Chapter Two

“As far as I’m concerned you got the job, but we have to run it by the higher-ups,” Coach Buck told the young woman. Coach pointed a certain finger skyward, whether indicating his opinion of the administration or thanking God for a left-footed punter was difficult for Tom to tell. “We’ll be in touch. You can get out of here now.”

“I’m done, too. I’ll walk you back to the locker room and keep watch in case you want to shower,” Tom offered with all the eagerness of a puppy with a new toy.

Alix Lindstrom shook her head. “Thank you, but I changed in the ladies’ room and left my clothes there.”

“We have a ladies’ room?”

“Sure, for when the reporters come to watch practice or a scrimmage. Some of them got tits, you know. Surprised you haven’t noticed, Billodeaux.” Coach Buck barked out a laugh that caused his placekicker to go red in the face and curse his fair and freckled complexion.

“I noticed. I mean I’m not like Brian. Not that there is anything wrong with Brian. He selected the flowers for my brother’s wedding.” The more Tom babbled the deeper the crimson grew on his cheeks.

Alix helped him out a little by cutting him off. “Yes, I know that. The pictures in Bride and posted by The Knot were so gorgeous. They really did have a fairy tale wedding.”

His fear that his perfect woman might be a lesbian vanished. He doubted they pored over wedding magazines, but with same-sex marriage becoming prevalent, maybe they did. What did he know about it?

“I was in that wedding.” Could he have been any smoother? Why didn’t he just say, “Did you see me, huh, huh?”

“I noticed. You were the only redhead in the bridal party.”

“Among the twelve kids in our family, I always stick out like a thumb hit by a hammer.

“I know.”

Whether Alix knew how many children were in the Billodeaux family or was agreeing that he resembled a sore thumb, he couldn’t tell. How to make his next move and not sound like a complete idiot? Coach Buck took care of that for him.

“You two get out of here. You’re blocking my view of the field. Pick up your feet if you want a place on my team, you lazy bums!” he shouted to all the rookies and walk-ons in general. Action out on the grass became frenetic. “Take Lindstrom out to dinner, Tom. Show her the town. Talk up the team before she signs with someone else.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. Morfar…”

Tom shook his head. “Show me the way to the ladies’ room. I’ll wait outside while you change. We can get that dinner someplace nice downtown.” He grasped her elbow and escorted Alix away from the training field and all the ogling guys on it. She took the lead in showing the way to the ladies’ room. Alix didn’t linger primping, but appeared only minutes later with her makeup-free face washed and shining and her body clothed in an oversized and much worn Sinners jersey bearing a number one that nearly covered her shorts. The laces of her kicking shoes hung out of the side of a gym bag, that footwear having been replaced by a pair of flip-flops.

“Sorry, no shower in there. I have to get back to my room and do a better job of cleaning up if we’re going out somewhere. I left my pads in the ladies’ room. Is that okay?”

Tom suppressed a wince at the mention of pads in a ladies’ room. The guys could craft some pretty crude jokes out of that. “Bring them out for me, and I’ll see they get back. Where are you staying? I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

“I’m at the La Quinta on Veteran’s Boulevard. Could we make that two hours and meet in the lobby? I really have to take a bath and wash my hair. I smell awful.” She glanced at her pink-painted toenails.

Tom wrinkled his pug nose and took a deep sniff. “Nope, you smell better than any guy on that field even without the shower.” He coaxed a smile out of her as wide as one of Julia Roberts. “But sure. Get the pads. I’ll meet you there.”

Alix delivered the bundle of equipment into his arms and set out for the parking lot with a wave. Tom trudged back to the locker room burdened with her gear. As he passed the field some card, probably Barton “Beef” Bolivar from special teams who was working with the rookies as center now that he had finished snapping, chanted, “Tommy’s got a girlfriend, Tommy’s got a girlfriend. He’s carrying her pads.”

The heat of a blush crept up the back of his neck, but he turned and answered. “Tommy’s got a date and you don’t, loser.” Satisfied, he moved along. He’d carry Alix Lindstrom’s pads any day. Heck, he’d even go into a drugstore and buy her some.

