“Little bird, I’m telling you — you don’t need the damn shoes.”
“What if I have to go out somewhere fancy? What if some kind of formal engagement comes up out of the blue? What if….” I search frantically for reasons to justify my need for the shoes. “What if the President invites me to dinner at the White House? Or what if my invitation to this year’s Academy Awards as Bradley Cooper’s date — which was surely lost in the mail up till this point — arrives? Huh? What then, Nate?!”
He stares at me, mouth twitching. “You think that’s likely?”
“Ugh!” I smack him with a Ted Baker slingback. “That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“You never know what’ll happen! You never know when a quality designer pump is going to be needed!” I glare at him. “Just because you’re a barbarian with no appreciation for high heels—”
He removes the deadly weapon from my grip, locks his hands around my wrists like manacles, and backs me up against the fridge in one swift move. He’s so close, I can feel each breath move through his chest as he presses into me. His mouth is millimeters from mine, his eyes never shift from my face, and I think he’s going to kiss me again. Instead, he speaks. (To my vast disappointment.)
“I have the highest appreciation for them,” he says, eyes on fire. “They’ve been driving me fucking crazy since I came home from my first tour and saw you’d switched from Sperry’s to stilettos overnight. Do you know how many times those damn shoes have given me hard-ons in the past ten years? How many times I’ve pictured you wearing nothing but those damn shoes while I’m buried deep inside you?”
He’s breathing hard — so am I. His admission is so hot, desire returns in a swift instant until every atom in my body is practically buzzing with it.
“Oh,” I murmur, eyes on his mouth.
Kissmekissmekissmekissme.
“Yeah,” he says roughly, barely in control. “Keep looking at me like that and we’re going to miss your party.”
My eyes flash up to his. “Party?”
His mouth tugs up at one side and he forces himself to take a step back. “Time to go.”
“I still think I need to pack the shoes,” I say, staring longingly at the Miu Mius on the counter. “Just one pair.”
He grunts, the sound torn between amusement and lust. “You won’t need them.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Phoebe.” He turns and lowers his head until his lips skim mine in the ghost of a kiss. “You won’t need them. As soon as this shit is cleared up with Mac, I’m flying to meet you. And when that happens, you won’t need any of your damn clothes because we’re going to be naked for a week straight.” His words send a delicious shiver through me. “Understand?”
“Um,” I whisper, eyes wide and heart suddenly pounding. “Yep.”
His mouth twitches. “Unless that’s not what you want. If it’s not, by all means, pack the fucking shoes and wait for your damn Oscar invitation. Either way, we’re leaving now.”
His lips land on mine in a too-brief, no-nonsense kiss and then he’s gone, grabbing my bag and leaving me pressed limply against the refrigerator, with only my discarded heels to keep me company.
When I follow him to the front door a few seconds later and twine my fingers with his, the Miu Mius are still sitting on the counter in the dark, long-forgotten as thoughts of a naked week with Nate swirl through my head.
***
“Surprise!”
I squeak involuntarily and jump about a foot into the air as the elevator doors chime open, because the sound of ten people screaming at the top of their lungs is mildly terrifying, regardless of the situation. I nearly lose my footing, but Nate’s hands land on my waist to steady me before I can fall on my face.
Phoebe West: queen of the elegant entrance.