Page 83 of Duke
I lift my leg and give my Wranglers a tug, revealing the pair of Ariats I’m wearing. “Y’all would make what we call ‘indoor boots’—the ones you wear when you’re feelin’ a little fancy. Seems to be your wheelhouse.”
“As opposed to work boots?”
“Barn boots, yes. I think making everyday boots would bore y’all, and plenty of other companies make excellent boots for cowboying. But Bellamy Brooks—you make boots for special occasions.”
Wheeler nods, her brown eyes lighting up. “First date boots.”
“Boots you wear to prom.”
“Right! Boots you wear when you wanna get laid. Also, boots you wear on your wedding day. Sexyandsweet.” She glances down at her laptop and runs her fingers over the mouse pad. “I like this, Duke. I’m gonna take some notes.”
“My hourly rate is one viewing ofTitanic, front to back.”
Wheeler looks up and grins. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”
“You got plans tonight?”
“Guess I do now.”
My pulse leaps. For a day that began with a trip to an ob-gyn’s office to confirm an unexpected pregnancy, today is actually turning out to be…not all that sucky.
I don’t know what that means. Am I being reckless—or just plain stupid—to allow myself to have some fun right now, to allow myself to enjoy Wheeler’s company? Shouldn’t we be discussing what the next few weeks will look like? Should we feel, I don’t know, some kinda shame for the pickle we got ourselves into?
But here we are, talking business ideas over some really fucking delicious treats in a really pretty spot.
“Deal.” I tilt my foot one way, then the other. “I like the idea of doing two versions. One square-toed for the honky-tonk. The other a little more timeless for the altar.”
Wheeler holds up a finger. “Classic round toe. Yes. Maybe in a goatskin leather, with a riff on classic stitching—tone on tone, so it’s subtle but still very Texas.”
“Could be cool to stitch the state flag on the heel, since that’s where y’all make the boots?”
Wheeler claps. “Sexy! Yes. You think we do a tall shaft? Midcalf? Or shorties?”
I hold my hands about a foot apart. “Seems about right, yeah?”
“Notthatbig.” Her lips twitch.
“Everything’s bigger in Texas, Blue.” I snap my fingers. “There’s your tagline for the marketing campaign.”
She cuts me a glance. “It’s so bad it’s almost good.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, chest swelling. “I say you do both—midcalf and short. Winter and summer.”
“And then we keep the designs simple. Offer two shaft heights—”
“Okay, you gotta stop saying ‘shaft.’”
“What’s wrong with the word ‘shaft,’ Duke?”
“You know what’s wrong with the word ‘shaft,’ Wheeler.”
She’s smirking. “Am I making you uncomfortable with my talk of shafts in all different shapes and sizes?”
“Don’t make me answer that.” I drop my leg, my half-hard dick catching on the fly of my jeans. I bite back a wince. “One design’s gotta be ridiculous. Ostrich or alligator or some shit. The other is the goatskin. Hardworking but nice. Your ideal customer is a guy’s guy who appreciates craftsmanship but isn’t flashy. He’s got money, but he ain’t gonna shove that fact in your face. I wonder if it wouldn’t be a smart idea to host some trunk shows at country clubs. Hunt clubs too.”
“I didn’t know such a thing existed.”
“They do, and y’all definitely wanna hit those up.” I rub my hands together. “You pitch your boots as heirlooms—the kind you pass from one generation to the next. Maybe you offer free refurbishment services every, I don’t know, five years or whatever. Resole the boots, give the leather a polish. I know that’s how Garrett kept his boots in such great shape.”
