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“I couldn’t help overhearing a little bit of your conversation, Mr. Wescott. I say treat yourself this once, guilt-free. I’d kill to have a rich boyfriend buy me my weight in shoes. C’mon, I’ve got a great pair of Louboutin pumps that would look killer on you with calves like that.”
I chose Brittany for a reason. Her sales skills are second to none. She’s responsible for at least half of my shoe closet.
The staff's excitement catches. I’m paying enough for this—hmm, maybe I’ll leave that part out too—that they’re happy to be here. They enjoy these events. I’ve already told them they could drink champagne and help themselves to food as well so long as they bombard Logan with all the shoes he could ever want.
Brittany, the clever minx, leaves out the price tags and romances Logan by showing him how good his calves look in a three-inch heel. He gets into it, drinks another few glasses of champagne, and tries on half the store while I play the dutiful boyfriend, sitting with a glass of champagne of my own and watching him have fun with the staff. Especially Brittany. There’s a friendship spark there. They have a vibe.
By the end of the night, he’s talked into four pairs, but he refuses to look at anything else. I saw him eyeing a black Chanel bag, though, and told one of the staff to wrap that up with our other purchases when he was involved in a conversation with Brittany and another staff member whose name I didn’t catch.
I pay while Logan stretches himself across one of the lounge chairs, eating a strawberry while chatting with a few of the staff, and Brittany slides a business card across to me. “At the risk of this being inappropriate, sir, do you think I could pass my number along to your man? He said he was new to Vancouver and didn’t know anyone in town.”
Part of me likes that, likes being the only friend he has, taking him around town. I want to keep him to myself. It’s the selfish thing, and I’m no saint, I’m prone to selfish things. He’s so damn happy, though. I know the many glasses of champagne are responsible for his relaxed demeanor but getting to observe him enjoying himself like this is like watching flowers bloom.
I take the card. “I’ll give it to him. You were wonderful with him, and I appreciate it.”
“You’re good with him, too,” she says.
What an odd thing to say. “What do you mean by that?”
“He’s surrounded by the most beautiful shoes in the city, but he still looks for you … for assurance, I think. You’re always there to catch his gaze.”
Have we been doing that?
“I hope I find a man that’ll adore me as much you do him, Mr. Elkington.”
I clear my throat, hoping it’ll clear away the wave of discomfort, rinsing through me. This is good. We’re convincing.
Making sure to leave them all a generous tip, I whisk my drinking beauty away and back to the limo. I nursed my glass of bubbly and drank far less than he did at the restaurant. I’m near to sober. He’s still flying too close to the sun.
Inside, he sheds the heeled boots he’s been wearing all night—save for when he was trying on other shoes—and pushes his feet into my lap. His toes accidentally brush against my nuts, and a hiss of arousal zings through me. I’m the one biting my lip this time.
“Okay, that was fucking fun. Thanks, Rhett. I felt like a king.”
He curls up on the seat and my hands cover his feet so they don’t get cold. I don’t know how to give a massage, but I’ve had many. How hard can it be? I replicate what I know of one as best as I can.
He moans. “Yeah, that’s the stuff. Those boots are gorgeous, but they’re murder.”
I massage him all the way to Chateau Meyer—I refuse to call it Meyer-Leslie—and get him to hop onto my back when we get there so that I can ferry him to the door. Taking the keys out of his purse, I open it myself.
Mercy’s at the kitchen table, involved in a card game with Jack. The baby must be in his own bed for once. Only the kittens are anywhere to be found and I smirk at my cunning. I got to annoy Mercy and give Jack a constant reminder of me at the same time.
“Cutting it kinda close to curfew, Lo,” Mercy says, planting a card on the pile.
“My fault,” I say as I plant him down in a chair. Logan’s eyelids flutter between open and closed. He puts his head down on the table.
“What did you do to him?” Mercy’s cornflower blue eyes flare.
“Dom Pérignon. Lots of it.”
“It’s good shit, Merc,” Logan mumbles.
“You would like the expensive stuff,” Mercy says, running a hand through Logan’s hair as he continues to play cards with Jack.
Logan can’t see the expression of utter fondness on his face. Mercy’s a hard man who goes soft for his people. I want to hate Mercy more than I do, but I understand something about Logan after tonight. He acts like a prickly cactus, but all he wants is unconditional love, and a guy like Mercy can give it.
You’ve got it, pretty scorpion.
“This is gonna be fun,” Jack says. “Tomorrow that is. We might be able to convince him to try bread for the first time.”
