sighs, and my hands curl into fists.
That one’s different. I’ve heard that kind of sigh directed at me too many times. It’s a sigh that says
I’m too much trouble. Too annoying. Taking up too much space. It never feels good, but coming from
him, it feels like standing outside in the middle of a blizzard, icy snow pelting me.
Busy blinking the tears out of my eyes, I miss his approach. But I don’t miss his warm hand
curling around mine, lifting. I stare, dumbfounded, as he uncurls my clenched fingers and places a pair
of soft, delicate suede shoes in my palm. I twist them in my hand, dumbfounded, studying the seamless
stitching and the soft rubber soles. My fingers stroke the luxurious suede, enjoying the texture.
Zach clears his throat. “You have to stop taking your shoes off. People spill things on these
carpets all the time. You could get hurt.”
“You,” I lick my dry lips, dumbfounded. “You bought me shoes?” Maybe he’s a wizard and can
just conjure things out of thin air. That would make more sense than him going shopping for me, then
carrying them with him until he found me.
“Yes,” he says, dropping the hand holding mine and putting a desk between us again. When I just
stare at him, he groans and rakes his hand through his hair. “Put them on, Maya. Please.”
Thepleasecuts through my fog. I drop into the chair behind me and lean over.Please let them fit.
Please let me like them. Please, please don’t be pinchy.
I run my fingers over the fabric again, enjoying the feel, and Zach mutters something under his
breath. Then he’s on his knees in front of me, pulling the shoes from my hand. “We don’t have all day.
People are waiting for us.” His words are clipped and hurried, but his touch is gentle as he lifts my
foot and carefully slips the shoe on. I stare at the top of his head and his thick black hair, realizing
I’ve stepped into a fairy tale. My very own Prince Charming, on his knees in front of me. But there’s
no glass slipper, and no marriage in my future. But for a second, just one second, I want to pretend.
I memorize every brush of his hand, the low creak his jacket makes as he shifts and strains the
seams, and the brush of his breath over my ankles as he focuses on sliding the shoes over my feet.
“The saleswoman said these are going to stretch and mold to your feet, but I made sure to get them
big enough so they’ll be comfortable right away.” He slides his finger into the shoe, between the
leather and my instep, and runs it down the side of my foot to my heel, checking the fit. “There,” he
murmurs, satisfied, sitting back on his heels. My suede-covered feet are resting on his knees.
“You know my size?”
