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made her brain stop thinking about what she was going to do about Jamie. It stopped all the questions that constantly ran through her mind. How was she going to protect George and the others that she loved? Should she tell Millie about Jamie? Would she end up in jail right next to him?
    A salesman came up to her and smiled a really good fake smile. She’d have to memorize that smile—it even reached his eyes. “Hi. Can I help you with something?”
    “Yes. I’m looking for some badass black heels. Nothing plain. I have those.”
    The man ran his hand over his goatee and thought for a minute. “You sit and I’ll bring the shoes to you. Size nine? Would you like something to drink?”
    “Eight and a half and sure. Bring me a drink.” She laughed. If you were willing to pay $1000 for shoes, you could get wine while you shopped. Who knew?
    The man came out with seven shoeboxes piled up past his head. He proficiently set them on the floor without incident; she was impressed. The first pair he pulled out was a platform pair of Louboutin heels. Another salesperson brought her a flute of champagne.
    She took a sip and shook her head. “I have these already. I need outside the box, funky shoes no one else would buy.”
    “Oh yes, I think I have something you may like.”
    He disappeared. Her phone dinged with another tweet. A picture of her popped up with the champagne flute to her mouth, a smile teasing her lips.
    #fbibeautydaydrinkingshopping
    The salesman walked over. “Ms. Murphy?”
    She looked up quickly; she hadn’t given her name. Fucking figures . She didn’t think she’d ever get used to everyone knowing who she was. “Yes?”
    He opened the box and showed her the heels inside. They were six inches high, black patent leather with red soles and silver spikes erupting from the tip of the toes. They were fantastic. No one would wear these. They were perfect. She slipped her foot inside the heel. “These are fantastic. I’ll take them.”
    She took a picture of her new shoes and tweeted the picture, tagging Millie.
    #fbibeautywillcutabitchwithnewshoes

    Stella was slipping her feet into her new heels when she heard the doorbell. She cocked her head in a question, hoping it wasn’t media. Greg had been hard at work making sure that all the media stayed off the property. It didn’t hurt that she had the FBI protection detail at the house. Her shoes clicked on the hardwood floor as she hurried through the den and to the front door, opening it to see George standing there with a huge bouquet of barely pink peonies. Smiling, she pulled him into her by his shirt and kissed him hungrily. He was wearing dark jeans and a bright blue and white checked shirt, his dark hair was in that adorably messy state between short and too long; he was in need of a haircut.
    “Wow,” he said after she broke off the kiss. “I could get used to that greeting.”
    “What’re you doing out here ringing the doorbell?” She took the flowers and walked to the kitchen to find a vase.
    “I’m picking you up for our date.” He followed her and watched her open every cabinet in the kitchen. “I don’t have a vase.”
    “You have a fucking picnic basket but you don’t have a vase?” She put her hands on her hips.
    “You look hot.” George’s eyes traveled over her see-through long sleeve white shirt, black bra, and skinny jeans. He stopped when he got to her fuckwith-me-and-I’ll-stab-you heels. “Where in the world do you buy shoes like that?”
    She held up her foot, examining her new shoes, and laughed. “You like these?”
    He nodded. “I’m kinda scared of them, though.”
    “I bought them for my interview with Ms. Diane Sawyer in New York. I thought if it was going badly, I’d accidently kick Diane in the shin and then apologize profusely.”
    “Good plan.” He laughed. “It’s all set up then?”
    “Yes. I asked Millie if she’d go with me. They’re filming on a Saturday so that we can take the train up from