****

Tom Billodeaux took extra care with his appearance. He realized he had a penchant for loud clothes that went with his trickster personality, but for the sake of Alix Lindstrom toned it down all he could tonight. Straightening his silk tie of silver and black stripes in the mirror, he doubled checked his pale gray summer suit with the black square in the pocket matching his shirt and hoped he didn’t look too mafia. He’d shaved close and done the walk through a mist of masculine cologne as Uncle Brian had taught all the boys in the Billodeaux family. “Do not overwhelm, a typical adolescent mistake,” Lightfoot coached. Nothing Tom could do about his flaming red hair and freckles unless he went girly and used dye or makeup, but that would be going too far. At least, he’d had a recent haircut and subdued his wild curls.

Which car to take? The old truck shared with his brother Dean as a teen, the big SUV, or Dean’s dream car, the black Mustang convertible, left in his care while the newlyweds took that long delayed trip to Germany. Not the truck, and much as he wanted to, not the Mustang. Driving that would bring up Dean, and he’d have to confess he didn’t own it. He could only be thankful his alluring quarterback of a brother was out of the country. If Alix fell all over Dean like most women, Tom wouldn’t have a chance with her. You’d think marriage might end all that, but women still came on to Dean—but not when his wife, Stacy, stood anywhere in the vicinity. She could ice all of New Orleans in August with a glance.

He grabbed the keys to the red SUV with the little Sinners devil on its rear and headed for the interstate, taking the exit for Veteran’s Boulevard. Definitely overdressed for the budget motel lobby, he sat near the cereal dispensers for the free breakfast and waited for his dream woman to appear. Alix Lindstrom came through the door precisely on time, not making a man wait. Tom liked that.

He also liked what he saw. Her pale straight hair gleamed and rested on shoulders that might be a little broad for a woman but would seem frail compared to those in the Sinners’ locker room. She’d darkened her light brows and lashes and outlined those big, blue eyes, making them even more striking. Her lipstick was a bold ripe peach color. She wore a sundress that tied around the neck. Its tangerine and blue swirled skirt ended just above the knees, and that still left plenty of her bare legs showing. Because her feet were encased in plain white flats, Tom figured Alix might be a trifle self-conscious about her height, but he still had a couple of inches on her. Not gorgeous like Stacy or model-perfect like Ilsa, the woman who had dumped him for Dean, Alix Lindstrom suited him just fine.

Alix greeted Tom with that wide smile, then a slight frown as she took in his attire. “Are we going somewhere formal? Friends told me Louisiana would be pretty warm this time of year, and I didn’t bring much besides shorts and tees and this dress. I thought it would be okay for walking on Bourbon Street if we end up there.”

“You look okay for anywhere, and we are dining on Bourbon Street at Galatoire’s, one of the grand old New Orleans restaurants. They used to require coats and ties but have gotten it down to jackets now. Still, it is a dressy place, but you’re fine. We have reservations. Shall we go?” He offered his arm, and she latched onto it lightly. Tom figured he was the envy of a group of German tourists raiding the fruit bowl on the counter. At the SUV, she didn’t need any help getting in, but he gave her a hand anyhow. Manly Manners 101 as taught by his short Mama Nell who really couldn’t get into an SUV or large truck without help.

He maneuvered the interstate again, got off on Poydras to point out the Dome where the Sinners played, and parked in the garage across from his condo. “Parking is hard to find here, but it’s only a few blocks.”

They braved broad Canal Street with its four lanes and streetcar tracks and penetrated a couple of blocks down Bourbon Street where they were seated immediately at a prime table by the window, supposedly the same spot Tennessee Williams used to dine. Tom had requested it; Sinners in the window, especially any named Billodeaux, were always good for business—not that Galatoire’s wasn’t always packed and noisy. The tuxedoed waiter appeared immediately with menus.

As they perused their choices, Tom mentioned their historic table. Alix replied, “A Streetcar Named Desire, right?”

“Yes, desire.” He should have kept the heat out of his voice and lowered his eyes faster because he made her blush again. Alix hid her blue eyes behind the large menu. Tom rushed to a neutral subject. “We should have appetizers. Let’s see, they have sweetbreads and escargot, that’s brains and snails. The Oysters Rockefeller is really good.”

Alix surprised Tom by wrinkling a nose so straight he was amazed it could scrunch up like that. “No thanks on those.”

