Page 8 of These Shoes Weren't Made for Stalking

I searched the plaza where food trucks had set up every midday to serve lunch. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement as vendors switched out their menu signs and restocked condiments for the dinner crowd. Two women in matching pantsuits blocked my path, deep in conversation as they debated property values and which vendor to patronize. A courier on a bike weaved through the crowd, forcing me to step back.

I grabbed my phone from my satchel. No service—typical dead zone around these old stone walls.

“Save me a bubble tea,” I muttered under my breath, knowing Penny would make a beeline for his favorite cart if he ended up on that side of the plaza.

The crowd suddenly parted like water around a stone, revealing Mr. Steele’s broad shoulders and that perfectly tailored navy suit. I froze mid-step as Mr. Steele and his three-piece-suited lieutenants swept down City Hall’s weathered limestone steps like a corporate avalanche. His cool gray eyes locked forward, jaw set in that signature alpha determination while his expensive Italian loafers—the same ones I had repaired—clicked against century-old stone. The crisp scent of pine and sandalwood cut through the plaza’s usual lunch hour aromas.

A sleek, silver Aston Martin purred to a stop at the base of City Hall’s steps, its tinted windows reflecting the afternoon sun. One of Mr. Steele’s suited minions emerged from the driver’s side, keys extended toward his boss with a slight bow of his head. The gesture struck me as medieval—a servant presenting tribute to his lord. My fingers twitched against my leather satchel as Mr. Steele accepted the keys with the casual indifference of someone who owned far more extravagant things.

I watched as he held court near his fancy car, surrounded by eager faces vying for his attention like moths drawn to an expensive flame. The tie pin secured to his perfectly-knotted burgundy tie gleamed in the fading evening sun as he leaned against the hood, one hand in his pocket while the other punctuated whatever point he delivered to his rapt audience.

I spun on my heel, my vintage wingtips clicking against the worn cobblestones.

“Running away, little cobbler?” My skin prickled with awareness. His voice, low and rich as aged bourbon, was pleasant to my ears.

Too late to escape.

Pine and sandalwood wrapped around me, stirring something primal I refused to acknowledge.

I hadn’t even seen him move. Damn alphas.

“Unlike some people, I have actual work to do,” I said. “Not just schmoozing for sport.”

He closed the distance between us, radiating heat. “It’s called networking in my profession.”

“Is that so?” My heart hammered against my ribs. “And here I thought you were just collecting souls for your tithe.”

A dangerous smile played at his lips. “Careful. Someone might think you actually like me.”

“You’ve caught me. Next thing you know, I’ll be joining your fan club.”

His laugh, deep and genuine, caused butterflies to vibrate in my belly. My pulse quickened as he stepped closer, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

“I’d have to start one first. Care to be a founding member?”

“Depends. What are the membership benefits?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, my voice lower than intended. I stepped back, fighting the urge to inhale more of his intoxicating scent.

“We could discuss that…” He smiled at me, his incisors white and sharp. “Alongside those revitalization plans you mentioned in the meeting, I’m thinking somewhere more… private. Maybe over dinner?”

A warm blush spread across my skin. Damn him and his bedroom voice.

“A key piece in our strategy could be your store.”

I bristled. “So our Historical Districtisnext on your list… alongside all those souls, of course.”

“Everyone needs a hobby.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Though I prefer to think of it as... private acquisitions. The souls, not the real estate.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but this particular asset isn’t up for grabs.”

His pupils dilated, a predator sensing his next meal. He leaned close enough that his breath tickled my ear, the spicy notes of cinnamon in his scent making my head spin. “I do enjoy a challenge,” he purred. My skin tingled from his proximity.

Are we talking about my shop or something else entirely?

“Mr. Steele? You have that meeting at six.” A woman in a tailored periwinkle suit approached, interrupting our exchange.

“Be right there, Abigail.” He straightened his tie, his silver eyes never leaving mine. “Until next time, Leo.”

I watched him stride away, cursing my racing pulse.