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Craig's purse hit the little table beside the apartment door with a dull thump.

"God," he muttered, kicking the door shut behind him. "I can't wait to get into a pair of higher heels."

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Craig froze. Then slowly turned his head toward the door as if somebody might've heard. Nobody had.

Still...

"I hate my life."

Because that wasn't a sentence a sane person was supposed to think.

A sane person didn't spend all day in heels, come home exhausted, and immediately start looking forward to putting on even taller heels. Yet standing there in his pencil skirt and glossy office pumps, Craig couldn't deny the truth. His feet ached. His calves felt tight. Every muscle from his hips down seemed to be begging for something.

Not rest.

Not comfort.

More heel.

The realization made him feel slightly ill.

Unfortunately, it was also true.

His body didn't like flat shoes anymore. It hadn't for days. Walking normally was painful. Standing normally was impossible. Eros had rewritten his relationship with gravity itself.

With a groan, Craig headed for his bedroom. The familiar sea of pink greeted him immediately. A few minutes later the work clothes were piled across the bed.

Skirt.

Top.

Pantyhose.

Office heels.

Gone.

Relief washed through him as cool air touched his smooth, hairless legs. Standing in nothing but black bra and panties, Craig crossed toward the dresser and started digging through drawers. At first he wasn't even sure what he was looking for. Something casual. Something comfortable. Something normal. Then his fingers found denim.

"Oh."

A tiny pair of shorts emerged from the drawer. Daisy Dukes. The sort of shorts that looked less like clothing and more like a dare.

Still, they were jeans. Actual denim. That counted for something.

Pulling them on, Craig slid the shorts up over his shaved legs and tugged them into place. They barely covered his panties, but technically they covered them. That was good enough.

Next came a red sleeveless top. Simple. Casual. Almost ordinary.

Almost.

Then his gaze drifted toward the closet. And immediately forgot about everything else. There they were. Waiting. Red patent leather stilettos. Tall. Shiny. Severe. The kind of heels that would've looked like medieval **** devices to the old Craig. Now?

Now they looked perfect.

His mouth actually watered.

"No."

The denial sounded weak even to him. The shoes remained exactly where they were. Beautiful. Inviting. Necessary.

"You're just shoes."

His feet disagreed. Crossing the room, Craig grabbed them before he could change his mind. The stilettos landed neatly on the floor. One foot slid inside. Then the other. Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself onto the towering heels.

Instantly his shoulders relaxed. A soft sigh escaped him.

"Oh, thank God."

The tension in his calves began melting away almost immediately. His ankles settled into the familiar angle. The ache in his legs eased. Everything simply felt... right.

That was probably the most disturbing part. Not that he liked heels. Not that he could walk in them. Not even that he preferred them. It was that his body genuinely seemed happier.

Craig stood there for a long moment, absorbing the sensation. Then another thought arrived. A terrible thought. A true thought.

I love these shoes.

His eyes widened. The statement landed harder than expected. Love? Really? Yet he couldn't deny it. These shoes made him feel good. Safe. Relaxed. Comfortable. Before Eros had appeared, footwear like this would've been agony. Now they felt better than sneakers ever had.

"Psychological conditioning," Craig muttered.

That had to be it. Some kind of magical brainwashing. Because otherwise he might have to admit he genuinely enjoyed wearing absurdly high heels.

And that wasn't happening.

Not today.

Maybe not ever.

The kitchen offered a new problem. Food. Craig opened the refrigerator. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing looked appealing. Cooking for one was annoying.

When Frank had lived with him, dinner had been easy. One of them cooked. The other cleaned. Sometimes they ordered takeout. Sometimes they argued about toppings. Simple. Normal. Comforting.

Now the apartment felt too quiet. Too empty. The silence lingered around him as he stood staring into the fridge.

Then a thought occurred. Frank lived only twenty feet away. Literally across the hall. Why was he standing here feeling lonely? The man was right there.

A smile appeared despite himself. Pizza sounded good. Movie sounded good. Company sounded even better.

Decision made, Craig headed into the hallway. The heels clicked sharply against the tile floor as he crossed toward Frank's apartment.

Knock knock knock.

Nothing. Craig frowned. Frank's car had been downstairs. He knocked again. Louder.

A few seconds passed.

Then came muffled movement from inside. The door opened. Frank stood there smiling, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and some sneakers, a light sheen of sweat covering his chest.

"Craiger!" Frank said. "What's up?"

Craig smiled automatically.

"Sorry. Was I interrupting something?"

"Nah. Just on the elliptical."

That explained the sweat.

"Listen," Craig said. "I was about to figure out dinner and thought maybe we could order pizza and watch a movie or something."

Frank's face brightened immediately.

"That's a great idea."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely. TGIF."

A wave of relief washed through Craig. Good. Some things hadn't changed.

"Perfect."

"Why don't you order the pizza?" Frank suggested. "I'll clean up and head over in a bit."

"Works for me."

Frank nodded.

"Any topping preference?"

Craig laughed.

"You know I was about to ask."

"You know what I like."

"I do."

"Then surprise me."

"Done."

Frank started backing into his apartment, then paused.

"Oh."

"What?"

Frank rubbed the back of his neck.

"For the movie..."

Craig waited.

"Could we maybe watch something a little more energetic tonight?"

"Sure."

"Not really in the mood for one of your chick flicks."

Craig stared. Frank smiled. Then disappeared back inside. The door closed. Silence.

Craig remained standing in the hallway. Confused. Chick flicks? His eyebrows knitted together. What did that mean? Craig couldn't remember the last time he'd picked a chick flick. Action movies. Comedies. The occasional sci-fi film. That was normal.

Wasn't it?

Slowly, he turned and walked back toward his apartment. The comment lingered in his mind.

Chick flicks.

By the time he reached his own door, he had pushed it aside, shifting gears toward the pizza. If Frank was trusting him to choose toppings, there was only one acceptable answer. Half meat lovers. Half Hawaiian.

Because friendship had limits. And no matter how much Eros rewrote reality, Craig refused to live in a world where pineapple belonged on an entire pizza.