“Then, have the Galatoire’s Goute. That’s shrimp and lump crabmeat in sauces. I’ll get the Oysters Rockefeller, and you can try one.” Tom ordered a bottle of champagne as well, and it arrived icy cold at the table where the sommelier made a ceremony of opening the bottle and not spilling a drop. They decided on entrees of blackened redfish for him and pompano topped with crab, artichoke hearts, and mushrooms for her.

“Do you treat all the walk-ons this way?” she asked.

“Only the best punters. Coach told me to take you out, and believe me, you never disobey Marty Buck.” Tom picked up the small loaf of French bread and twisted it in half scattering bits of crust across the table.

Alix dug into her portion. “So good.”

She ate like an athlete with gusto, not a girl who always watched her diet, and he found that appealing, too.

As she devoured her shrimp and crab dish, she said between bites, “We don’t have seafood like this in Wisconsin.”

“Few places do. If you sign with the Sinners, you can eat it every night.”

“What do you mean if? Who else would take me? I know Morfar called Coach Buck to get me a tryout.” Tom offered her an oyster on the end of his cocktail fork, and she tried it without hesitation, cupping her hand under it to prevent the green sauce from falling on her dress. “Delicious, but I don’t think I want to try them raw.”

“You will if you stay here. Coach really wants you on the team, and he has lots of pull. One thing you need to be careful of though. The guys upstairs are going to try to lowball you on the salary. They’ll start around $250,000.”

Her blue eyes widened. “That much?”

“For a punter like you that’s an insult. Do you have an agent?”

“No, but Morfar probably knows some.”

“Use mine. He manages Dean, too. He can get you a million, maybe more.” Tom fished out the card he’d placed his pocket before leaving the condo. “I’ll put in a word for you.”

“Thanks. You really think I’m that good?” Alix deposited the card in a purse so small Tom wondered why women bothered to carry them. She had that in common with all girls.

“You are so good I’m almost jealous, but we’ll work together and be together a lot.”

She flushed a little. “I’ll like that, but I’ve only had a year of practice. You see, I wanted to be on the next Olympic women’s soccer team and didn’t make the cut. I had Mia Hamm’s picture on my wall since childhood. You know the one of her stripping off her jersey at the 2004 Olympics.”

“Me, too, but probably not for the same reason,” Tom said. “Awesome black sports bra.”

“Yes, that’s the color I always wear as a tribute to her.”

How he’d like to see her in that bra, any bra. She wasn’t big busted, but seemed just right for her height and athleticism. Big boobs only got in the way in most sports. Tom kept that thought to himself as well.

“I hoped to get the chance do the same gesture, but that won’t happen now. My main strength in soccer was in long, high kicks down field, but I’m not so great at scoring,” she admitted as the waiter removed her empty plate. “I was in the dumps so badly at failing to make the team that Morfar put me in his training camp for kickers for an entire year. He only takes three students at a time at $3000 a head, so it cost him to instruct me in punting. He said the Sinners already had a great kicker, but he’d gotten wind of Brian Lightfoot’s retirement. He thought I’d be safer, too.”

“As a punter you won’t have to worry about scoring, and you’ll be making history as the first female NFL player.” Tom didn’t add he hoped to score and make his own kind of history with Alix Lindstrom. Dinner arrived within minutes, taking his mind off the randy thoughts.

Alix’s pompano stared up with a dull dead eye through its coating of sauce and crab meat. Its crispy tail overhung the plate. “Do you want me to ask the waiter to take off the head and the tail?” Tom asked.

“Oh, no. I go fishing with my dad all the time, even out on the ice in winter. Trout is best served like this. The bones add flavor.”

For the first time, he caught a whiff of a Wisconsin or maybe Swedish accent in the way she drew out that oh-no, but Alix proved not to be a squeamish babe. “You like fishing?”

“Sure.”

“My father isn’t too into it, but Connor Riley used to take us out in the Gulf on his boat.”

“Imagine going saltwater fishing with two football greats. I’ve never been on the ocean before, the Great Lakes, yes, but not an ocean.”

“It’s a big boat. Those lakes, they are pretty great, huh?” After making a remark as idiotic as that Tom concentrated on his blackened redfish.

“Yes, we could trade fishing trips.”

Good, she didn’t seem to mind his inane conversation. “Here, try some of my redfish.” He forked over a small portion.

“Oh, spicy!” Alix fanned her lips and took a large swallow of champagne. She wrinkled her nose again as the bubbles tickled, and she laughed. “Food up north is sort of bland.”

