Heartache in Heels, page 1
Heartache in Heels
Cate Lawley
Contents
About Heartache in Heels
1. Hillary
2. Hillary
3. Hillary
4. Brad
5. Hillary
6. Hillary
7. Hillary
8. Brad
9. Hillary
10. Hillary
11. Brad
12. Brad
13. Hillary
14. Hillary
15. Brad
16. Hillary
17. Hillary
18. Hillary
19. Hillary
20. Brad
21. Hillary
22. Hillary
23. Brad
24. Hillary
25. Hillary
26. Brad
27. Hillary
28. Brad
29. Hillary
30. Walter
31. Hillary
Epilogue
Epilogue
Excerpt: Skeptic in a Skirt
Bonus Content
Also by Cate Lawley
About the Author
About Heartache in Heels
Every girl wants a fairy godmother!
* * *
But not the kind with a misfiring wand.
* * *
Hillary’s been hit by a wonky bit of magic that was supposed to introduce her to her soul mate. That doesn’t happen.
Instead she meets…
Brad.
* * *
Brad’s been waiting for someone to see him—literally, to see him. That’s no small trick, since he’s been invisible to everyone but his friend Walter for three long and lonely years. It’s just his luck that the one woman who does is a knockout with a heart bigger than Texas and is completely, utterly unattainable.
* * *
She’s a heartache in heels, but that doesn’t stop Brad from falling in love.
* * *
Will Hillary and Brad become a couple, or will Brad's incorporeal state keep them from their love ever after?
* * *
Previously published in 2016, Heartache in Heels (formerly Ghostly Love) features almost entirely new content, including a point-of-view switch.
1
Hillary
I wouldn’t kill for the right wardrobe.
Maim? Possibly, but only for an old pair of jeans that would rock as cut-offs. Okay, that was a few seasons ago, but the point remains that while I love clothes (and shoes—let’s not forget shoes), I’m not completely off my rocker.
My family, my friends, and an ex-boyfriend or two think I’m obsessed.
I say I’m committed.
As a professional shopper, it’s literally my job. Granted, it’s one of my many jobs…part-time personal shopper, part-time blogger, part-time dog walker, and part-time errand runner. I’m aware that’s a lot of part-times, but a girl’s gotta pay her bills, and—this is the important part—for at least part of the week, people pay me to shop.
Best. Job. Ever.
And also what brought me to my fave vintage and specialty clothing shop on this gorgeous morning.
I was at Every Woman’s Fairy Godmother today because I needed to make my client feel fabulous.
The right slinky slip dress, one with silk lining and seams that felt like they weren’t even there, could make a woman feel sexy.
But if my client needed the equivalent of a full-body hug, then stretchy skinny jeans (the kind that hide flaws instead of showcasing them) and an incredibly soft cotton tee paired with a hand-knit sweater might be the way to go.
That is the beauty of my job, the beauty of my favorite job. I can lift a client’s mood with the right outfit, make her feel sexy or flirty or just a little more comfortable in her own skin. All I need is a good understanding of my client’s needs, a decent sense of style, and a practically magical source of fab fashion.
Enter Madeleine and Every Woman’s Fairy Godmother.
If I needed a special gown, a unique accessory, or a killer pair of heels, Madeleine waved her magical fashion wand and somehow made it happen. Her vintage store was always stocked with the classy, cutting-edge, nostalgic, hip, or beautifully tailored item I needed.
And on the rare occasions it wasn’t in the store? She utilized her fairy godmother connections to hook me up with the piece I needed.
She had to have ridiculous connections to keep her shop stocked and fill all of the special orders that came her way. And the weirdest part? She had this crazy successful business that had been around for at least a decade, and I’d almost swear we were around the same age. Maybe she was over thirty and used great skincare products?
Forty seemed unlikely but not out of the realm of possibility, but then I’d catch her in a cute pair of jeans, a fitted tee, and almost no makeup—like today—and I’d bet the La Perla gift certificate I’d been hanging on to for a special occasion that she wasn’t more than twenty-three.
She was that kind of woman, agelessly gorgeous, but occasionally mind-bogglingly youthful.
I could almost believe she was a magical fairy—except that was cra-cra.
“Hillary!” Madeleine called out with a cheery wave when she spotted me. “How’s my second favorite client doing today?”
“Cute. You know I outclass Edgar in every way.” I didn’t. Not even close. Edgar was a full-time personal shopper with a posh client list I liked to drool over. He was also the wonderful man who’d turned me onto the best career ever and a great mentor.
Madeleine didn’t argue, but she did give me a cheeky grin, letting me know that the day of me outclassing Edgar had most definitely not arrived.
