Page 2 of These Shoes Weren't Made for Stalking
I paused, glancing up at him. “All my life. This shop has been in my family for over a century.”
Something flickered in his steel-gray eyes—interest? Calculation? I couldn’t be sure. “Impressive,” he murmured. “You must be very dedicated to your craft.”
“I am,” I said firmly. “Shoes, they tell stories. Each scuff and worn sole is a chapter in someone’s life.”
He leaned against the counter, his proximity making my heart race. “Oh? And what story do my shoes tell, Mr. Sterling-Hart?”
I held his gaze, feeling a rush of heat rise to my cheeks. “They tell me you’re a man who values appearance and authority. Someone who’s used to getting what he wants.” I paused, then added, “But they also tell me you’re not as comfortable in your own skin as you’d like people to believe.”
His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, I saw a crack in his polished facade. But then his expression smoothed over, and he leaned in closer, his scent enveloping me.
“Quite the insight,” he murmured. “You can deduce all that from a person’s choice of footwear?”
“You’d be surprised, Mr. Steele,” I turned my attention back to my work, trying to regain my composure.
“Dominic, please,” he flashed his perfect white teeth at me. My gaze stayed on his pointed canines for a moment longer than I’d intended.
“Your shoe is ready,Mr. Steele,” I said, holding it out to him.
He took it, his fingers lingering against mine for a moment too long. A jolt of electricity shot up my arm, and I fought to keep my expression neutral.
I watched as he reached into his duffle bag, pulling out the shoe’s mate. With practiced ease, he slipped off his tennis shoes and replaced them with the oxfords. The transformation was immediate—suddenly, he looked every inch the powerful, ruthless businessman. “Excellent work,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”
I named a price, and he paid without hesitation, leaving a generous tip. As he turned to leave, he paused at the door.
“It was nice meeting you, Leo Sterling-Hart,” he said, his voice low. His eyes, the color of polished metal, stayed fixed on me for a moment longer before he vanished through the doorway.
I let out a shaky breath. A shiver ran through me as I recalled the strange alpha’s unique steel-gray eyes and his intoxicating scent. The rich aroma of artisanal chocolate—my own omega pheromones—filled the air, a heady reminder of the impact our brief interaction had left on me. What had just happened?
My heart pounded, and I felt a familiar warmth pool in my belly. I panicked. It wasn’t time for my heat.
Damn it, was my cycle shifting? I couldn’t afford to close the shop for a week.
Trying to shake off the lingering effects of the encounter, I returned to my closing routine. But before I could finish, a commotion outside caught my attention. Shouts and the sound of breaking glass shattered the usual evening quiet.
I rushed to the door, my heart pounding. The sight before me stopped me dead in my tracks, leaving me paralyzed with shock. I stared in disbelief at Wilson’s Bakery across the cobblestone street. Shards of glass littered the sidewalk, reflecting the warm glow of the streetlamps. Angry red graffiti marred the quaint storefront:
SELL OR ELSE
“Oh, Leo!” Rosie Wilson, the bakery’s owner, sobbed as she saw me. Her plump frame shook with each breath. I crossed the street in a rush as I headed to Rosie’s side, my heart aching at the sight of her trembling form in a floral nightdress. Who could do this to a woman who’d never harmed a soul, whose kindness touched everyone she met?
“Who would do such a thing?” Rosie asked, echoing my thoughts.
Wilson’s, like its owner, was a beloved local fixture. It had served our town for generations. Rosie’s question burned in my mind as I scanned the scene, searching for any clue that might lead us to the culprit.
I wrapped my arms around her and instinctively shifted my scent to soothe her distress. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out. I promise.”
As I comforted Rosie, my mind raced through possibilities. Who would want to hurt her? And why?
I watched as a police cruiser pulled up, its lights flashing silently in the evening gloom. Rosie squeezed my hand, her eyes steely with determination. “I’ll go talk to them.”
I nodded. “I’ll be right here, if you need me.”
She squared her shoulders and marched over to meet the officers, leaving me alone with my churning thoughts. I caught sight of Sheriff Hawkins stepping out of his cruiser. His weathered face creased with concern as he surveyed the scene. I’d known the sheriff since I was a boy, and his presence here was nothing out of the ordinary.
I scanned the growing crowd, my eyes darting from face to face as curious onlookers gathered at the edge of the police tape, their whispers and speculative glances adding to the tension in the air. My eyes picked out Sarah Mitchell’s dark ponytail bobbing near the front of the crowd—she must have rushed over from the Hideaway. Minnie Goldstein—the owner of Wilson’s rival bakery—stood with her arms crossed, whispering to old Mr. Tang from Tang’s Tea House & Apothecary. My attention shifted when I spotted a familiar slim frame weaving through the growing crowd, pastel pink hair bouncing with each step.
I made my way over, my eyes locked on my best friend’s familiar silhouette. Penny’s light pink hair stood out like a beacon in the sea of muted, normal hair colors. As I approached, Penny turned, his vintage bell-bottom jeans swishing around his ankles. His eyes lit up when he spotted me, a grin spreading across his face. The fading sunlight caught the glitter in his pastel pink hair, creating a halo effect that matched his bubbly personality.