Free Diane Vallere - Style & Error 00.5 - Just Kidding by Diane Vallere Page B

for nine months, so that puts it at January. But there will be snow on the ground!  Dirty, grey slush on the streets. Piles of sludge pushed to the side, accented with ditched sodas and the odd yellow color that I’d rather not think about. I’ll be lucky to get through the month in my Moon Boots.
    “Ethical and great legs too? That’s almost too good to be true.”  The voice behind me was familiar. Not familiar in an I-Just-Asked-You-If-It-Was-Okay-To-Try-This-On way, but in an I-Heard-That-Voice-This-Morning way.
    This was not happening.
    I turned toward the voice, knowing before I turned that it was the stock guy. Only it wasn’t.
    Sure, it was the guy, but his unruly hair had been tamed with a styling product that kept it shiny and in place. His Rocky T-shirt had been traded for an olive green suit. His teeth were still gleaming white and his eyes were still the color of root beer barrels. They crinkled in the corners just like the white haired man.
    “Let me guess. Samantha Kidd, from Bentley’s?”  He walked toward me and held out his hand. I shook it, feeling rather stupid as I stood there with one foot in my own black patent pump and the other in the same sandal I’d been busted trying on this morning on the street.
    “I’m Nick Taylor,” he supplied.
    “But—” I looked for the older man who I’d spoken to earlier.
    “That’s my dad. He helps me out during market week.” He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “You better watch out. He’s a softie for a pretty girl with a sample size foot.” The old man waved while my face grew hot.
     
    Our market appointment was a challenge of my focus. One by one, Nick showed me the sample collection. I took notes on my line sheet, flipped through the leather swatches every once in awhile, and pulled the samples of the styles I thought Bentley’s should carry. My boss, Marcia, stopped in halfway through the appointment to review my assortment. She agreed that the flower sandal was the highlight of the showroom and encouraged me to advertise it in our spring catalog. I lost track of time and finished later than I’d expected.
    “Do you have plans for dinner tonight?” Nick asked unexpectedly. “Or can I treat you, since you’re in New York for market?”
    “I live in New York. Don’t you?” I answered while packing spreadsheets, highlighter, pencil, and camera back into my oversized fuchsia leather handbag. 
    “No, I live in Pennsylvania. I drove in this morning.”
    “I grew up in Pennsylvania,” I said.
    “What part?”
    “Ribbon. How about you?”
    “I know Ribbon well,” he said, not answering my question. “So, since you’re the hot shot New Yorker, maybe you should offer to take me to dinner tonight.”
    “But I’m the buyer,”  I said without thinking. Not thinking before speaking is a character flaw, if you must know. I rank it behind defensiveness and in front of paranoia, and not just because that’s the alphabetical order.
    “Are you saying that my taking you to dinner could influence the size of the order you write for my collection?” Nick asked. His white teeth flashed a smile.
    “No. Absolutely not. Besides, I already have plans,” I answered. With my cat, I added internally. The last thing I wanted was for word to get out that my buying decisions had anything to do with dinner, free shoes, or root-beer colored eyes that crinkled in the corners. I was determined to be one of the best buyers at Bentley’s, and I knew it took a taste level, a willingness to take risks, and a solid understanding of profitability. I had a reputation for being driven, company-loyal, and a team player. Getting along with my vendors would help, but there was a line not to be crossed.
    “That’s too bad for me, I think.” 
    “Maybe next time,” I said. And judging from the way everyone else was dressed, the warm feeling inside wasn’t because they’d turned up the heat.
     
    I finished my second to last appointment in half an