Someday, I’d have enough of a client list to ditch the dog-walking and the errands. Maybe even the blogging, though I really enjoyed how flexible the blogging could be…
Someday, but not today. Today, I had a midday appointment with a chihuahua in possession of an itsy-bitsy bladder and a bark that could shatter glass.
Since I didn’t want to clean up pee or upset Sugar, both of which would happen if I was even five minutes late, I retrieved my list from my bag and handed it to Madeleine. “I’ve got a few very special requests. Mrs. Peter Swinden.”
We shared a look.
The list would most certainly be special-order items, hence my passing it along to Madeleine. Mrs. Peter Swinden didn’t have taste that aligned with either Madeleine’s or my own…or anyone else who would shop at Every Woman’s Fairy Godmother. In fact, her requested items were invariably quite difficult to find, because Mrs. Peter Swinden’s taste didn’t align with most people’s.
Oh, and the Mrs. Peter thing? I’m not making fun of my client. She actually introduces herself as Mrs. Peter Swinden. Who does that? Mrs. Peter Swinden, apparently.
While I couldn’t be terribly finicky about my clients at this stage of my budding business’s development, I would have cut Mrs. Peter and her truly terrible fashion sense loose, but for two facts: she paid ridiculously well, and she was an incredibly kind woman.
It was really the kindness. She was such a warm person. I enjoyed making her happy, even if it meant… My gaze flickered to the list Madeleine was now perusing, and I sighed. Yes, even if it meant finding a Mrs. Roper 1970s muumuu.
“The seventies have come back.” I nodded, as if affirming the statement made the muumuu request less problematic. “A few times.”
“Not this part of the seventies.”
And that was kicker. Definitely not the Mrs. Roper muumuu part of the seventies. Except that part of the seventies had come back for Mrs. Peter Swinden. Or it would be shortly, because Madeleine would help me make it happen.
Mrs. Peter would get her muumuu, and she would be effervescent. Mrs. Peter happy was like a bottle of recently uncorked champagne. The cheap pink stuff, the kind that was fun and fizzy and shouldn’t be saved for extra-special occasions but used to celebrate the everyday awesome of life.
And that was why Mrs. Peter was still my client.
Madeleine looked up from the list with an inscrutable expression. “Your time is coming.”
I cocked my head, because I wasn’t sure how to take that. I had faith in my business. All of my businesses, actually. I wasn’t fearful success would pass me by, because I wouldn’t let it. Managing my time, on the other hand, that was a different question, one that was starting to give me heartburn.
“You have other clients to shop for?” Madeleine asked, looking once again like her normal, helpful self.
I retrieved my cell from my purse then lifted it and said, “Yes. And since Sugar’s bladder waits for no one, I’ll get to it.”
“All right, but pick something up for yourself today.” As I started to decline, she pointed a finger at me. “Fifty percent off whatever you find. Do it.”
Even though I was a bit tight for cash this month, I felt compelled to “do it.” Looked like I was doing a little shopping for myself.
Did it get colder in here? The air conditioning must have kicked on, because my entire body shivered.
2
Hillary
I started with the shoes.
Naturally, because shoes.
Sadly, no heels, platforms, wedges, or sandals called my name today, and I wouldn’t use that fifty percent just to use it. I had to find a special piece, something that begged to go home with me. Something that would brighten my day. Actually, something that would brighten many days.
Since I wasn’t finding a special pair of gorgeous heels to brigh
I had five client requests to address over the next few days, and three of them could potentially be filled at Every Woman’s Fairy Godmother: an evening bag to coordinate with a pair of shoes I’d already sourced through a boutique across town; a necklace to accent one client’s “ladies” (she was keen for her husband to take more interest in that particular part of her anatomy and, resultingly, she hoped, their sex life); and a flashy but not-too-flashy eighties party dress for a client who wanted to shine at her eighties-themed reunion (she hadn’t graduated in the eighties, rather two decades later, and her idea of eighties-themed ran toward tulle and Madonna).
Some days my job felt a teensy bit therapy adjacent, since I was listening to my clients’ problems and then offering up articles of clothing to address them.
The dress seemed the practical first choice. My client was a size four, not always the easiest size to find in vintage stores, unless I was hunting for something from a few decades earlier. If the racks didn’t yield something suitable, I’d add it to the request list I’d provided Madeleine.
But victory was mine!
I found just the piece, and in such pristine condition that it couldn’t possibly have survived a drunken prom night. After checking the seams and zipper, looking for any tears in the tulle (so, so much tulle), and whipping out my tape measure to verify the size ran true, I had a winner.
Before heading to the counter to drop off my find, I made a quick pit stop at the bags, where I scored my second gorgeous find, a gold brocade bag that would complement the shoes I’d already purchased.
