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

  Entice Me Box Set

  The Truth About Shoes and Men

  Cover Me

  My Favorite Mistake

  Stephanie Bond

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  The Truth About Shoes and Men

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Cover Me

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  Epilogue

  My Favorite Mistake

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  The Truth About Shoes and Men

  Stephanie Bond

  Chapter One

  “Too much?” Denise asked, turning her ankle back and forth in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

  I squinted at the lime green stilettos with pointy roach-killer toes. “Too shrill.”

  “And trampy,” Cindy chimed in, then thrust her foot forward. “How about these?”

  Denise frowned at the shapeless clump of leather strapped to a flat cork sole. “They look like snowshoes.”

  “Jacki?”

  “Dreadful,” I concurred. “What do you think about these?” The red mock-croc mules were already squeezing my toes, but I told myself if I hadn’t eaten that dill pickle last night at midnight by the light of my refrigerator, my feet wouldn’t be bloated.

  “They look tight,” Denise said.

  “And your heel is hanging over the back,” Cindy added.

  The debate was a mere formality, because we promptly boxed up our finds, trekked to the cash register, and plopped down our plastic.

  And that’s when it hit me: The shoes we’d plucked off the shelf pretty closely represented the type of men we normally plucked off the shelf. Denise liked guys who were flashy, Cindy went for the bearded nature boys, and I…well, if my theory held water, then my current taste ran to guys who looked more classy than they actually were and who really crowded me. Tim, Shawn, Rico — hmm. All crowders.

  *

  Men and shoes. Shoes and men. As I surveyed my closet that evening, I decided I was definitely on to something. My shoe rack was a veritable chronicle of my love life — a couple of one-night stands (slick white go-go boots and unfortunate flowered platforms), several short-term liaisons that had seemed promising but ultimately disappointed (stunning sling-backs with droopy straps and leather sandals that squeaked like small trapped animals), and a couple of long-term relationships that triggered fond memories (soft loafers with curled-up toes and perfect black pumps that had been resoled twice).

  I spent the next few hours sorting through my shoe rack, tossing every pair that didn’t speak to me into a box bound for Goodwill. Somewhere in Manhattan there was a destitute woman who needed a pair of orange espadrilles with ties that laced up to the knee. And the red mock-croc mules would have to go back.

  After all, I had just ratcheted up my standards for keeper shoes…and for keeper men. No crowders. No chafers. No simulated materials. From now on, I would focus on quality over quantity, substance over style, and a fit comfortable enough to endure every day.

  Okay, so maybe I was taking my shoes/men metaphor to the extreme, but I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman with a biological clock ticking like Big Ben. Now that even Gloria Steinem was married, I felt as if I had nowhere left to hide. I was willing to grasp at any straw that might help me separate the marriageables from the merely-looking.

  *

  And shoes, I realized over the course of the next few days of field study, spoke volumes about the wearer — attitude, income level, physical well-being, even political affiliations. Funny, but for the past two decades, during Friday night happy hour I’d scanned bars, parties and coffee shops for potential mates based primarily on characteristics from the neck up — eyes, skin, smile, haircut — all the while ignoring the yardstick at the floor level.

  In hindsight, the things I remembered most about the two men I had dated seriously were Kevin’s suede lace-ups and Mike’s worn hiking boots parked next to my nightstand. Comfortable. Intimate. Relaxed. If I’d only paid attention to all of my prospective dates’ footwear, I would’ve passed on Rick, Mr. Snakeskin Boots; Ben, Mr. Tractor-Tire Sandals; and Theo, Mr. Yellow Moccasins, and saved myself a lot of grief.

  “So,” I told Denise and Cindy during lunch on Friday, “tonight when we go to Fitzgerald’s, I’m starting at the shoes, and working up from there.”

  Denise laughed so hard that iced tea came out of her nose. Cindy looked sympathetic. “You can’t be serious.”

  I shrugged. “What do I have to lose?”

  “Not your mind, apparently.” Cindy squinted. “This sounds like something Kenzie would come up with.”

  Our “fourth,” Kenzie Mansfield, had taken a new job with a magazine that had zapped her social life. Maybe it was in her absence, with the extra time on my hands, that I’d become more philosophical.

  Denise had recovered. “You can’t fool us, Jacki. You’re not looking for shoes, you’re looking for big shoes. Size thirteen, wide.”

  Cindy giggled; I sighed. Denise’s ex-husband was spectacularly endowed, and she projected her fixation onto everyone in sight. “No, I’m honestly interested in the shoes.”

