They were beautiful.

   I stared down at the box in my hands, recently delivered via one UPS guy whose name I could never remember. My fingers had trembled as I’d opened it up. I never did things like this. Bought such extravagant, silly things for myself. But these – these I hadn’t been able to resist. The second I’d seen them on the Hiheelia website, I’d known I had to have them.

   The site had featured a woman in a short, black cocktail dress, about fifteen vavavoom points higher than anything I’d dare to wear, standing in the middle of a crowded room. All eyes were on her, every woman wanting to be her, every man wanting to own her. But I could tell by the look in her eyes that no one owned her. Not a manager breathing down her neck from nine to five, not an ex-boyfriend who couldn’t tell her from a doormat, not a mother relentlessly pointing out a multitude of shortcomings. No, she was a woman unto herself, and she answered to no one.

   On her arm was a man who made my mouth water. He personified the tall, dark and handsome look – square jaw, rich, chocolate colored eyes, broad shoulders beneath a blazer that was airbrushed onto a gym-made frame. He was like an orgasm on screen.

   Yep, the woman in the Hiheelia ad had everything. Everything I never would. I just wasn’t destined for that kind of life. Me? I had a real person life. A cat. A cubicle. A hatchback that was nearing the hundred thousand mile mark and had certain parts held together with duct tape. But, for the most part, I was okay with that. My life wasn’t the worst, right? I mean, who really has a supermodel’s life anyway?

   But as I stared at the website, somehow it was like I was five years old again watching Disney’s version of Cinderella on TV and wishing I was the princess. Somehow, despite my thirty years experience telling me differently, I once again believed in fairy tales – that me, plain-Jane Kya Bader, web designer, Silicon Valley single, and Match.com subscriber, could be that woman.

   Even after I got home from work, changed into my favorite pair of drawstring flannels with the little Corona bottles on them and a faded UCSC sweatshirt, ate my Lean Cuisine in front of a rerun of Seinfeld, and checked my email while Tabby the Cat tried to molest my laptop screen, I couldn’t stop thinking about the website. And somehow, the page popped up on my screen again. That woman. That man.

   That life.

   The site sold shoes. I know, not unique items. Hundreds of websites did. But, these were different. On Supermodel’s feet sat a pair of insanely high, red stilettos. Ankle straps embedded with tiny, sparkling rhinestones, toes pointy in a way real feet never were, heels ending in a dangerous silver tip. Totally impractical. Totally beautiful.

   The caption beneath them read: Shoes that will change your life.

   I knew it was utter crap. A pair of shoes is a pair of shoes. The only way those thing would change my life was if I broke my neck trying to walk in them.

   Still…

   The more I looked at them, the more I sat at my computer screen alone in my one bedroom apartment browsing Match’s online profiles of guys I’d never even have the nerve to email let alone meet in person, listening to canned laughter from the TV and still smelling the remains of my microwave dinner for one, the more I wanted to believe in the fairy tale. The more I envied her. The more I wanted to be like her. I wanted a life like that.

   I wanted her life.

   I don’t know what overcame me, but I found myself clicking the “add to cart” button, my fingers walking through the motions of buying the stilettos, size seven, express shipping, sent via UPS to my cube at OmniWeb the next day.

   And they were every bit as beautiful as they’d promised to be.

   I carefully unwrapped the layers of tissues covering the red shoes. Patent leather, so they shone even under the dull florescent lights that hovered above my desk. I ran one finger over the surface. A sort of tingle shot through me and for a moment I almost believed they did posses some magical powers. They were certainly the polar opposite of anything that was me. I looked down at my jeans, brown loafers and black sweater. Did I even own anything red? I ran another finger down the length of the heel. God, how did anyone walk in these? How did she? I was pretty sure I’d stare at them for a day and send them back. I mean, they were ridiculous. Where would I even wear them? And with what? It wasn’t like I had a tall, dark and handsome model just dying to take me out to some expensive dinner on the town.

   “Hey, Kya.”

   My head snapped up, my hands immediately covering the shoe box as if to obliterate my dirty little secret. I bought fairy tales off the Internet. How pathetic was that?

   “Yeah?”

   My co-worker, Danielle, cocked her head of brown, corkscrew curls at me. “You okay?”

   I bit my lip. A terrible habit that Ex-Boyfriend had nagged me about to no end. If I wanted to kiss raw hamburger, I’d go to Mc Donald’s.

   “Yeah, fine.” I quickly shoved the box onto the floor, kicking it under my desk next to my humming pc tower. “What’s up?”

   Danielle locked one finger in her thick hair and started twirling. “We’re having an all hands meeting. Peterman wants to ‘interface’,” she said, letting go of her hair long enough to do a pair of air quotes with her fingers, “about the new ‘team building strategies’ (more air quotes) laid out by the ‘interpersonal accessibility consultant’.” She finished by rolling her eyes. Big brown ones lined in heavy black make-up that never smudged, never ran, never looked like it was applied in a hurry while juggling a latte and rush hour traffic.

