Page 15 of These Shoes Weren't Made for Stalking

I filled him in on what I’d learned from Jake’s neighbor and Rosie. As I spoke, I watched his face carefully, looking for any sign of guilt or knowledge.

“Did you notify law enforcement?”

I shook my head. “I reached out to the Sheriff’s office, but since Jake’s over eighteen, he’s free to disappear if he wants to.”

I sighed. “It’s odd that Jake disappeared just as things began to heat up, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t help but notice the timing.

“Leo.” He shifted on the bench, turning his body toward me. “I know you don’t trust me, but I want to help. Let me use my resources to try and find Jake.”

I hesitated. Could I trust him? But if Jake was in trouble...

“Alright,” I said slowly. “But I want to be involved every step of the way.”

He nodded. “Of course. We’ll work together on this.”

“Fine,” I agreed, trying to ignore the thrill that ran through me at the thought of working closely with him.

Stupid omega instincts.

“Where do we start?” I asked.

“Let me buy you dinner,” he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made my knees weak. His smile crumbled what little remained of my defenses.

Every instinct screamed that this was a bad idea. But the way he looked at me, like I was something precious, something worth pursuing... “Alright.”

I trailed behind as he led me to his parked Aston Martin where it waited at the pharmacy’s curb. The car probably cost more than my shop made in five years. Dominic opened the passenger door, and I slid onto butter-soft leather. The interior smelled of expensive cologne and leather, distinctly alpha, distinctly Dominic Steele.

He tossed his jacket and tie into the back before sliding behind the wheel. “French okay?” he asked while pushing up his crisp white sleeves to expose sun-kissed skin.

“Ah, yes,” I said, fighting to pull my gaze away from the way his unbuttoned collar and rolled sleeves transformed him from polished CEO to devastating temptation.

As we pulled away from the curb, I caught Mrs. Henderson watching from her flower shop window. By morning, the whole district would be buzzing with gossip.

He drove with the same precise control he seemed to apply to everything, one hand resting casually on the gear shift. The muscles in his forearm flexed with each movement, drawing my attention. I forced myself to look out the window instead, watching as the familiar brick facades of the Historical District gave way to Downtown Millcrest’s gleaming towers.

He pulled up to Le Petit Jardin, the kind of place where the menu didn’t list prices. A valet materialized to take the keys, and Mr. Steele was at my door before I could reach for the handle.

“Ready?” he asked, offering his arm.

I smoothed my worn jeans self-consciously. “I’m not exactly dressed for this.”

His eyes raked over me, hot enough to burn. “You’re perfect.”

The maître d’ rushed over the moment we stepped inside. “Ah, Monsieur Steele! Your usual table awaits.”

We weaved through the maze of white tablecloths and crystal stemware to a private alcove tucked behind a carved wooden screen. The leather upholstery of the curved booth whispered against my jeans as I slid in.

“A bottle of the ’82 Bordeaux, Pierre,” Mr. Steele said. “And some water for the table.”

“But of course, monsieur. Excellent choice, as always.” Pierre scurried off to fetch the wine.

Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers. Crystal glasses caught the candlelight, throwing rainbow prisms across the crisp white tablecloth. The silverware gleamed under the warm glow of the wall sconce, each piece perfectly aligned like soldiers at attention. My fingertips traced the delicate embossing on a napkin. I felt distinctly out of place among the other diners in their designer clothes.

“Relax,” Mr. Steele murmured. “You belong here as much as anyone. Any allergies or food aversions I should know about?”

“Uh, no…” I replied. “Nothing really…”