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Why did it have to be shoes?
By Lisa Kessler
Brett balanced seven shoe boxes like a finance major with fifty thousand dollars of student loan debt. This was not how he envisioned his future.
With a well-practiced smile plastered on his face, he approached the pale, emaciated model wannabe, and knelt before her. He slowly lifted the first lid as if he’d just opened the Arc of the Covenant instead of a pair of red Dior pumps. “This is a size seven.”
“Merci.” Her dark eyes flicked to his plastic name badge. “Brett.”
Her rolled R made his name sound fifty times sexier. He slid her slender foot into the patent leather pump, noticing her smooth, cold skin.
He peered up at her face. “Is it cold outside? Your foot is freezing.”
Her eyes sparkled. “A storm blew in.”
Lightning seared the dark sky outside the pane glass front windows right on cue, making Brett flinch as he fitted the other shoe. “You want to try walking in them? See how the width works for you?”
She did, and he became a bug while her swaying hips were the zapper. God, why did he have to be a shoe salesman instead of a bartender who could buy her a drink?
“You’re perfect,” she purred.
He raised a brow. “So you’ll take them?”
“The shoes?”
“Yeah. I thought—” The lights cut out, drenching them in darkness.
“Silly boy.” She pulled him into a tight embrace, and something pierced his neck. His knees buckled before he could scream. “Shoe salesmen are my favorite.”