   “Yeah. K. I’ll be right there,” I responded.

   “Good. ‘Cause we need all the solidarity we can get against management on this one. Whoa, who’s he?” Danielle pointed to my computer screen.

   I’d forgotten I’d left Hiheelia up. Ms. Supermodel and her Orgasm-on-Sight boyfriend were still suspended there, his adoring eyes still firmly rooted on her. I felt myself go warm as if she could read my ridiculous thoughts about the man.

   “No one.” I quickly closed the window.

   “Damn, he was hawt! Can you make me a screensaver of that guy?”

   “Sure, maybe,” I mumbled, ducking my head to cover my embarrassment.

   “Cool. Hey, listen, I wanted to ask if you were busy tonight?”

   “Why?” I narrowed my eyes at her. Danielle was a fine as co-workers went, but she had an annoying habit of scheduling hot dates on nights when major projects were due. Leaving yours truly to pick up the slack. Which, of course, I always did. It’s not like I had anything else to do, my steady date being twelve inches tall and covered in orange fur.

   “Maxie and I are trying out this new club in the City tonight. You know Maxine in accounting, right? Tall, redhead, total crackup.”

   I nodded. I’d run into her once or twice in the break room.

   “Anyway, I need to leave a little early, ‘cause I’ve got nothing to wear and need to hit the mall. So, I was hoping you could cover for me. Pretty please?” Danielle clasped her hands in front of her in a begging motion.

   “Yeah, sure,” I agreed. As if either one of us thought I wouldn’t.

   “Thanks, Kya!” She leaned in and gave my shoulders a little squeeze. “You’re the best. I heard this club is off the hook.”

   I’m not sure why, but my eyes strayed down to the shoebox tucked at my feet. A nightclub. That was the place you wore a pair of heels like those. A hot new nightclub in the City. If I had someplace like that to go… I mean, not that I was thinking about keeping them.

   But would it be terrible to wear them just once?

   “Um, Danielle?”

   “Yeah?”

   “What if… I mean, I could still cover and all this afternoon… but, you know, it’s Friday night and… well…” My heart suddenly hammered in my chest, my cheeks growing hot, my palms sweating. Was I really going to do this? This was so far outside my comfort zone. I felt my lips moving but almost couldn’t believe the words pouring out. “Maybe I could go with you?”

   Danielle froze. Then cocked her curls to the side again, picking up at that errant strand. “You?”

   I should have been offended by the shocked tone in her voice, but, honestly, I couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t that Danielle hadn’t ever invited me out. She had. In fact, when I first started working here last year, she’d always included me in her Friday night plans. I’d just always declined. I don’t know why. Somehow an evening with Tabby always seemed… safer. I guess I just never saw myself as the partying-until-dawn type.

   I stole a glance at the box by my feet.

   But she was.

   “Yes. Me.”

   “Um, yeah, sure,” Danielle said. “Yeah, if you want to come, that would be great.” She perked up and almost looked like she meant it. “We’re meeting at my place at seven. You need directions?”

   I nodded. Too shocked by my own behavior to say anything.

   Danielle plucked a bright pink post-it from the pad on my desk and proceeded to write down her address.

   I’d wear them just once, I promised myself. Then, I’d return them.

   Just once.

                     

"One of the ultimate female fantasies comes true for Kya Bader as she’s ‘discovered’ by a modeling agent on her first night clubbing. But everything comes with a price as Kya quickly discovers in So I Dated An Axe Murderer. A fresh and intriguing mystery ties this romance together into an entertaining and standout tale."

   - Kathy Samuels, Romance Reviews Today

"Gemma Halliday tackles the exciting world of modeling and the difficult world of murder in her novella. Kya is a fun character to read about and her romance with the down-to-earth model Blake is both sexy and sweet."

   - Sarah W, Romance Junkies

""This is a good light read... all three show the power of bringing to light the parts of you that are hidden. We each have a little vamp in us -- and sometimes it should come out and take a spin in really hot shoes."

   - Morgan Chilson, Fresh Fiction


"THESE BOOTS WERE MADE FOR STRUTTING is a perfectly delightful anthology. Lisa Cach, Gemma Halliday and Melanie Jackson each contribute one short, sexy contemporary romance to the volume. Separately, each story is a treat. Combined, the trio makes for an experience that is so entertaining I hated to see it end."

   - Kay James, Romance Reader at Heart


"THESE BOOTS WERE MADE FOR STRUTTING is a great summer read!"

   - Tracy Farnsworth, Round Table Reviews













© Gemma Halliday 2002-2008. All rights reserved.