Entice Me Box Set: The Truth About Shoes and Men\Cover Me\My Favorite Mistake (3 page)

He looked down. “What about my shoes?”

“They’re…like Alex’s.”

Ted grinned. “I let Alex wear them to interviews. He didn’t have much of a professional wardrobe.”

A little shiver went through me. “They’re
your
shoes?”

He nodded. “Ready?”

Ready or not, my inner voice whispered. As we walked away, he twined my fingers with his. Happiness bubbled up in my chest. My theory on the truth about shoes and men had worked after all.

Wait until the girls heard this….

Cover Me

Stephanie Bond

1

“I
’M ALLERGIC
to men,” I announced to my three girlfriends between forkfuls of my wickedly garlicky Caesar salad.

Being accustomed to my somewhat obscure proclamations, their vigorous chewing proceeded unchecked. I looked from face to face to see who would cave first. My gaze stopped on Denise and she gave me an eye roll. I could always count on Denise to nibble at my conversation tidbits, however begrudgingly.

“Okay, Kenzie, I’ll bite. Are you talking allergic in literal terms, or figurative?”

“Literal,” I declared. “I am physically allergic to the male gender.”

Cindy squinted. “Like ragweed?”

“Exactly.”

Jacki shook her head. “You are hopeless. You’re allergic to feathers, mold, pollen, dairy products, rubber and now
men?
”

“Don’t forget pet dander,” I said.

Jacki pointed with her fork. “Kenzie Mansfield, you are a hypochondriac.”

Admittedly, I was. My copy of
Disease and Diagnosis
was as dog-eared as were most women’s copies of
Kama Sutra
. At different times in my life, I had been sure I’d had an enlarged spleen, Tourette’s syndrome and a brain tumor. Even though those ailments had all been disproved by various
and sundry tests, my extensive allergies were documented and real, so I clung to them.

“If I’m a hypochondriac, then you are delusional, Jacki,” I said defensively. “You with your theory of choosing men by the
shoes
they wear.”

Jacki bristled. “Hey, it worked for me. Ted and I have been going strong for two months. Plus Cindy and Denise have both met guys while testing my shoe theory.”

The girls nodded with enthusiasm, and I bit into my lip. I’d missed out on a lot of fun with my friends while working crazy-long hours at
Personality
magazine. They all had boyfriends with nice footwear. I had no boyfriend and seemed to be developing an itch that I suspected was a result of inadvertent contact with our burly Italian waiter.

Jacki gave me a censoring look. “Besides, my theory is simply an extension of human tastes. I never claimed it was scientific—unlike this cockamamie
allergy
hypothesis.”

“But me being allergic to men makes perfect sense,” I insisted. “Instead of being attracted by male pheromones, my body now goes haywire. My sinus passages close up, my skin gets all blotchy—both of which are medically recognized clinical reactions, by the way.”

Jacki was unmoved. “Did you develop this allergy before or after James dumped you?”

My back straightened. “
I
dumped James. But now I think my growing aversion to him was actually the onset of the man allergy.”

One of Jacki’s eyebrows shot up. “Personally, I think your growing aversion to James was the onset of sanity.”

“That, too,” I conceded. “But toward the end, I couldn’t bear the smell of him, even after a shower.” I wrinkled my nose. “And every time he came near me, my neck and chest got all blotchy.”

“Do the men you work with give you a reaction?” Denise
asked, clearly humoring me, probably to aggravate Jacki.

But I’d given that topic some thought. “No, but most of the men I work with are gay—I don’t think they’re emitting pheromones directed at me.” I pulled a notebook from my purse and flipped through the pages. “For the past two weeks, I’ve been keeping track of my reaction to all men I come into close contact with—cab drivers, doormen, strangers on the elevator—and it seems that the more
macho
the guy, the more severe my reaction.”

Our handsome dark-haired waiter materialized to leave more bread at the table. He winked at me, and I clawed at the instant skin irritation that developed. He hurried away.

“See,” I said, extending the white underside of my arms, now red from scratching, as irrefutable proof of my rant.

My friends still seemed dubious.

“So, let me get this straight,” Jacki said. “You’re allergic to big, strong, alpha men?”

“Exactly.” I sank back into my chair, relieved that she finally understood.

Jacki nodded thoughtfully. “There
is
a name for what you’re describing.”

I did a double take. “There is?”

“It’s called being a lesbian.”

Denise and Cindy cracked up, but I wasn’t amused. I was, however, feeling a little desperate to explain myself. “Don’t you see? I’m always attracted to the same type of guy—big and physical—and those relationships have all been disasters. My body has obviously developed this allergy to protect me from my own urges. It’s nature’s way of telling me that I need to settle down with a nice, quiet, unsexy guy.”

The girls looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. If so, I hoped the new head had better hair than the first.

Then Jacki stabbed a chunk of romaine and scoffed. “I think you’re freaking out because your birthday is on Thursday and you don’t have a man in your life.”

My uterus contracted. “That’s ridiculous. I’m trying to explain what might be a revolutionary
evolutionary
concept. This development could change the human mating process as the world knows it!”

They stared.

“Besides, I forgot all about my birthday,” I lied.