“If you stay here, you’ll get used to the flavors and come to love it red hot.” Like me, he implied.

She took no notice that he could see, but said, “I’m sure I will.”

They worked through most of their fish and shared sides of cauliflower au gratin and potato soufflé, but needed boxes for leftovers. Still, Tom insisted they share a portion of bread pudding.

“Doesn’t sound all that great,” Alix said. “And I’m very full.”

“Once you’ve had it with praline sauce and vanilla ice cream, you won’t ever forget it.”

They managed to devour a portion between them. “I really need to walk that off,” Alix claimed. “Can we stroll down Bourbon Street now?”

“Oh, we don’t stroll here. We strut! But first, let’s take the leftovers to my place so they won’t spoil. My condo is just across from the parking garage.”

“Yes, it would be a shame to waste food like that.”

They made the trek back across Canal as night set in, and people came out to enjoy the lessening heat of the day. Alix seemed impressed by his apartment and its location so near the French Quarter.

“Yeah, it’s fairly big for one person. Dean and I shared it before he got married. Now it’s all mine. I’ve been thinking of taking on a roommate. That person would have their own wing with two bedrooms. Dean turned his second bedroom into a game room, but that spare room would make a nice office or sitting room for someone. They’d have plenty of privacy with this big living room and the kitchen between us. Wall-mounted big screen TV, gas fireplace beneath. We don’t really need a fireplace down here, but it adds ambience.” Realizing he sounded like a realtor, he shut his mouth.

“Oh, we need them in Wisconsin in case the snowstorms take out the electrical wires. I love a nice fire in the evening.”

“Top-notch appliances, too,” Tom babbled as he put their takeout boxes in the fridge on top of several others. “You want coffee? I have this pod machine thing.”

“No, thanks, but I’d love to cook in here. I bet you think a girl jock can’t get a meal on the table.”

Tom really didn’t care if she could or not. He wanted to do all his cooking in the bedroom, so very nearby. “I’d eat anything you cared to make.”

“Really, I’m a very good cook. Mom insisted. She said even the boy in the family needed to know how to make Swedish meatballs.”

“Boy?” Could she be transgender? They weren’t that uncommon in New Orleans, but Wisconsin?

Alix cuffed him lightly on the arm. “It’s a family joke. Poor Morfar had only one child, a daughter, my mother Britta. She married Nels Lindstrom and gave birth to three more girls. When she was pregnant with me, she told both men this was the last and it better be a boy. I came into the world at a strapping nine pounds and looked so much like my grandfather it became a standing joke. So, I went hunting and fishing. I played soccer, basketball, and Little League baseball on a boys’ team. I wore flannel and sports uniforms while my more petite, girly sisters dressed in ruffles and lace and took piano lessons. I guess I’m not very feminine because of that.”

“Alix Lindstrom, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you.” Tom wanted so badly to cup her face with his hands and swoop in for a kiss. Heck, their heights matched so well, he’d hardly have to bend his head.

“I appreciate that, but I must tell you I went to my prom with the girls’ soccer team, not a date.”

“Those high school guys didn’t know what they were missing.”

A pretty ordinary compliment, but she studied her flat-heeled shoes, blushed, and he loved it. After he’d been taken in and discarded by the sophisticated and conniving Ilsa, his sister’s roommate, Alix seemed as fresh and pure as the land of sky blue waters. No, that was Minnesota. What did they call Wisconsin? The Cheese State? Oh yeah, the Badger State. Neither was too flattering.

“College was better,” she said.

“For all of us. Believe me high school girls weren’t keen on red hair and freckles. Where did you go?”

“University of Wisconsin-Madison. I had a soccer scholarship and played some other sports for them.”

“So a Lady Badger?”

“Just a Badger. They got rid of sexist terms years ago.”

“Not here. Just warning you. You ready to strut Bourbon Street?” He half hoped she’d say, “No, let’s stay in and light a fire.”

“I can’t wait!”

“Just a minute.” In the face of that enthusiasm, Tom went to his bedroom, shed his jacket and tie, opened his collar, and rolled up his sleeves. No sense sweating any more than you had to on Bourbon Street or setting himself up for muggers by being too well dressed.

