Chihuahuas are Better than Facelifts Part 3

Sole for Soulé

Hello, lovely readers! Who’s ready for the next installment of my vintage chick lit series Chihuahuas are Better than Facelifts? 💅🏼

I’m a bit late sending this one out, but I just recently turned in a new book and a novella, so Charm and I have been hunkered down in the writing cave. I can’t wait to tell you more about those projects later, but let’s just say that I have a fun new series debuting next summer with Harlequin Special Edition!

Oh, and don’t forget I have a brand new book coming out next week! And guess what! It’s my 25th book with my fabulous publisher, Harlequin Books.

MARRY & BRIGHT is full of fun holiday romance and glamour! It’s the final book in my Love Unveiled series (but you can still read it as a standalone), and it’s about two workplace rivals who accidentally end up married right before Christmas. 💍

Don’t you hate it when that happens? *wink* Also, no one will be surprised to hear that this book also has a super adorable Cavalier King Charles spaniel puppy.

I had to. 🎀

Okie doke, without further ado, here we go…

Happy reading! 🧁

Love, Teri and Charm (and her plushy pumpkin pie toy…Happy Thanksgiving!)

Chihuahuas are Better than Facelifts, Part Three: Sole for Soulé

What’s a trophy wife to do when she hits middle age and the nest is empty? When Nicole realizes she’ll never find meaning in a life filled with endless trips to the mall and the day spa, she has a decision to make. Should she get a facelift…or a dog? Together maybe Nicole and her rescued Chihuahua, Prada, can make a difference in the world. And, naturally, they’ll do it in high fashion style.

“Nicole, pass la baguette s’il vous plait.” My friend Lynette motioned toward the basket in the center of the table as if I didn’t know what the word baguette meant.

She’d recently returned home after a romantic Parisian getaway with her husband, and this was the first time we’d gotten together for our regular girls’ lunch since her trip to the City of Lights. It was more than obvious she had a wonderful time on her trip. French expressions snuck their way into her every sentence and she, our other friend Susan and myself all sat around the table with berets perched on our expertly highlighted hair.

I slid the basket of bread toward Lynette. I was fairly certain she gave up carbs over a year ago. She must’ve really wanted to practice saying baguette. Prada, my darling Chihuahua, sat nestled on my lap, and her eyes trailed the crusty loaf as it passed by her quivering nose. “Thanks again for the beret, Lynette. I feel very French.”

“Oh, you’re quite welcome, bon ami.” She picked at the bread with perfectly manicured fingers. I guess it goes without saying it was a French manicure.

“Must you always bring that dog with you everywhere?” Susan shot a dirty look at Prada. “Now we’re forced to eat at a table outside every week. The humidity out here is killing my curls. “

I placed a protective hand on Prada’s tiny shoulders. “You’re wearing a hat. I can’t even see your hair.”

“Nicole, it’s a beret.” When Lynette said my name, it came out as Neeecole. I was beginning to wonder how long this French phase would last. “And Susan, in France chiens are allowed everywhere. We saw them eating at five-star restaurants, right at the tables with their owners.”

I was pretty sure chien meant dog, based on the context. Susan didn’t seem to understand, judging by the blank look on her face. Either that or she’d recently gotten another Botox fix.

“Lynette, you should really get a dog. You adore Prada. We have so many wonderful little dogs down at the shelter in need of good homes.” I passed Prada to Lynette. It was like dangling bait to a fish. A French fish. Un poisson. My high school French was coming back to me.

I was glad my husband Nick wasn’t around to witness my proselytizing, as he liked to call it. Since adopting Prada after she was rescued from a dreadful puppy mill and beginning volunteer work at the animal shelter, it had become my mission to find good homes for pets in need. Sometimes I had a tendency to become a tad overzealous in my efforts. But this was a seriously great idea. Lynette always went out of her way to shower affection on Prada—whether Prada was receptive or not. She still harbored some socialization issues from her puppy mill days.

“You should get a Maltese, Lynette. What I wouldn’t give for a head of hair like that.” Susan fingered her processed locks poking out from under her hat…er, beret.

Lynette’s eyes widened. “Ooh, what about a caniche?”

I was almost afraid to ask. “What’s a caniche?”

“Why, a poodle, silly.” Of course.

“We don’t have any poodles at the shelter right now, but we’ve got…”

Before I could finish my sales pitch, Susan let out a squeal and pointed at something under the table. “Whaaaaaa! What’s in there?”

Ducking my head under the table, I spotted a brown paper shopping bag with twisted handles. Don’t let the humble paper fool you—large white letters danced across the bag and spelled out the name Christian Louboutin. The word Paris was printed tastefully beneath the moniker.

My heart turned over in my chest, and I forgot all about my efforts to match Lynette with the perfect canine companion. I was hypnotized by the bag. Christian Louboutin. The name itself practically made me drool like a St. Bernard.

Lest you are unfortunate enough to have never heard of Christian Louboutin, let me offer this brief synopsis. His shoes are the latest in luxury couture footwear. The stilettos he designs, with their signature lacquered red soles, are enough to make Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo vert with envy.

