Chapter 1

I stared down at the red stilettos. Granted, Nordstrom lights were extra flattering, but these pretty girls would look good under a half-dead parking garage bulb. I turned them from side to side, admiring them.

“Are they too much?” I asked my best friend Ranée.

She arched one of her perfect eyebrows at me. “Um, hi, we’re here because you got a promotion?”

“I don’t mean too much money. I mean…too much.” I made a point of examining my pedicure peeking through the peep-toe so I wouldn’t see the eyeroll I knew was coming. It didn’t matter. It dripped from her voice.

“If by ‘too much,’ you mean you’re worried that Paul will think these are over the top, then yes. He will. But that doesn’t make them ‘too much.’ Buy them. Buy them now. In fact, buy them in every color and wear them on every date with him.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I said even as I debated whether I needed them in black.

“Then at least get them in black,” she said.

It was fate, obviously. I waved the salesgirl over and told her I’d take them in black too, and she hurried to package them before I changed my mind.

Ranée hopped up from the try-on sofa. “I’m going to go see if I can find my brother a shirt for his birthday. Come find me in the men’s department when you’re done paying.”

Five minutes later I found her riffling through lumberjack shirts. I wrinkled my nose. “Does your brother have to wear plaid flannel because he lives in Oregon?”

“It’s not my favorite either, but this is about getting him something he wants. And he’ll wear one of these.”

“It just feels like such a cliché. Does he also have a bird tattoo and drive a Subaru?”

“No and yes, and stop being so judgey.” She nodded at the picture on top of the clothes rack. “I think you’d do better with a guy like that anyway. It showed a guy tethered to the side of a rock face. He was wearing the same flannel shirt she’d just pulled from the rack.

“Definitely not. Rock-climbing man-bun guy? No. Flannel is strike one. Man-bun is strikes two and three.”

“That’s hair-ist.”

“Hair-ist is not a thing.”

“Yeah, it is. It’s like elitist or racist. You’re just biased against long hair.”

“Only on dudes. And only because it’s repulsive.”

She picked up a different flannel. “Whatever. I’ll get this one for my brother and then we can start Phase Two of the Emily Riker Rules the World celebration.”

“Not the world. Just a—”

“Whole fleet of computer programmers!”

“Fleet,” I said, testing the word. “I don’t think a group of coders would be called a fleet.”

“Then what? A herd?”

“No. They definitely don’t travel in herds. They’re more like…pods. Pods of coders.”

“And you’re the boss of your own pod.”

“I’m queen of the pod people,” I said, wrapping the arms of the flannel shirt around my neck to create a cape.

“Just put the red shoes on and you’re Queen of Everything.”

I slid my arm through hers and tugged her toward the register. “All I want to be queen of is the sofa. Hurry and pay.”

An hour later we were at another register, this time debating our grocery store candy choices. I grabbed a king-sized Reese’s four-pack. “Done! Pick and let’s go. Tina Fey is waiting for us.”

Ranée pushed a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes while she studied the display. “The beautiful thing about a 30 Rock marathon is that it’s there whenever we need it.”

“Right, but the ice cream won’t be, so hurry up before it melts.”

Suddenly she snorted and reached for a paperback on the checkout rack. “Those shoes are wasted on Paul. They’re going to make him nervous. You need this guy. He’d totally appreciate red stilettos.”

I snatched the romance novel she was brandishing at me. It showed a long-haired man in a kilt who seemed to have lost all of his shirt buttons, but the woman in a flowy dress clasped to his chest didn’t seem to mind. “Is this Fabio? Why are you obsessed with me suddenly dating Fabio?”

“Because Fabio can handle your shoe choices. Paul can’t. And that’s not Fabio. Fabio is blond.”

“Why do you even know that?”

“Why do you even know who Fabio is?”

“I don’t know. It’s just one of those things that everyone knows. Like Kenny G. No one’s ever heard his music but everyone has still heard of Kenny G.”

She pointed to the ceiling. “Hear that music? That’s probably Kenny G. Now you know. And I’m just saying, your soul wears stilettos and it needs more than a Paul. I bet Paul loves Kenny G.”

“I don’t know what is with you and long-haired flannel guys today but no. And right now, I don’t even want to think about guys at all. I want ice cream, chips, and 30 Rock.”

“Fine,” she said, returning the book to its shelf. “But this is just proof that I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Then you know how much I want to binge sugar and TV right now. Let’s get out of here.”

“All right,” she said, but she ran her finger over the chisel-jawed face of the long-haired half-dressed Scottish hero. “But I’m right about this.”

If only I would’ve remembered how far Ranée would go to make a point.

If. Flipping. Only.