused. I was, however, feeling a little desperate to explain myself. “Don’t you see? I’m always attracted to the same type of guy—big and physical—and those relationships have all been disasters. My body has obviously developed this allergy to protect me from my own urges. It’s nature’s way of telling me that I need to settle down with a nice, quiet, unsexy guy.”

  The girls looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. If so, I hoped the new head had better hair than the first.

  Then Jacki stabbed a chunk of romaine and scoffed. “I think you’re freaking out because your birthday is on Thursday and you don’t have a man in your life.”

  My uterus contracted. “That’s ridiculous. I’m trying to explain what might be a revolutionary evolutionary concept. This development could change the human mating process as the world knows it!”

  They stared.

  “Besides, I forgot all about my birthday,” I lied.

  In truth, turning thirty-one loomed more menacingly than any previous anniversary of moi. And the only explanation I had for the anxiety was that the year had flamed by so quickly, I was afraid to let it go. Since becoming an assistant to Helena Birch, editor-in-chief of Personality magazine, it seemed as if my unremarkable life was slipping through my worked-to-the-bone fingers. A typical day had me leaving my apartment in the dark and arriving home in the dark. If I was lucky, I got to see a sliver of daylight when I delivered towering stacks of reports to Helena’s office on the thirteenth floor of the Woolworth Building. (My own office was a closet off a dark hallway.) Today was the first time in eons that I’d had lunch with my friends at our favorite sidewalk café. My indoor arms were ghostly pale next to their sun-kissed limbs, and I had to wear sunglasses against the unfamiliar reflective glare from the sidewalk. My entire body was under assault from the sunshine. And the handsome waiter.

  “Well, we didn’t forget your birthday,” Denise said. “We’re taking you to Fitzgerald’s if you can get away from the office Thursday at five.”

  I conjured up a smile, already dreading that conversation with Helena. My boss was determined to make Personality magazine number one in our demographic (young professionals earning over $45,000 per annum who spend a disproportionate amount of income on clothing and cars). Just yesterday we’d learned that we had clawed our way from number nine to number seven in circulation. Good thing, too, because this morning when I’d stared glassily into the mirror brushing my teeth, it had appeared for one brief second as if my eyes were turning nocturnal pink—ergo my spontaneous lunch invitation to my gal pals: my social life simply had to improve. “I’ll be at Fitzgerald’s,” I promised.

  Jacki smirked. “Good. But don’t forget your antihistamine, Kenzie, just in case you meet a man.”

  *

  BY THE TIME I had walked back to the Woolworth Building, I had arrived at two conclusions: (1) I felt certain my man allergy would steer me toward a durable guy, and (2) Helena wouldn’t fire me if I left early Thursday to celebrate my birthday with friends. Probably not. I’d been working like an android and sleeping with my pager. I had forgone lunches and evenings and weekends. I had turned Helena’s desk and schedule into an efficient, well-oiled machine. And maybe my belief that I was indispensable to my boss was more a product of m
y daylight-deprived mind than it was a reality. After all, equal parts of me were resentful and gleeful that Helena seemed to begin every sentence with the word Kenziewouldyou.

  I opted for the stairs to extend my lunch hour a wee bit, then realized with a sparkle of alarm that my pager was dead. I trotted up the last two flights, telling myself that nothing dreadful could possibly have happened during my mere sixty-two-minute absence. But when I walked into the lobby of Personality, Helena stood in front of a cowering receptionist, flailing her thin arms.

  Helena Birch had all the trappings of a superbitch editor-in-chief—she was tall and angular, with laser-blue eyes and a surgical tongue. She was an explosive genius and a social maven, unmarried and unapologetic. I had been duly terrified when I had interviewed for the position of her executive assistant, but strangely enough, we had clicked, and our relationship had grown to resemble what I imagined the bond with my ambitious, strong-willed mother might have been if she were still alive: I lived to please Helena and Helena lived to please no one.

  The harried receptionist glanced up and pointed in my direction. “Here’s Kenzie now, Ms. Birch.”

  Helena whirled. “Where have you been?”

  I took a deep breath. “Helena, I told you I was going to meet friends for lunch.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well…” She recovered and crossed her arms over a crisp periwinkle-blue Marie Gray jacket. “You didn’t answer my pages.”

  As always, I was torn between anger and flattery. “My battery died. What do you need?”

  I began walking toward her office, and she fell into step next to me, her hands agitated. “Something came up and I can’t make an appointment. I need you to go in my place.”

  I perked up—cover for Helena? Until now, she’d never asked me to do more than cover her behind. I was momentarily dazzled by her confidence in me. “Sure, Helena, I’d be happy to.”

  My mind spun with the possible exposure and what it could mean for my career. A Chamber of Commerce meeting? A symposium on periodicals at the Guggenheim? An advertising think tank? I was relieved I’d worn a decent suit and shoes—both a half-season old, but passable if I snagged a Hermès scarf from the prop department. “Just tell me where.”