The F-Word

There’s a pair of black suede things. Pumps, I think you call them. A pair of dark blue, what, sandals? Yeah. Sandals. Open back, open toes, straps around the ankle. And another blue pair, but this blue is the same color as one of the stripes on Bailey’s dress. They’re nothing but heels and narrow straps, and they look as if they’re made of butterfly wings.

The heels on all of them are the kind that make men have wicked dreams and all of a sudden I begin to understand Bailey’s gasp.

I also understand why she’s shaking her head and I’m nodding mine.

“Just try one pair,” I say.

The saleswoman holds out one of those butterfly wings. Bailey slips her foot in. The shoe goes on easily. So does its mate. There are a couple of straps to close and then The Pretender to the Throne sits back.

“See how they feel when you walk,” she says.

When Bailey walks? I can hardly breathe, just looking at her sitting next to me. She’s an amazing sight. Those endless legs. Those delicate shoes. Those icepick heels…

But she’s not moving.

I rise to my feet. Hold out my hand.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think I can.”

“Of course you can.” My voice is a little hoarse and I clear my throat. “Come on. Walk with me.”

Gingerly, she takes my hand and stands.

I move forward. So does she. She wobbles a little. I slide my arm around her waist. We take another couple of steps. She’s a little more steady now. And she’s moving differently. There’s some hip action I never noticed before. She looks up at me. I tell her she’s doing fine. We head for a mirror and when she sees herself, she gives a breathless little laugh.

“Wow,” she says.

That just about sums it up.

My girl is spectacular.

My PA, I mean.

We pivot. Walk back to the saleswoman, who cocks her head and looks at me.

“What do you think, sir?”

I can’t tell her what I think. It’s X-rated because what I think is that those long, endless legs of Bailey’s belong wrapped around my waist. Instead, I take out my wallet and hand over a credit card.

“Which pair?” she asks.

“We’ll take all three,” I say, and, despite Bailey’s protests, we do. Bailey keeps on the butterfly wings and the store will deliver the other shoes, plus the ones she was wearing, to her apartment tomorrow.

Our salesclerk smiles, and I suspect it has little to do with the four-figure sale she’s just made. It’s a smile that turns her from the Queen Mum into Mary Poppins, and I smile back.

“Thank you,” I say, and then we hurry to the elevator, Bailey swaying a little, and that sway is sexy as hell. When we reach the ground floor, I reach for her hand and I get jabbed in the side with her pocketbook. It’s big enough to hold a week’s wo

rth of groceries. How come I didn’t notice that before?

I tug her towards a display of tiny, glittery purses. A saleswoman beams at us.

“Matthew,” Bailey says in a warning whisper, but I ignore her.

“May I help you?” the saleswoman purrs.

I look over the display. Time’s racing by. We’re already late, very late for our reservation.

“We’ll take that one,” I say, pointing at a small silver thing with a long strap.