In truth, turning thirty-one loomed more menacingly than any previous anniversary of
moi
. And the only explanation I had for the anxiety was that the year had flamed by so quickly, I was afraid to let it go. Since becoming an assistant to Helena Birch, editor-in-chief of
Personality
magazine, it seemed as if my unremarkable life was slipping through my worked-to-the-bone fingers. A typical day had me leaving my apartment in the dark and arriving home in the dark. If I was lucky, I got to see a sliver of daylight when I delivered towering stacks of reports to Helena’s office on the thirteenth floor of the Woolworth Building. (My own office was a closet off a dark hallway.) Today was the first time in eons that I’d had lunch with my friends at our favorite sidewalk café. My indoor arms were ghostly pale next to their sun-kissed limbs, and I had to wear sunglasses against the unfamiliar reflective glare from the sidewalk. My entire body was under assault from the sunshine. And the handsome waiter.

“Well,
we
didn’t forget your birthday,” Denise said. “We’re taking you to Fitzgerald’s if you can get away from the office Thursday at five.”

I conjured up a smile, already dreading
that
conversation with Helena. My boss was determined to make
Personality
magazine number one in our demographic (young professionals earning over $45,000 per annum who spend a disproportionate amount of income on clothing and
cars). Just yesterday we’d learned that we had clawed our way from number nine to number seven in circulation. Good thing, too, because this morning when I’d stared glassily into the mirror brushing my teeth, it had appeared for one brief second as if my eyes were turning nocturnal pink—ergo my spontaneous lunch invitation to my gal pals: my social life simply had to improve. “I’ll be at Fitzgerald’s,” I promised.

Jacki smirked. “Good. But don’t forget your antihistamine, Kenzie, just in case you meet a man.”

* * *

B
Y THE TIME
I had walked back to the Woolworth Building, I had arrived at two conclusions: (1) I felt certain my man allergy would steer me toward a durable guy, and (2) Helena wouldn’t fire me if I left early Thursday to celebrate my birthday with friends. Probably not. I’d been working like an android and sleeping with my pager. I had forgone lunches and evenings and weekends. I had turned Helena’s desk and schedule into an efficient, well-oiled machine. And maybe my belief that I was indispensable to my boss was more a product of my daylight-deprived mind than it was a reality. After all, equal parts of me were resentful and gleeful that Helena seemed to begin every sentence with the word
Kenziewouldyou
.

I opted for the stairs to extend my lunch hour a wee bit, then realized with a sparkle of alarm that my pager was dead. I trotted up the last two flights, telling myself that nothing dreadful could possibly have happened during my mere sixty-two-minute absence. But when I walked into the lobby of
Personality
, Helena stood in front of a cowering receptionist, flailing her thin arms.

Helena Birch had all the trappings of a superbitch editor-in-chief—she was tall and angular, with laser-blue eyes and a surgical tongue. She was an explosive genius and a social maven, unmarried and unapologetic. I had
been duly terrified when I had interviewed for the position of her executive assistant, but strangely enough, we had clicked, and our relationship had grown to resemble what I imagined the bond with my ambitious, strong-willed mother might have been if she were still alive: I lived to please Helena and Helena lived to please no one.

The harried receptionist glanced up and pointed in my direction. “Here’s Kenzie now, Ms. Birch.”

Helena whirled. “Where have you been?”

I took a deep breath. “Helena, I told you I was going to meet friends for lunch.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “You did?”

“Yes.”

“Well…” She recovered and crossed her arms over a crisp periwinkle-blue Marie Gray jacket. “You didn’t answer my pages.”

As always, I was torn between anger and flattery. “My battery died. What do you need?”

I began walking toward her office, and she fell into step next to me, her hands agitated. “Something came up and I can’t make an appointment. I need you to go in my place.”

I perked up—cover for Helena? Until now, she’d never asked me to do more than cover her behind. I was momentarily dazzled by her confidence in me. “Sure, Helena, I’d be happy to.”

My mind spun with the possible exposure and what it could mean for my career. A Chamber of Commerce meeting? A symposium on periodicals at the Guggenheim? An advertising think tank? I was relieved I’d worn a decent suit and shoes—both a half-season old, but passable if I snagged a Hermès scarf from the prop department. “Just tell me where.”

Helena smiled, all congenial and girl-friendly now. “I can always count on you, Kenzie. I have everything ready for you in my office.”

My stride was instantly longer, my posture two inches taller, and I fought to control the giddy grin that threatened to burst over my face. Helena was finally making good on her promise to delegate visible assignments. If this one involved Donald Trump or the mayor, I’d simply have to endure my man allergy for the afternoon for the sake of my new assignment. A girl had to make sacrifices to get ahead.

Helena swung open the door to her office and I followed, but my elongated stride was cut short by the sight of the visitor sitting in Helena’s leather guest chair. A little dog covered with hair longer than mine sat on her pretty little haunches, took one look at me, and yawned. A bad feeling settled on top of my Caesar salad.

“This is Angel,” Helena sang, scooping up the pooch and bringing it close enough for me to see that the pink ribbon between its pointy little ears was silk. And Versace. “This is Kenzie,” Helena cooed to the dog.

The only thing that surpassed my surprise over seeing the frou-frou dog in Helena’s pristine office was the sound of my boss speaking in baby-talk. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“I bought her last night at a pet store on Fifty-Third. Isn’t she adorable?”

“Adorable,” I agreed.

“She’s a Yorkie, a former show dog,” Helena gushed. “Her ancestors belonged to royalty.”

“Ah.” I extended my hand for a trial stroke, and Angel emitted an un-angelic growl. I withdrew my hand.