They descended into the bawdiest strip of the French Quarter where tourists roamed, college students newly released from classes raved, and hardcore drinkers staggered from bar to bar. Barkers beckoned passersby into strip clubs and drag shows. Good jazz clubs and superb restaurants abounded. One man with a large snake draped about his neck asked Alix if she’d like to stroke his python.

“Why not?” She relieved him of the reptile without any help and handed Tom her phone to take a picture. He obliged and shoved a few dollars at the snake handler, though he hadn’t liked his tone.

They marched on dodging living statues of many varieties from tin men to cowboys and an excess of sidewalk tap dancers. At a souvenir shop, Tom ducked inside and returned with a fringed parasol striped in purple, green and gold—the colors of Mardi Gras. He opened it and demonstrated his strut for Alix by wiggling his skinny ass and taking grotesquely long strides while pumping the umbrella up and down. She laughed with her head thrown back and snapped another picture.

“You try it.” He handed over the parasol. “Work those hips, lift those legs, stick out that chest!”

“I don’t have much of a chest.”

“What you have is great, and there isn’t a person on this street who can beat your legs.” She did her best to his applause and a few lewd comments from some drunken frat boys Tom really wanted to pop. He steered Alix away and into one of the better bars.

“You could probably use something to drink by now.”

“After all that champagne, I doubt it, but it’s still very warm outside. How about a martini?”

“Shaken, not stirred, right?” he said in his best James Bond accent. The bartender rolled his eyes, but Alix giggled as good as any girl.

The drinks arrived with a scrim of ice on the top and a plastic pick shaped like a sword impaling two olives immersed in the glass.

“Not bad,” Tom said. “But I think the best part is the olives.”

“Me, too. I’ve never had a martini before and wanted to try one. Really, I usually drink beer. Wisconsin has great beer—and cheese curds to go with it. Pretzels, too.”

“And it has you. That’s lots to be proud of.”

Alix cocked her head at him. “I can’t figure out if you are recruiting me or flirting.”

“Maybe both. Ever seen a drag show?”

Alix shook her head.

“Then you’re in for a treat.” He paid for their drinks and escorted her to the best spot he knew for that kind of entertainment, Les Femmes Fatales. They settled at a table close to the stage, ordered beer for their two-drink minimum, but being a classy joint, it came in frosted glass mugs. A Cher impersonator took the stage and did a set followed by the lovely Diana Ross. The last to perform swayed into the spotlight wearing a long lavender gown studded with crystals that made it glitter with every movement, though the bodice rode low on two spectacular breasts. The long, blonde curls of an impressive wig draped over them. Following the theme, she had coated her lips with in shining lavender and wore contacts that made her eyes appear almost purple. Stalking the platform in killer stiletto heels and unafraid to show some leg with a slit up the front of her dress, she launched into a steamy song about jungle fever and repressed missionaries.

“Dolly Parton?” Alix guessed. “Though I don’t think she’d do a song like that.”

“Nope, Layla Devlin.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Hollywood is a cruel place. That song is from one of her movies. My dad did a cameo in one of her films, and she got a little obsessed with him. Mom warned her off, and she transferred to our previous quarterback. Nearly killed both my mother and his fiancée around eight years ago. She ended up in an asylum and never did another motion picture.”

“Kind of sad. Now that you mention it I remember some of that from my movie magazines. I just forgot her name.”

“Not really sad when you think of it from the Billodeaux point of view. I don’t know where she is now, but I’ll bet my dad keeps track.”

The steamy ditty came to an end. Speaking in a low and husky voice, the chanteuse breathed into the mic. “Good evening, I’m Lilah Devine, and this is my tribute to the magnificent Layla Devlin wherever she is tonight. Lilah has not forgotten you, baby. But the two of you up front—naughty, naughty for speaking while I perform.” She shook a rather masculine finger tipped with a long, lilac nail and bearing an enormous amethyst ring at them. “My first piece was the Academy Award nominated song from Miss Devlin’s film, Masai!. Layla had great range in her acting ability. The next is the love theme from her western, Savaged!, in which she starred with New Orleans’ own Joe Billodeaux.” She waited until the smattering of applause died down before beginning a ballad of hopeless love.

Since both of them blushed at being scolded, Tom and Alix stayed silent for the rest of the performance. Lilah left the stage blowing kisses and paused near the wings to throw one two-handed into the ether. “For my beloved Layla.”

