Page 1 of These Shoes Weren't Made for Stalking

1

The antique clock on the wall chimed seven times, its melodic tones echoing through Cobblers’ Corner. I glanced up from the pair of well-worn boots I’d just finished resoling. Pride swelled in my chest as I admired my handiwork.

This shop had always been my sanctuary, even as a child. Every tool in its place, the rhythm of work, the satisfaction of mending what was broken. Here, I knew who I was. Here, I was master of my domain.

I inhaled deeply, savoring the rich aroma of leather and polish that permeated the air. My grandfather’s presence lingered in every nook and cranny of this century-old shop. My thoughts drifted to Grandpa, and a wistful ache settled in my chest. The weight of his legacy pressed upon my shoulders, a constant reminder of the responsibility I’d inherited along with the family business.

The antique clock’s chime echoed through empty spaces that once held laughter. Mom used to say the shop’s leather scent reminded her of Dad’s workshop where they first met. Nowthose memories lived only in my mind, preserved like the vintage shoe lasts lining our walls.

Grandpa stepped in when they died, teaching me not just how to repair shoes, but how to keep moving forward when life tore your world apart. “Every broken sole can be mended,” he’d say, though we both knew some breaks left permanent scars.

The weight of his and my Dad’s legacy pressed heavier now that he was gone too. I ran my fingers along his old workbench, wondering if I’d ever feel worthy of this inheritance—or if I’d always be a little boy trying to fill shoes too big for his feet.

As I began my closing routine, wiping down tools and straightening displays, the bell above the door jangled. I suppressed a sigh. So close to freedom, yet so far.

“I’m sorry, we’re actually clos—“ The words died on my lips as I turned to face the intruder.

He stood in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the setting sun, all broad shoulders and sharp angles. His crisp suit screamed corporate in a way that clashed with our neighborhood’s old-world vintage streetlights and cobblestone-paved roads. His presence filled the shop like smoke—dangerous, intoxicating. But it was his scent that hit me first—pine and sandalwood with a hint of spicy cinnamon.

Definitely alpha.

My omega instincts perked up, suddenly alert.

“I have a bit of a shoe emergency,” he said, his deep voice resonating through me like the warm vibration of a tuning fork.

I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “A shoe emergency?”

I glanced down at his feet, my eyes widening at the sight of scuffed tennis shoes paired with his expensive tailored suit. A battered duffel bag dangled from his hand, completing the bizarre ensemble. Something wasn’t adding up here.

He strode forward, movements confident and purposeful. “I have a crucial meeting in less than an hour, and the heel just came off my shoe.” He held up a sleek leather oxford, its detached heel dangling pathetically.

I took the shoe, my fingers accidentally brushing against his. A jolt of electricity shot through me, and I felt my cheeks flush. His scent intensified, wrapping around me like a warm blanket on a cold day.

Trying to ignore the alpha’s intoxicating presence, I examined the shoe. High-end Italian leather, barely a month old. The type of shoe worn by someone who valued appearance over comfort, who wanted to impress and intimidate.

“I can fix this, but it’ll take about forty-five minutes,” I said, looking up at him. Even with the counter between us, his towering frame cast a shadow that seemed to swallow my workspace whole.

He frowned, checking his watch. “I don’t have that kind of time. Can’t you just... glue it back on or something?”

I bristled at his dismissive tone. “If you want it done right, it’ll take forty-five minutes—and that’s if I rush it.”

I sat the shoe on the counter. “Unless you’d prefer to hobble into your meeting with a half-attached heel?”

He sighed, running his fingers through thick dark hair peppered with distinguished silver at his temples. My breath caught—themotion drew attention to the powerful line of his jaw, the kind of bone structure that made sculptors weep. Even slouched against my counter, he radiated the quiet strength of an alpha in his prime.

“Fine. I’ll wait.”

As I gathered my tools and began working on the shoe, I felt his eyes on me. The air between us crackled with an electric undercurrent, like the air before a thunderstorm. It was a mix of attraction and annoyance that left me feeling off-balance.

“I’m Dominic,” he said after a few minutes of silence. “Dominic Steele.”

“Leo Sterling-Hart,” I replied, not looking up from my work.

My fingers worked the leather with practiced precision, each stitch flowing into the next as I repaired the damaged heel. Behind me, Dominic’s footsteps traced a meandering path through my shop. The crisp pine and sandalwood of his scent wafted over each time he moved, making my hands falter on the awl.

I noticed him studying the display cabinet where I kept my great-grandfathers’ cobbling instruments—weathered hammers and wooden shoe forms passed down through five generations of my family, each tool buffed to a shine by the palms of my ancestors. His fingers drummed against the glass as he studied a pair of brass shoe stretchers, the steady tap-tap-tap matching the quickening rhythm of my pulse.

“So,” he said, his deep voice sending another tremor of electricity crackling beneath my skin. “How long have you been fixing shoes?”