EVE

WHEN NATE GETS home from work tonight, he’s in a good mood.

He’s whistling when he walks in the door, and even though it’s not one of our three designated kiss times, he strides over to where I’m sitting on the sofa and lays one on my cheek. But I know from prior experience not to get too excited.

“Good day?” I ask him.

“Phenomenal.” He hesitates, then adds, “The poetry magazine met today. A lot of raw talent there. There’s one girl whose work is a bit reminiscent of Carol Ann Duffy.”

Whoever that is. Nate has always fancied himself a poet. He published a book of poetry several years ago, which his parents bought as well as about five friends, and I’m fairly sure that’s it. Maybe it was different in Shakespeare’s time, but there’s no money these days in being a poet.

Still, it was romantic when we were first together. He used to write poems for me. About me. And then he would recite them for me, in some utterly romantic location like while drifting along the lake in a rowboat. It made me feel like I was a goddess—the sort of woman worthy of poetry being composed about her.

I saved a few of them. I keep them in a shoebox in the back of my closet. I used to reread them all the time, but I haven’t in years. It makes me depressed to look at them now. Nate hasn’t written a poem about me in a long time. I’m beginning to think he never will again.

“So what do you want for dinner?” he asks me. “I can make some pasta.”

I look down at the stack of papers on my lap. I have graded more than half of them. I don’t check every single answer on the homework, unless I have concerns about the student. For example, I checked Addie Severson’s homework. She’s batting about 50 percent, which does not bode well for the first exam. She needs that feedback ASAP.

“Actually,” I say, “I’m going out to dinner tonight with Shelby.” The lie rolls right off my tongue.

Nate nods, unconcerned. He likes it when I go out for the evening, and when I come home, he’ll ask how dinner was, and when I tell him fine, he won’t ask any follow-up questions. He certainly would never call Shelby to confirm that I am with her, which is a good thing because she does not know we are supposed to be together.

“Do you have any plans for tonight?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “Nothing too exciting. Although…I’m feeling inspired.

Maybe I can get some writing done.”

“I’ll stay out of your hair then. I don’t want to bother you if you’re trying to write.”

“You’re never a bother, my darling.” My husband says all the right things.

An hour later, I have completed grading all the papers, and I head out the door. Even though it’s only September, the weather has gotten a bit nippy, so I grab a jacket, and I slide my feet into my Manolo boots, which have three-inch heels. My philosophy is if your shoes don’t make you at least three inches taller, it’s hardly even worth it. You might as well wear socks.

I hesitate by the front door, wondering if I should say goodbye to Nate. But he’s locked himself up in the bedroom, and if he’s deep in concentration, I don’t want to disturb him. He won’t be upset if I leave without saying goodbye.

It’s a twenty-minute drive in my Kia to Simon’s Shoes. I know the way without using my GPS, and I navigate the streets while a dance radio station plays in my car, the seats vibrating with the bass. I can’t tell entirely if it’s the music or my heart that is thudding. Maybe a little of both.

The sun has started to dip in the sky by the time I make it to the shoe store. I pull into the parking lot, which serves both the shoe store and the pizza parlor next door. As I step out of the car, the smell of greasy tomato sauce and melting cheese assaults my nostrils, and my stomach growls. I haven’t eaten dinner yet. Maybe I’ll stop for pizza later.

I hover outside the door to Simon’s Shoes, examining the sign with the store hours. On Tuesday, they close at 7:00 p.m. My wrist watch reports that the time is 6:50.

Just in time.

I push open the door and nearly knock into a middle-aged woman holding far too many shoeboxes. She must have at least four. Four new

pairs of shoes. I can’t help but feel a stab of jealousy. When I smile at her, she flashes an apologetic look and says, “I think they’re closing in a few minutes.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll be quick.”

The store is practically empty—there’s only one remaining customer at the cash register. I make a beeline for the designer shoes, and because I’m so familiar with the store, I quickly find the shoes in my size. They have a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps that look a lot like the ones I almost got nailed for at the mall, although these are less expensive.

Maybe I should buy them. I deserve a treat—I haven’t bought one new pair of shoes since the ones I wore to the first day of school. Maybe I could put them on a different credit card to throw Nate off the mark.

I could try them on at least. There’s no harm in that. “Those would look great on you.”

The voice belongs to a man wearing a pair of dark brown Rockports. I glance up at the salesman standing over me, looking appreciatively at the shoes I’m holding.

He nods in the direction of the storeroom. “Is that your size, or do you need another pair?”

“These should fit…”

He gently pries them out of my hands. “May I?”

Obediently, I settle down on the wooden bench supplied for trying on shoes. Before I can do it myself, the salesman lowers the zippers of my boots and slides them off my feet. He has muscular forearms and strong- looking hands, and his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary on the arch of my foot. Then he picks up one of the pumps and slides it into place.

“Cinderella.” He smiles up at me with a lopsided grin. He has a slightly chipped incisor on the right, but his teeth are white and otherwise well cared for. “A perfect fit. You have to get them.”

“Hmm,” I say. “I bet you say that to every customer.” “Absolutely not.”

I look over his shoulder. As opposed to when I walked in, the store is now dim. The sign on the entrance has been turned around to state that the establishment is closed. Presumably, that means he has locked the doors with us inside.

His right hand lowers to my knee, then creeps up my thigh. “So what do you say?”

“I think…” My breath catches in my throat. “I may need some convincing.”

That’s when he grabs me.

And lowers his lips onto mine.