“Because I’m half afraid you will find something in a material printed with vintage torture devices or something. Eight. Happy faces. So in love. I can’t be there to coach you. But make me proud.”
With that, he was gone.
Iris felt like the air got instantly thinner once he leftthe room. She couldn’t quite decide if Henry was that insufferable, or if she was viewing him through a lens of principled hatred. He was the man behind Mr. Mayor. She couldn’t help but wonder how much of Finn’s utter lack of personality was because Henry claimed his likes and hobbies didn’t pass muster with a focus group.
“I’m sorry he springs things like this on us,” Finn said when Henry was gone. “He forgets that people have lives.”
“Maybe because you don’t have one.”
That was mean. And she even regretted it the moment it was out of her mouth. But things couldn’t be unsaid.
Finn watched her for a moment. Then his mouth opened and closed before he gave her a tight nod. “That’s fair.”
It really wasn’t.
But Finn was already moving past it. “Do you have any concerns about this part? The possible paparazzi …”
“Not really, no.” How much worse could it be from the usual gawking she got?
“You may have some concerns about Henry’s outfit selection.”
“Why?”
“The shoes. He’s not going to send over flats.”
“Ugh,” Iris grumbled, looking down at her feet that seemed to be in a constant state of minor pain if she so much as slipped them into anything other than the sandals that Monty had brought home as some sort of swag gift from a party.
“Kind of speciesist to go with shoes with a toe loop,” he’d said, waving down at his own feet. “Not all of us have toes.”
“We’ll be sitting most of the time,” Finn reassured her now. “I’m going to go get dressed.”
There was a knock at the door about an hour and a half later, interrupting a scene in her book that was getting steamy.
“I’ll get it,” Finn said, holding up a hand at her and making his way to the door, returning a moment later with a garment bag and a box of shoes. “Told you,” he said.
“How high are they?”
In answer, he draped the garment bag over the arm of the couch and opened the box for her.
They were surprisingly casual espadrille jute-wrapped wedges. With a closed toe, of course.
“Well, at least they don’t have those icepick-thin heels,” she decided.
“Henry is not without mercy.”
“Oh, come on. You and I both know he went with wedges because he’s afraid I’ll fall on my face and embarrass you.”
“I know you’re determined to dislike him,” Finn said, closing the box lid and handing it to her. “And he has earned some of that. But if you give him a chance, he’s not all bad. He just wants the best for us.”
Henry wanted the best for Finn.
She only factored in for image purposes.
“No, not on the table,” Finn said. His voice was tight as Iris tried to set the box there.
“Why not?”
To that, Finn winced a little as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Superstition,” he admitted. “My mother always said it is bad luck to put shoes on the table. Or a purse on the floor. Or not to throw salt over your left shoulder if you spill it. She was full of superstitions. Most of them stuck somehow.”
