Page 35 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“Listen, it comes with the job.”

She stops again in front of a cheetah print boot, fringe all down the back. She twiddles her fingers through the leather fringe. “These are . . . interesting.”

“Not quite your taste?” I tease.

“The day I wear animal print is the day pigs fly,” Eleanor says before moving to another pair. She places her hand on the toe of a traditional boot in a tan color with dark brown detailing. “These are most certainly more my speed.”

I smile. “Try ’em on.”

Eleanor considers for a moment, but she pulls her hand away as if the boot burned her. “No, I’m fine just looking.”

I stop and put my hands on my hips. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t bring you to Allens Boots just to browse. You gotta get the feel, cowgirl.”

Eleanor adjusts her glasses. “Yeah, not sure I can own that title.”

I ignore her. “What size are you?”

“Luke—”

“Just tell me your size, okay?”

Eleanor narrows her eyes. “What are you planning?”

I cock my head to the side. Eleanor loves to make things difficult. Fine with me. It’s cute. She’s been bristling against me all day since she found the obituary of Diane Bloom. “No, you don’t have to do this,” and “No, you don’t have to do that.” When will she get it through her head that I want to do nice things for her?

First, I took her to BBQ. Poor thing needed to eat something after she bawled her eyes out. And then, what’s a good lunch without dessert? So, we went for ice cream. She tried to lay her credit card down for that, but I insisted. The day is on me. Screw it. If she thinks I’m being too forward, taking things away from friend territory, then let her think that. She’d be right.

I’ve questioned the boundary she set that day at the taco truck more and more each time I see her. I’d never cross it without her permission, but I can’t shake the flirtations, the prolonged eye contact, and the way she smiles at me.

I want more of it. All the time.

So, when she started talking about us like we weren’t going to at least be friends now that we’ve settled on the identity of the woman in the picture, I had to fix that right quick.

“You’ll see,” I finally say.

The standoff continues for just a few more seconds before Eleanor finally caves. “Seven and a half.”

“Got it. Now . . .” I stride over to her, grab her shoulders, and spin her around. “You go find a place to sit and wait for me.”

“Luke!” she exclaims as I push her forward a few feet.

She stops obstinately and I bump up against her, the whole front of my body pressed against the back of hers.

Shit. Couldn’t avoid the way my groin bumped up against her full ass. Now I feel the blood rushing to my dick. That’s going to make things really awkward if she doesn’t listen to what I say as soon as possible. I lean my mouth down to her ear, pulling her curls out of the way gently. “Eleanor, would you let me take control one more time?”

Goosebumps rise on the back of her neck. I hold back a smile. Now I know for a fact I’m not the only one whose body betrays our “friendship.”

Instead of pulling away like I expect her to, Eleanor lifts her chin and looks me in the eye. Our lips are inches apart. It’s killing me not to grab a kiss from her mouth right now, but I am a gentleman through and through and until I get the word, I will not cross the line. “You’re impossible,” she says, the air of the ‘p’ hitting my lips.

Gently, she shrugs my hands away before walking down the aisle away from me. I watch her hips swing side to side, khaki shorts doing wonders for the shape of her ass. Her sandals thwap against the wooden floorboards. And eventually she turns, out of sight.

But definitely not out of mind.

I pick out a few boots for her to try on. The tan pair she already pointed out, some black low-heeled ropers, and, because I think it might make her squirm, a pair of blue dress boots with a phoenix-like sunburst on the front.

I go to one of the salespeople, ask for a pair of each in her size, collect the big and unwieldy boxes, then go to find Eleanor.

She’s sitting at the end of one of the aisles on a bench made for trying on shoes, the ones with the mirrors built into the bottoms of them. When she sees me, she rolls her eyes. “I knew you were going to do this . . .”

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