“You look like you’ve done well.” Madeleine eyed the bag fondly as she took it from me and wrapped it in tissue paper. “I always liked this one. It’s elegance with a splash of fun. And speaking of fun…” She gathered the dress and its short, multilayered skirt in her arms, then ran her finger across the lettering on the belt. It read “Boy Toy,” which matched my client’s sense of humor to a tee.
I was about to reply—something about how I always found exactly the right thing in Madeleine’s shop—when a pair of glasses in the display case caught my eye.
The gaudiest vintage cat-eyed sunglasses I’d ever seen sparkled up at me. Encrusted with crystals, they looked like they’d been bedazzled by an overzealous twelve-year-old, and I adored them.
“Gimme” was going through my head, but I managed to articulate a slightly more polite request to see them.
Madeleine blinked at the bling, then retrieved them. “The frames are original, from the fifties. It’s just the tinted glass that are new. Removing the prescription makes them functional again.”
“Practical.”
Madeleine grinned at my comment.
Okay, no, there was nothing practical about the glitzy glasses, but they were adorable and needed to be mine.
She quoted me a price that included the discount, and when I nodded my agreement, she packed the glasses and the ridiculously sparkly and completely impractical case that accompanied them together with my other purchases.
It wasn’t until I was already in my car and headed to prevent a Sugar pee disaster that I realized I’d forgotten to look at the necklaces.
My client’s bosom would have to wait another day or two to be admired. Not a tragedy, and I still had a few days before the promised delivery date—but I wasn’t usually quite so forgetful when it came to my businesses.
3
Hillary
Sugar got her walk, and her house was pee-free. Victory!
It was a tricky proposition, because if I came any earlier and her owner happened to be running a little late in the evening—yep, pee disaster.
Poor Sugar. She really needed two walks during the day, which I wasn’t capable of providing. I needed to have a talk with her owner (again) and tell her she needed to hire a different service (again).
On one hand, achievement unlocked and yay for me. I’d grown my dog-walking business to the point that I was turning away new clients. I’d stopped advertising over a year ago, but I still got referrals.
But on the other hand, my other businesses were growing as well, and I had to start making some choices.
Choices were hard.
I’d straddled the line of too busy for a while now. Fear of missing a mortgage payment will do that to a gal. But if I was being honest with myself, it wasn’t really a financial fear that pushed me. It was a different worry altogether. By choosing to focus on one or two of my businesses, I was leaving the others behind—and I liked my little moneymaking projects.
Dog walking kept me fit, and I loved my time with the pooches. I didn’t have one of my own (with my schedule? Um, no), so client walks fulfilled all my doggie needs. Without my dog-walking biz, I might have to actually commit to a pet to get my canine fix.
My gofering gig tied in neatly with my personal shopping biz, and, in fact, had overlapping clientele. So it just made sense to keep the errand running rolling.
Which left my fashion blogging, a business that was just starting to gain some revenue potential, nicely complemented my personal shopping business, and had the greatest flexibility scheduling-wise.
Ugh. I needed more hours in the day, not fewer jobs.
I wanted to keep them all.
The other thing I wanted to keep? Some semblance of a social life, even if that social life was limited to a few friends and my grandfather.
My grandfather was the one easy choice in my life. I’d always make time for my favorite person. Gramps was the best.
Speaking of my favorite guy, I was headed to check on him today. I glanced at my GPS and saw I was just a few minutes away.
When my grandmother died three years ago, he’d had a hard time. In the interim, he’d made exceptional progress…mostly.
He’d bounced from complete, grief-stricken, twenty-four-hour-housecoat-wearing depression, to…Brad.
Brad.
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel of my Fiat.
Brad was a problem.
One that might cost my grandfather his freedom if I didn’t keep a close watch.
The sun busted out from behind the clouds, and I pulled out my nifty new glasses. Just looking at their sparkly frames made me smile and—temporarily—forget about Brad.
Steering with one hand, I ran my fingers over the bumpy stones with the other.
The fifties had such a flair for fashion and an appreciation of glamour. They might not have had gel manicures or comfortably functional undergarments, and there had been some seriously bad dye jobs happening back in the day, but, overall, the fifties were a fashion plus in my book.
I slipped the glasses on and was pleasantly surprised by their quality. Whoever had replaced the lenses had done a bang-up job. The view through my windshield was crisp and clear.
“Thank you, Madeleine.”
With a glance at my dashboard clock, I confirmed I had plenty of time for dinner with Gramps before my first evening appointment.
Gramps and I needed to talk. About Brad—I couldn’t help rolling my eyes heavenward, Lord give me strength—but also about my sneaky, conniving aunt and uncle. Every time I thought of them, the back of my neck itched. They’d been quiet lately—too quiet. Mischief was afoot.
The plotting duo would have a field day if I took my eye off the prize for any length of time. The prize being Gramps’ freedom and happiness. Unfortunately, my grandfather had way too much faith in his kids’ good intentions.
