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I pulled on Melvin’s selection. The boots didn’t just fit; they were made for my feet. Forget Italy. Laredo was the new shoe Mecca in my book. My toes had room to breathe. The leather at the ankle lay soft and supple, caressing my joint. The heel slipped the perfect amount when I walked without rubbing. They were supremely comfortable—heavenly.
The blush gone from her cheeks, Cameron shyly met my gaze, then checked out the new-to-me boots on my feet. “So, how do they feel?”
“Incredible.” My inner cynic could go jump in a lake. I was going to be buried in these boots.
”He is a magician.” The sweet smile she sent in Melvin’s direction made the older man blush. I understood the feeling.
“I’m buying them.”
“That’ll be fifteen hundred. You gonna wear ‘em out?” Melvin held a Wi-Fi-enabled credit card reader in one hand and a crumpled plastic grocery bag with my loafers inside in the other. The blush gone, he was all business as he awaited payment.
“One thousand five hundred US dollars for old boots.” I blinked a dozen times, trying to wrap my head around the price point.
“Vintage restored boots.” Melvin held my gaze, calling my bluff.
I wiggled my toes, enjoying the flawless fit. The remembered taunts and jeers from the guys at The Pub rang in my ears. Rolling my eyes at myself, I gave the boot man my credit card. Swindle or not, these were my boots for life.
“Nice doing business with you.” He took my card and swiped it, then leaned in close to me under the guise of returning my card. “You can thank me for the experience of trying on the first pair by showing me how you got the damn cat off the foosball table next time you’re at The Pub.”
He jutted his chin toward a shadowed corner of the shop and the long-lost boot jack. Today’s lesson: small-town gossip is more efficient than a well-funded social media marketing blitz.
Chapter 12
Cameron
Theentiredrivefromthe Worn Boot to the house, I talked about the listing. Correction. I babbled. Incessantly.
It was the only way to ignore my mortification. Christ on a cracker! I’d straddled Wilson’s leg, smacked my ass, and shot some half-assed innuendo over my shoulder at him. In front of Melvin, one of Elmer’s biggest gossips. I might as well pack up Bailey and move in with my mother in Dallas. Obviously, I required parental supervision because I’d reverted to horny teenager mode.
The private road had a series of blind corners and canyon-like potholes that ended at an impressive gate. I rolled to a stop and punched in the code the listing agent provided me with.
“That’s quite a driveway.” Wilson had one hand braced on the dash, the other gripping onto the oh-shit handle above the window.
“Some of these remote properties have self-maintained roads. This one could use a little love.”
The gate opened slowly, rolling back in fits and starts like it could use some TLC too. I pulled the car through and parked.
The house and outbuildings were traditional Hill Country style. Creamy white stacked stone and weathered wood. The lockbox with the front door key hung from a spindle on the front porch. I hesitated before I squatted down and fought with the stupid little box. The back of my neck prickled, and my fingers went dumb. It took three tries punching in the code to get it open. The whole time, Wilson yet again got a front-row view of my ass. Lovely.
At least I wore my ‘cute’ jeans, the ones that had the pockets that made my butt look great. Not a helpful thought for a real estate agent trying to make a multimillion-dollar sale.
“The house and outbuildings may need a little work.” I held the key up in triumph as I stood. “But the land makes up for it.”
“Alright. I’m game. Let’s see it.” His eyes jumped to my face. Yep, he’d totally been checking out my ass.
Something about the way his eyes dipped back down my body, lingering on key areas, confirmed my suspicions. Not only had he been looking, but he liked what he saw. Score another point for the cute jeans.
Seriously, I was a horny teenager, and it had to stop.
I opened the front door. The first look was underwhelming. Inside, the house was dated. And frankly, not as nice as the photos on the real estate listing. Stupid Photoshop. I hated how much a talented photographer could do to fix things nowadays.
We strolled through the house; Wilson listened as I repeated much of what I’d already said in the car on the way over. Drab reality tempered my excitement for the house. The only thing that was as good as I’d hoped was the view down to the river.
“Well, I don’t think Kate would put this one on TV.” Wilson poked his head into the fourth bedroom and didn’t even bother to step inside. That was never a good sign.
“Sorry, it looked a lot better in the pictures. And it’s way under your budget. A good designer and architect could make this place spectacular.” I led him out the back of the house toward the guesthouse, workshop, and storage buildings.
“Over here, you could add a pool and an outdoor kitchen similar to the Arie house.” I waved toward a pretty meadow dotted with wildflowers that had a spectacular view of the river.
