Page 11 of These Shoes Weren't Made for Stalking

I sighed, raking my fingers through my hair. “I’m not sure.”

“You think Mr. Daddy Material’s involved?”

I cast Penny a dour glare. He just shrugged innocently in response.

“It’s clearMr. Steele’sinvolved somehow, but to what extent?” I replied, placing emphasis on his name. “And why turn to vandalism?”

Penny nodded, his usual bubbly demeanor subdued. “It’s fishy, that’s for sure. And poor Rosie, caught in the middle of it all.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

I slowed my pace as we approached the intersection where our shops stood. The weathered brick of my store wrapped around the corner. A gentle evening breeze rocked the wooden sign hanging above the door, its paint-chipped letters spelling out “Cobblers’ Corner” in faded gold. I gazed up at the cheerful elf figurine perched atop the sign, its arms clutching a pair of shoes. A couple of doors down, Penny’s storefront burst with color, mannequins in the window sporting fashion from decades past.

“Night, Leo. Try not to let this keep you up til daylight, okay?” Penny said, giving my arm a squeeze.

“No promises,” I replied with a wry smile. “Night, Penny.”

As Penny trotted off, I dug through my pockets for my keys. Something caught my eye at the base of the street lamp in front of my shop. I bent down to get a closer look.

There, glinting in the warm glow of the street lamp, lay a cufflink. Not just any cufflink, but an expensive-looking one with an intricate design. My breath caught in my throat as I picked it up, remembering the impeccable suit Mr. Steele wore at City Hall.

And the night of the vandalism.

The night he’d appeared in my shop with a conveniently broken shoe.

I straightened, my gaze drawn to Wilson’s Bakery. The street lamp faced the bakery’s direction head-on, its light creating a perfect spotlight on the storefront. A shiver of unease rippled through me, prickling my skin as I looked from the cufflink to the bakery and back again.

I clutched the cufflink tightly. The metal was cool against my skin, its weight surprisingly hefty for such a small object.

Was Dominic Steele’s appearance that night not just a mere coincidence after all?

5

The sleek glass doors slid open as I stepped into the lobby. The stark contrast between the modern, steel-and-glass interior of Vertex Acquisitions and the quaint brickwork facades of the Historical District only heightened my unease. I slid my hand into my pocket and gripped the cufflink, its cool surface pressing into my damp palm.

I approached the reception desk, my shoes clicking against the polished marble floor. “I’m here to see Dominic Steele,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

The receptionist eyed me skeptically, no doubt taking in my decidedly non-corporate attire. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but?—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Steele is very busy. Without an appointment?—”

“It’s alright, Sarah,” a familiar deep voice interrupted. “I’ll see him.”

I turned to see Mr. Steele striding towards us, every inch the powerful, accomplished alpha in his tailored charcoal suit. His scent enveloped me, clouding my senses and stirring primal omega urges.

“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the elevators.

I trailed him into the lift.

The ride up to the 25th floor was silent. I was acutely aware of his imposing presence beside me. The elevator’s mirrored walls seemed to closed in on me, making me prisoner to that intoxicating blend of pine and spice until my knees threatened to buckle. I gritted my teeth as I tried to ignore my treacherous body’s response to this alpha’s overwhelming presence. I dug my nails into my palms and fixed my eyes on the ascending floor numbers, desperate to keep my focus on why I’d come to Vertex Acquisitions in the first place.

The doors slid open and I followed him out of the elevator, his swift, self-assured steps forcing me to rush to keep up. The plush carpet muffled our footsteps as we made our way down a corridor lined with glass-walled offices. My eyes darted around, taking in the sleek, modern decor that screamed “corporate success.”

At the end of the corridor, a solid oak door glided open under his touch, unveiling an office that could have swallowed the apartment above my shop. I paused at the doorway, hesitating a few seconds before stepping inside. My boots sank into carpeting so thick and soft it felt like walking on clouds. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched from one end to the other, framing Downtown Millcrest in all its glass-and-steel glory. Sunlight bounced off the neighboring skyscrapers, casting geometric shadows across the stark white walls and the single piece ofmodern art—a splash of crimson that probably cost more than my yearly income. A sleek black desk dominated one corner, its surface bare except for a laptop and a vintage brass clock that seemed oddly out of place in this shrine to minimalism.

“What can I do for you, Leo?” Mr. Steele asked, leaning against his desk.