Trust (Wrong 3)

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.” He shakes his head, laughing. “I thought you knew.”

“Sophie never mentioned it.” I slide on one pair of the heels the saleswoman—Catie this time—has brought out and stand, walking a few steps in the shoe department to get a feel for them.

“Try these,” Boyd instructs, handing me the higher pair. I take a seat and switch them out then stand again. These aren’t heels, they’re stilettos. “We’ll take those,” Boyd says, handing his card to Catie while I’m still practice-walking in them.

“Boyd, I don’t know,” I murmur. But I’m not sure they’re me. “These are”—I drop my voice—“fuck-me heels.”

“I don’t see how that’s a problem,” he says, dragging his eyes up to my face. “You’re practicing, remember?”

“They look okay?” I’m sort of in love with them already. Not that I’ll have anywhere to wear them besides this wedding. I don’t think they go with my leggings, that’s for sure. The dress is fairly modest though, the heels will sex it up a little but not too much.

“They look fantastic,” Boyd answers. “Are they comfortable?”

“They are. But do you think they’re safe? What if I trip in them?”

“I’ll catch you,” he quips.

It’s not like I’m going to jog in them, I think with a shrug. I take them off and Boyd hands them over to the saleswoman to box up while I put my sneakers back on. “Thanks for the shoes, sugar,” I say and add a dramatic wink.

Ten

Boyd

I’m not sure I’ve ever gone to this much effort to spend time with a girl before, but as we exit the store I’m not ready for the day to be over. We walk back in the direction of the car, Chloe swinging the bag with her shoes and me carrying the dress bag slung over my shoulder. She doesn’t see this as a date so she’s relaxed and I want to hold onto that a little bit longer. We walk in comfortable silence down 17th and when we should cut down 6th to grab the car on 18th I keep walking.

“Isn’t the car down that way?” Chloe asks, starting to recognize that we’re back at the same intersection we walked past earlier on the way to Dough.

“I need to grab something from American Apparel,” I tell her, remembering we passed one on earlier today on the way to Dough.

“Sure.” She shrugs. “No problem.” I like her like this, when she’s not on guard. Although she’s pretty damn funny when she’s nervous too.

I drag her into American Apparel and grab some crewneck t-shirts I don’t really need while Chloe pauses in front of a display of raglan tees. So I get a couple of those too.

“So what made you go into law enforcement instead of the candy business?” she asks when we’re back outside.

“Women,” I tell her and lead her down 19th towards Broadway, for no other reason than it’s the opposite direction from the car. She gives me a signature Chloe dirty look and I laugh. “I’m kidding. I was never going into the candy business. I’m on the board because my grandfather asked me to be on it, but business has never been my interest. I’ve been into technology since I was a kid. It started with hacking game apps, making workarounds to beat the game. That sort of stuff. Let’s just say it progressed from there. Then the FBI recruited me shortly after college.”

“You must be pretty talented,” she says innocently.

“You have no idea,” I saw slowly, my eyes not leaving hers. She gets my meaning and her eyes widen and she gnaws on her lower lip.

“I’m sure,” she agrees, clearly at a loss in how to reply. She slows in front of a window display at Fishs Eddy. “Let’s go in here,” she says. She bounces on her toes a little when she says it. I glance at the window display—looks like an assortment of shit from Grandma’s garage sale, but if it puts a smile on her face, I’m in. I grab the door and follow her inside.

I trail her through the store watching her make a loop, pausing at things that interest her, running her fingers across items of particular interest. I have no idea what I’ve stumbled into. The store is jam-packed from front to back with the oddest assortment of housewares shit. But Chloe is enthralled. Much of it has a funky vintage flair and reminds me a bit of the assortment of picture frames she had hung in her apartment. After looking at everything she goes back through the store a second time and picks up a small selection of items, chattering about Christmas before heading to the register. It’s October so I’m not sure what the fuck she’s talking about, but I don’t say anything.

We exit the store and continue walking around the Flatiron district, ducking into stores that catch her interest. We end up in front of Beecher’s.

“Let’s have dinner.” I nod to the shop. “They have a restaurant downstairs.”

“You couldn’t get a date for tonight either?” She stops dead on the sidewalk, eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“You need the practice. Come on,” I tell her, holding the door open. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes but enters the store. It’s early so we’re seated immediately. Chloe buries her head in the menu and I start to wonder if I imagined the way she looked at me back at the donut shop when she snaps the menu closed and speaks.

“Why did the orange go out with the prune?”

I can feel my lips pull into a smile as much as I attempt to resist and keep a straight face. “You’re nervous? We’re just practicing, remember?”

She twists in her seat a little and nods. “True.”

The waitress stops by and takes our orders. Steak for me, macaroni and cheese for Chloe.

“Macaroni and cheese?” I ask, my tone teasing and brow lifted.

“We’re in a restaurant underneath a cheese shop, Boyd,” she says, stressing the word cheese. “I bet it’s the best macaroni and cheese in the world and you’re gonna be so jealous when it gets here.”

“If you say so.”

“You will be.”

“So why did the orange go out with the prune anyway?”