  “But what kind of shoes?” Cindy wanted to know.

  “I’ve got to hear this,” Denise said, leaning forward. “What kind of shoes do you think the man of your dreams will be wearing?”

  Having given that part of the equation a good bit of deliberation, I whipped out a page I’d torn from a men’s magazine. “Ladies, may I present the quarry.”

  Chapter Two

  While shoe shopping with friends, I’d had a relationship revelation: over the years, the men I’ve chosen to date mirror the shoes I’ve chosen to wear — showy, on the smallish side and high maintenance. And what do I have to show for it? Hurting feet and a hurting heart. I promised myself that from this point on, I will invest only in footwear (and men) of quality materials that can withstand years of wear and tear. Once armed with the knowledge that the shoes a person wears speaks volumes about their personality, I decided to first identify what I consider to be the perfect men’s shoe — with the intention of then embarking on a hunt for the man wearing said perfect shoe….

  I held up the torn-out magazine page for my friends seated around the table, then bit my lip in last-second remorse. Considering the hours I’d spent poring over men’s couture magazines and mail-order catalogs using sticky notes and a ten-point rating system to pinpoint what I judged to be the perfect men’s shoe, I should have taken the time to dry-mount
a picture of the winner on a piece of foam-core board…or perhaps reduce the photo and laminate it for easy reference…or at least trim the ragged edges of the crumpled advertisement.

  It was, I acknowledged, a rather pathetic presentation, not worthy of the significance of my revolutionary “shoes and men” theory. I steeled myself, waiting for the girls’ reactions.

  Denise stared at the ad. “Jacki, if you’re looking for a loafer, I should introduce you to the guy in the cubicle across from mine.”

  I summoned patience. “No. I’m looking for a man who would wear this loafer.”

  “I don’t get it,” Cindy said.

  “It’s the perfect Friday shoe,” I insisted, tapping the picture of the saddle-tan leather loafer with a braided vamp. “Casual, classic and not cheap. Any guy who owns a shoe like this has got it going on.” I didn’t add that it also struck me as a paternal shoe for some unknown reason.

  Denise scoffed. “What if you find a guy wearing shoes like these, but he has a face as big as a dinner plate?”

  “Or he chain-smokes?” Cindy added.

  Those thoughts had crossed my mind because I’m human and I knew that the possibility of wrecking my own theory out of sheer shallowness was very real. I cleared my throat and tried to sound philosophical. “Like I said before, I’ll start at the shoes and work my way up. If I see something completely objectionable, like a wedding ring, I’ll stop. But even if the guy isn’t great-looking, I’m going to give this system a chance to work.”

  *

  The girls were still guffawing when we climbed onto stools at Fitzgerald’s Friday around a tall table. I ignored them, ordered a cosmopolitan and crossed my legs to show off my I’m-a-funny-warm-caring-sex-goddess brown snakeskin pumps. Then with fierce determination to follow my plan, I fastened my gaze on the floor.

  Wing tips, wing tips, wing tips, penny loafers, flip-flops, running shoes, bowling shoes, suede sandals, saddle oxfords, orthopedic lace-ups, wing tips, wing tips, wing tips. Cowboy boots, chukka boots, biker boots, deck shoes, canvas sneakers, wing tips, wing tips, wing tips.

  Denise and Cindy grew bored with my sport and paired up with a couple of guys hovering near the bar (patent leather tennis shoes and combat boots, respectively). Now I’m no great beauty, but I do have nice skin and I drag myself to the club four times a week, so before I had finished my first drink, a man’s elbow appeared next to mine on the table.

  “Can I buy you another?” a sturdy, graying fellow asked, pointing to my glass.

  I coughed to cover my downward glance to take in his shoes and breathed a little sigh of relief that he was wearing oxblood penny loafers. The shiny new pennies tucked into the little slots clinched my decision.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  Not a lie — I was waiting for someone…someone not wearing penny loafers.

  Or softball cleats, like the next guy who offered to buy me “a real drink — beer.”

  “No, thanks,” I said, resisting the urge to offer to buy him a real pair of shoes. Didn’t he know what those turf shoes did to wood floors? Barbarian.

  I studied shoes until I realized I was suddenly studying the bottom of my second cosmopolitan. I was contemplating switching to sparkling water when across the bar I spotted THE shoes: rich, saddle-tan loafers with a braided vamp, nearly new and perfectly perfect. I held my breath and lifted my gaze slowly.

  Chapter Three

  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 solemate?”

  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…