“I was wildly attracted to him, and look, I’m not going to lie—I still am.” It feels good to admit the truth. “But I needed time to process his nudity.”
“Have you processed it now?”
I smile. “Shoe shopping helps me process everything.”
Because . . . shoes.
“Fair enough.” Penny grabs the black zippered boots. “I saw you staring at these. Let’s try them on your flipper-feet.”
“I love that you have no problem mocking my clodhoppers.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, making sure I see her little bitty ears. “You’ve seen my ears right?”
I laugh. “They’re cute.”
She shakes her head. “They’re tiny. They’re like mouse ears. One of the many reasons I grew my hair out years ago. Anyway, I want you to know that once we finish this emergency shopping session, I’m going to order you a gold medal trophy for resistance.”
“I look forward to displaying it proudly on my shelf.” I wag my finger at her. “But don’t forget—I did touch his chest and his abs.”
“Oh, that’s true. I’ll make it a silver medal.”
We wander to a plush, blue suede couch, as the saleswoman returns from the enchanted storage room, her arms laden with boxes of shoes.
“Here you go,” she says brightly, handing me the red shoes and the black Mary Janes. “I brought you the red peep toes in a ten, and the Mary Janes in a nine and a half because we don’t have them in a ten.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though her effort is futile. Sales women always think a nine and a half is the same as a ten. But I have never jammed my hooves into anything less than a full and proper ten. It’s a myth that women with petite feet cling to—the mistaken notion that one half size smaller will fit just fine. But we big-footed ladies know that single digit sizes will never fit our German-shepherd-puppy paws.
Penny hands Jane the black boots. “And we saw these beauties and couldn’t resist. Can we try these in a ten, please?”
Jane’s expression turns crestfallen, placing a hand on her heart. “Oh, I’m so sorry. They only go to nine.”
I sigh. The curse of banana boats.
Penny’s eyes light up. In a stage whisper, she says to Jane, “Then just bring them back in a seven.”
I fix her with a searing stare. “You are the luckiest bitch in the world.”
She blows on her fingernails as the saleswoman takes off once more. “I’d still trade you my ears for your feet.”
I run my finger over the shell of her ear. “Stop it. Your ears are perfect.”
She taps her toe to mine. “So are your feet.”
“Fine. We’re both awesome.”
“We absolutely are,” Penny adds.
I open the box of red shoes and tug the silica gel packs and the stuffing from the left one. “But seriously, though. What do you think? And I don’t mean about the physical stuff. Obviously we’ve established the connection is still there. What do you make of the whole effort he’s gone to?”
Penny inhales and downshifts to a more serious tone. “It’s kind of like a grand gesture. Only he had to do it at the start, not at the end.” She sets her hand on my arm. “And I do love that he’s not just making lip service about wanting to see you again. He sent you a salad. Your favorite salad at that. He sent you lilacs. And he sent you himself, in all his naked glory.”
I scrunch my forehead. “So the lilacs and salad and nudity are all on the same level?”
Penny scoffs. “No. The flowers and the salad—let’s be honest, those are a total swoon. But him risking being naked in public for you.” She fans herself. “That’s the big gesture.” She drops her voice. “I mean, it was big, right?”
I pretend to zip my lips. Then I nod the answer. Yes.
“That’s what I’m talking about. It’s not only a big gesture. It’s a you-can’t-ignore-me gesture. The man clearly wanted you to take him seriously, as in pay-attention-to-me-because-I’m-not-going-away.”
“He was kind of hard to ignore,” I say with a waggle of my eyebrows.
Penny holds up a hand, and we smack palms.
She clears her throat. “But seriously, I do think he’s making a big play for you. And I’m impressed. But don’t tell Nicole I’ve become head cheerleader or she’ll have my neck.” She scans the shop like Nicole might be listening, picking up a pair of brown leather pumps and searching underneath them. “Just making sure she didn’t bug this shop.”
I crack up. “Nicole knows what happened. I did invite both of you here today. She’s on deadline, though, writing a column about how to deal with bizarre sexual proposals, so she’s occupied thinking up tips for turning down pegging, toe-sucking, or hot sauce fetishes.”
An eyebrow rises. “Hot sauce fetish? Is that a thing?”
I nod. “There’s a fetish for everything. However, Nicole still managed to berate me for a full minute.” I shudder as I recall the full weight of Nicole’s vexation. I’d texted her, and moments later she called and shouted “You can’t be serious?” over the line. Even when I gave her the CliffNotes, she warned me to be careful. Then she made me tell her all about my date with Trevor and proceeded to remind me why he’s a great catch.
“He is a great catch. I’ve no doubt about that,” I’d told her.