silver flats to another sales assistant and wait for my size. “Why are you trying to ignore this attraction to Daniel? It is because you don’t want to get involved?”
“See point number one. He’s my business partner.”
She tsks me. But it’s sort of a loving tsk. “Is this really about him being your business partner?” She taps my breastbone. “Or is it about that heart of yours that’s still on ice?”
I sigh heavily. “Can you blame me?”
She shakes her head. Then she huffs out an irritated breath. “I only blame your husband. I still want to exhume Jonathan’s body and shake some sense into him.”
I cringe, laughing a little in horror. “You tend to be filter-free, but even I can’t believe you just said that. That’s kind of gross.”
Nadia arches a brow so high it practically rises through the ceiling of the store. “Kind of? I think it’s horrifically gross and quite macabre. But I still can’t believe what you learned after he died. It’s awful. One hundred percent filter-free awful.”
My heart winces, but it’s not the sucker punch that it was three years ago, after my husband was struck down with an aneurysm in Battersea Park when we were out for an evening walk, heading to dinner at our favorite Indian restaurant, the one with the chana masala I loved.
A night that ended with an ambulance, the words dead on arrival, and a gutting of my heart.
It’s not the serrated knife edge that scooped out the organ in my chest when I opened a drawer in our home a month later, deep in mourning, and learned who I’d been married to, who I’d buried.
I shudder. These days it’s not so much abject, awful hurt that rips through my body when I think about Jonathan. It’s coolness. It’s a chill. And that chill is a reminder to avoid falling in love. To avoid connection that can lead to being absolutely blindsided, smacked upside the head, and left behind. I shake my head. “Let’s not talk about Jonathan,” I say.
“But do you need to talk about him?” she asks softly.
I shoot her a sympathetic smile, then squeeze her arm. “I love that you’re always willing to talk. About anything. I love that. But let’s chat about shoes instead,” I say as the shopkeeper trots over and sets down a pair of blue shoes for Nadia and the silver flats for me, then takes off.
“I can always talk about shoes.” Nadia slides on the jewel-colored beauties, then emits an appreciative ooh.
I stare at the heels on her feet, a small burst of envy spreading through my chest. I make grabby hands. “Those are divine,” I say.
“Told you. You should just get a pair for your trip.”
I laugh. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to push me toward them?”
She leans a little closer, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “Because I am.”
“And why are you so determined to get me to climb Daniel like a tree?”
“Because it’s been a long time for you. Maybe, just maybe, you could indulge a little bit.”
I blink, considering her statement. “You think I ought to indulge in a tryst with Daniel Stewart?” I whisper as if her idea might be the height of scandal. It kind of is.
“The two of you have these red-hot sparks. Every time I see you together at an event, you’re like the poster children for flirting. Why not indulge? He doesn’t seem like the relationship type. You don’t seem like one either. You both would probably be up to keeping everything at arm’s length.”
“Does that even work?”
“If anyone can pull it off, it’s you. You’re brilliant at that. You line things up the way you want. You plan, you strategize, you organize. And you make things happen. That’s what you do. Besides, why couldn’t you do it?”
Is she for real? Is that something that could actually work?
I slide my feet into the silver flats, staring at them, studying them as I ponder her forthrightness.
And shoes.
I ponder shoes.
I do like flats. They’re excellent for a long day. But I covet Nadia’s shoes. Their sexiness. The way they make her legs appear more svelte, more sensual as she stands, rises, walks to the mirror, and considers them.
A jealous groan rumbles up my chest as I gaze at her feet.
She returns to me. “I saw you staring at these shoes. Just try them on,” she says, then offers them to me, like she’s clandestinely handing me a baggie of pills. We’re about the