Read Online Mikalo's Grace by Syndra K. Shaw - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Syndra K. Shaw
Tags: Erótica, Romance, Contemporary, Sex, Adult, sexy, Contemporary Romance, Romantic, successful female, strong female, greek man
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Clear my head."
"I'm sorry if I --"
"No, no, no, no. It's fine. You're right. I
know that. I just need to convince my heart, that's all. And
walking --"
"Got it. I completely understand," she
interrupted.
"Personally, I always find a stroll down
Madison helps," she then said with a wink before popping another
forkful of light, fluffy, ketchup drenched eggs in her mouth.
Chapter
Eighteen
The orderly chaos of that wide stretch of
72nd Street had been oddly comforting. The noise, the traffic, the
rush of anonymous passersby as they weaved and bobbed, angled and
pushed.
But this, this is what I'd waited for. What
my soul was needing. Where I knew I would end up all along, my
saunter turning to a brisk walk as I turned left at Madison and
strode past one expensive store after another, my goal in
sight.
Barney's.
Once through those revolving glass doors at
60th Street, the brightly lit cosmetics counters in full view,
handbags straight ahead, designer clothes waiting up the escalators
discreetly tucked in around to the left, the associates at once
recognizing me as a guaranteed commission and as solicitous as
ever, my headache disappeared and all seemed right with the
world.
Of course shopping wouldn't solve anything.
The growing complication of Mikalo would still be there. As would
my even quicker growing adoration of him.
And Deni was right. Blazen and Jeffords would
make their decision regardless of what I or anyone else said or
did.
But the thought of him leaving filled me with
dread.
I needed to shop. Work could wait. For once.
Janey could juggle calls, the Byzan file could languish for the
morning, and if there were any emergencies, I had my cell.
This was for me.
Stepping away from the doors, I turned left,
the small room before me dedicated exclusively to my long-standing
passion.
Goyard.
Not having the patience to wait who knew how
many years for a Birkin from Herm ès , I had fallen in love with these little known,
chevroned beauties when, one misty afternoon, the concrete shining
and wet, the clouds low and me with the collar of my coat up
against the chill of the Paris air, I had wandered away from the
Place Vend ôme, sauntered
down the short rue de Castigilione, and, turning left onto rue
Saint-Honor è, s tumbled
across their little store just a block away.
Hours -- and thousands of euros -- later, I
was the ecstatic owner of several handbags that were distinctive,
deliciously luxe, available in almost all the colors of the
rainbow, and not as prevalent as Gucci or, God forbid, Louis
Vuitton.
And as the years passed, my closets soon
overflowed with bags and purses, shoulder bags and briefcases.
Small wallets and larger passport holders. Even larger suitcases
shoved on the top shelves. My initials emblazoned on everything in
bright, durable paint.
"Good morning, Miss Grace," the familiar
voice of Shanelle, the manager, was saying.
"Good morning," I replied with a small smile.
"I'm just looking."
"Of course," she said, both of us familiar
with the lie. "If you need anything ..."
I nodded, stepping away as I eyed the
shelves.
Had it, had it, had it, didn't need it, had
it, didn't want it, had it.
This was getting ridiculous, everything
familiar, almost all of it already mine.
"There may be more coming in from Paris next
week," Shanelle offered politely.
Next week was not now. And I needed now.
I turned, glanced at the counters, peered in
at the smaller, no less expensive items waiting beneath sheets of
glass, locked tight.
Wait a minute.
I paused, my newly beloved waiting below, the
craziest thought running through my mind. An impossibility now
capturing my imagination, the reality that buying this would be a
step too far quickly being smothered into submission by the sudden
knowing that, although way too much way too soon, it was absolutely
the right thing to do.
And, reason and logic be damned, I was doing
it.
He's going to love it.
"If I could ...?" I asked.
Shanelle
"I'm sorry if I --"
"No, no, no, no. It's fine. You're right. I
know that. I just need to convince my heart, that's all. And
walking --"
"Got it. I completely understand," she
interrupted.
"Personally, I always find a stroll down
Madison helps," she then said with a wink before popping another
forkful of light, fluffy, ketchup drenched eggs in her mouth.
Chapter
Eighteen
The orderly chaos of that wide stretch of
72nd Street had been oddly comforting. The noise, the traffic, the
rush of anonymous passersby as they weaved and bobbed, angled and
pushed.
But this, this is what I'd waited for. What
my soul was needing. Where I knew I would end up all along, my
saunter turning to a brisk walk as I turned left at Madison and
strode past one expensive store after another, my goal in
sight.
Barney's.
Once through those revolving glass doors at
60th Street, the brightly lit cosmetics counters in full view,
handbags straight ahead, designer clothes waiting up the escalators
discreetly tucked in around to the left, the associates at once
recognizing me as a guaranteed commission and as solicitous as
ever, my headache disappeared and all seemed right with the
world.
Of course shopping wouldn't solve anything.
The growing complication of Mikalo would still be there. As would
my even quicker growing adoration of him.
And Deni was right. Blazen and Jeffords would
make their decision regardless of what I or anyone else said or
did.
But the thought of him leaving filled me with
dread.
I needed to shop. Work could wait. For once.
Janey could juggle calls, the Byzan file could languish for the
morning, and if there were any emergencies, I had my cell.
This was for me.
Stepping away from the doors, I turned left,
the small room before me dedicated exclusively to my long-standing
passion.
Goyard.
Not having the patience to wait who knew how
many years for a Birkin from Herm ès , I had fallen in love with these little known,
chevroned beauties when, one misty afternoon, the concrete shining
and wet, the clouds low and me with the collar of my coat up
against the chill of the Paris air, I had wandered away from the
Place Vend ôme, sauntered
down the short rue de Castigilione, and, turning left onto rue
Saint-Honor è, s tumbled
across their little store just a block away.
Hours -- and thousands of euros -- later, I
was the ecstatic owner of several handbags that were distinctive,
deliciously luxe, available in almost all the colors of the
rainbow, and not as prevalent as Gucci or, God forbid, Louis
Vuitton.
And as the years passed, my closets soon
overflowed with bags and purses, shoulder bags and briefcases.
Small wallets and larger passport holders. Even larger suitcases
shoved on the top shelves. My initials emblazoned on everything in
bright, durable paint.
"Good morning, Miss Grace," the familiar
voice of Shanelle, the manager, was saying.
"Good morning," I replied with a small smile.
"I'm just looking."
"Of course," she said, both of us familiar
with the lie. "If you need anything ..."
I nodded, stepping away as I eyed the
shelves.
Had it, had it, had it, didn't need it, had
it, didn't want it, had it.
This was getting ridiculous, everything
familiar, almost all of it already mine.
"There may be more coming in from Paris next
week," Shanelle offered politely.
Next week was not now. And I needed now.
I turned, glanced at the counters, peered in
at the smaller, no less expensive items waiting beneath sheets of
glass, locked tight.
Wait a minute.
I paused, my newly beloved waiting below, the
craziest thought running through my mind. An impossibility now
capturing my imagination, the reality that buying this would be a
step too far quickly being smothered into submission by the sudden
knowing that, although way too much way too soon, it was absolutely
the right thing to do.
And, reason and logic be damned, I was doing
it.
He's going to love it.
"If I could ...?" I asked.
Shanelle
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