Overtime Read Online Free PDF Page A

heels, knee-high boots, all in beautiful leather. It even smelled beautiful.
    “Can I help you?” a young, accented man behind the counter asked.
    Valerie adjusted her bag on her shoulder nervously. “I’ve been sent by Mr. Jasper Declan,” she said.
    “Yes, of course,” he said. He came around the counter and gestured at the chair. “Please, have a seat while I get your items from the back.”
    As he walked through another door, Valerie perched on the sofa, put her bag next to her and tried not to touch anything. She couldn’t see any prices, of course, but they were probably in the hundreds of dollars, at least. Valerie ran a hand over the sofa. It was buttery-soft, and she found herself stroking it, rubbing her fingers on its supple surface.
    The man re-entered with a shoebox in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. He handed her the flute and Valerie took it even as she thought it’s ten o’ clock in the morning.
    It was delicious, of course, and probably expensive as fuck. She took another sip.
    The man knelt on the floor in front of her—Valerie prayed he wasn’t getting his suit dirty—and ceremoniously removed one shoe from the box.  
    Valerie’s eyes widened. The shoe was gorgeous: high-heeled black leather with a rounded toe and a small platform, maybe half an inch, and a thick leather ankle strap. As the man turned the shoe for her inspection, she saw that the back of the ankle had a tiny padlock dangling from it.
    “The lock is only decorative, of course,” the man said.
    “Of course,” Valerie echoed. She sipped her wine and tried not to read too much into things. She failed.
    “You have excellent taste,” he said. “These are nearly sold out. Your right foot, please,” he said.
    Valerie held up her right foot, praying that it didn’t smell and wasn’t dirty from wearing flip-flops on the subway every day. If anything was wrong, the man didn’t say anything. He clasped the ankle strap, assessed her foot, and then held his hand for the left foot. When both shoes were on, he sat back and looked at her feet, critically.
    “If you could please stand, madam,” he said.
    Valerie did, swaying to her feet in the skinny heels.
    “Could you please take a few steps?” he said.
    Valerie walked to the other end of the couch and back, her cushioned hips gyrating as they always did in heels this high. That was why she wore them, after all.
    “These are a little small,” the man finally said. “I’d like to try a half-size up.”
    Valerie sat and he took them off of her feet as she sipped the champagne, the glass now half-empty, and sipped more as he went to the back and came out with another box. He put that pair on her feet as well, and he was right: this size felt much better, she thought. Valerie walked all the way around the couch in them, hips and booty waggling with the rhythm of the steps, enjoying watching herself in the store’s mirrors even as the accented salesman seemed utterly unmoved.
    “Those feel good?” he asked when she sauntered back to him.
    “Yeah, I think these are the right size,” she said, sitting back down.
    “Excellent,” he said, and removed them from her feet. As he whisked them to the back of the store, Valerie finished her champagne, feeling a little light-headed, and carefully set the delicate glass on a side table. She congratulated herself on not spilling the drink or breaking the glass.
    “Your shoes, madam,” the man said when he came back out. He handed her a black bag made of expensive paper with ribbons for handles, the shoebox inside neatly wrapped in paper.  
    When she took it, he looked at her expectantly. Valerie realized she hadn’t paid for anything. Was she supposed to?
    “So, uh,” she said uncertainly. She tried to remember if she had enough in her bank account to cover this.
    “The bill will be taken care of by Mr. Declan,” the man said smoothly. “Have a wonderful day.”
    Valerie was relieved. “Thank you,” she said,