They left soon after that uncomfortable event. Tom told Alix the rest of the story as they strode along the blocked off street that had become considerably boozier in atmosphere during their absence. “That guy was as obsessed with Layla as she was with football players. Supposedly, he provided her with the gun she used to assault the other women, but he swore up and down he’d given it to her to protect herself. Anyhow, no charges were pressed against him. In him, Layla at her best lives on.”

“Even sadder.” Alix studied her feet as they walked along side by side almost, but not quite, touching.

“Hey, New Orleans isn’t a place to be sad. Want to go hear some really good music at Mariah’s Place?

“I’ve heard of it—where all the Sinners players hang out. Don’t think I’m ready for that yet.” She checked her watch. “I have to be at the airport at six a.m. and should get some sleep. This has been a wonderful evening. I’m sold on the city. Just one more thing.” Alix curved an arm around Tom’s waist and pulled him close. She snapped a selfie of them together. “I need evidence because no one back home will believe I spent the night with Tommy the Toe. I mean went out with Tom Billodeaux.” Her blush probably showed up on the second insurance shot.

“We’ll do it again after you sign with the Sinners.” He led the way back to Canal Street. “Say, you remember what I said about needing a roommate? You could stay with me for free since I own the place.” Okay, it was his turn to flush when he recalled that Stacy said if you paid a woman’s rent she was your mistress.

Evidently, Alix felt the same way. Her fine, fair hair flew as she shook her head hard. “I couldn’t do that. What would Morfar and Dad say?”

“What do you pay for rent in Madison?”

“Four hundred a month when I lived there with a roommate. I’m staying with my family until I get a job.”

“Believe me, you have a job. You can pay me that much if it would make you feel better.” Four hundred—you couldn’t get a closet for that in New Orleans let alone part of a luxury condo, but she didn’t have to know. “I wouldn’t intrude on your privacy. You could cook. I can eat. See, it might work.”

She smiled at last. “I’ll think about it if the deal goes through.”

“It will. Say, you need to come up and get your food. I’ll show you those two rooms and the bath.”

“You keep my portion. I can’t take food on the plane. If there is a next time, you can show me the rooms then.”

Reluctantly, he steered her into the parking garage, keeping an eye out for the bag lady who sometimes lurked there and might put Alix off coming to New Orleans. Tom helped her into the SUV for the return trip to the motel. He walked her to her door and lounged against the wall wishing for an invitation to come inside—which he didn’t get.

“I do hope I see you again, Tom.”

He shot a finger at her. “You’ll be at mini-camp in June. Mark my words. Your parasol. You’ll need it for Mardi Gras.” He turned over the gaudy little umbrella.

“Thanks for everything.” Alix leaned forward a little, then seemed to think the better of bestowing a kiss and slipped inside her room.

Tom lingered while she turned the lock with a snick and rattled the door chain into position. Looked like the evening had definitely ended. No matter, he’d see her in May for sure.

****

Alix leaned her back against the motel door. She wondered if Tom still stood outside wanting to come in. The thought had flashed through her mind, but no. If she jumped into bed with a Sinner, some people would assume she’d gotten the punting position by sleeping with the kicker. She released a deep sigh of regret. This whole thing would not be easy, and she so did not want to disappoint Morfar, not in his condition. He’d gotten the first call after she returned to the motel and been his usual subdued self. “Ja, sure, you’ll get the job. You are my best student.” Beneath that, she’d sensed his excitement. At home, her mother shrieked and her sisters squealed. Her dad delivered an austere, “Nice work.” That was as good as it got in Wisconsin.

She hoped she hadn’t spilled too much to Tom Billodeaux. Oh, she knew all about him and his family—more than she let on. Right next to her Mia Hamm poster, she’d hung one of Tommy the Toe taken after a sixty-one yard field goal that saved the game. He hadn’t made the cover of the sports magazine, but his personality shone through from his wide grin to his tousled red curls, worn long and wild at the time. Though proud of his accomplishment, he’d stated modestly that he was happy to help the team get the win. So cute, very nice and supportive, just as she’d imagined. And interested in big, clunky her, if she wasn’t mistaken.

Alix kicked off her flats and did a happy dance with her big feet on her way to a second shower. She’d be able to wear two-inch heels on a date with Tom and believed he wouldn’t care if she went even higher! Please, please, please, let him be right about the Sinners taking her on as a punter.