Lynette returned Prada to my lap and set the bag on the table with a sly smile. She looked coyly at each of us. Man, she was really milking this moment for all it was worth. Both of Susan’s eyes were riveted to the bag, even the one she had trouble moving after her facelift.

“Well, I did a little shopping in Paris.” Lynette lifted a shoebox out of the bag and placed it gently on the table. “Unfortunately, in my fervor to purchase the perfect pair of shoes I didn’t realize the sizing was très different from US sizes.”

She lifted the lid of the box to reveal the Holy Grail of women’s couture footwear nestled within. I saw the shiny red soles peeking out of the tissue paper and had to fan myself with my napkin.

“These don’t fit me. They’re too small, and if they fit either one of you, you can have them.” She plucked the shoes from the box and set them in the center of the table, using the upturned breadbasket as a pedestal.

Susan and I let out simultaneous gasps. The shoes were exquisite. Black patent leather stilettos polished to such a perfect sheen I could see myself in them. Prada poked her head above the rim of the table to get a look at what caused the commotion. She saw her own reflection staring back at her from the glossy heels and let out a growl.

Susan was in a trance. She picked up one of the shoes and gazed at herself in the smooth surface of the toe. “Mirror, mirror on the shoe, the fairest one of all is you.”

“Wrong fairytale,” I replied. “This is Cinderella. Whichever one of us fits into the shoe is the princess.” I nodded my head toward the remaining stiletto on the table.

Lynette’s gaze swiveled back-and-forth between us, as if she was watching a tennis match (most likely the French Open).

In dramatic fashion, Susan tossed aside the shoe from her foot with a flick of her wrist. “Game on, Stepsister.”

But when she tried to cram her foot into the symbolic glass slipper, her countenance changed. Her face fell flat as she looked at the shoe dangling from her big toe. And I do mean BIG. That shoe was going nowhere. Lynette reached over, plucked it from her foot and handed it to me.

I held my breath in anticipation and eased both my feet into the lustrous leather. Prada stood on my lap and looked down at my feet. Now she saw not one, but two, baby Chihuahua faces blinking back at her from the top of my feet. She trembled and woofed. I felt for her. I’ve often had a similar reaction when unexpectedly faced with my own reflection.

“That is not fair!” Susan crammed her own shoe back on her wicked (as in step-sister) foot and looked at it with disgust. It was Tory Burch for goodness’ sake. Have some respect. “You’ll never even wear them. You can’t wear stilettos to work at an animal shelter.”

“Watch me.” I turned to Lynette and gave her a kiss on each cheek, European style. “Merci beaucoup.”

True to my word, Christian Louboutin accompanied me to work at the shelter the next day. As my heels tip-tapped around the kennel area, my heart swelled knowing all the dogs and cats would enjoy the red soles of my shoes flash when I walked past them. Genuine couture craftsmanship knows no species-related bounds.

“Nicole, can you teeter over here and give me a hand?” It was Amanda, the shelter manager. She liked to harass my fashion choices as only someone wearing faux Crocs could do.

I let Christian carry me to where Amanda stood, cradling a precious pooch in her arms.

“Oh, how adorable.” Instinctively, I reached for the little dog and held her up to my cheek. Her tail wagged with glee, and she licked my face. “A Chihuahua!”

“Yes, and she has AKC papers. But the owner forgot to drop them off with the dog. Could you give her a call and ask her to bring them by as soon as possible?” She handed me the Chihuahua’s adoption paperwork.

“I sure can.” I couldn’t tear my eyes from the dog. Her coat was a creamy, tan color and, unlike Prada, she boasted fluffy, flowing fur. A long coated, prettier version of the little angel waiting for me at home. And she seemed to possess a positively delightful temperament. “I can’t imagine why anyone would give up such a sweetheart.”

Amanda shook her head, her lips forming a flat line. “You’d be surprised. After you’ve been here for a while you hear all the ridiculous reasons. Ridiculous and sad.”

Once I left a message on the surrendering owner’s voicemail, I scrolled down the numbers programmed into my phone and highlighted Lynette’s name. I took one more glance at the Chihuahua in my arms before I pushed the talk button. Okay, so she wasn’t a French poodle. I had an idea, though.

“Lynette, hi. It’s Neeecole. I found you the perfect little dog. You’ve got to get down here right away and see her,” I gushed into the phone.

“Trés bien!” Then she asked the dreaded question. “Is it a poodle or a Maltese?”

“Actually neither.” I sent a mental message to the pup in question—cross your paws. “But you’ve got to see her to appreciate her. Her coat is the most glorious color: café au lait.”

It worked. “Ooh, café au lait. She sounds magnifique. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

No sooner had I hung up the phone and gotten the Chihuahua all settled in her own sparkling clean kennel than the receptionist came looking for me. “Nicole, there’s a woman up front who says she’s the former owner of the new Chihuahua. She’s got something for you.”

Good. The papers. If Lynette decided to adopt the dog, everything would already be in order. I pasted on a sympathetic face and click-clack toward the lobby. I knew whoever gave up such a dear little dog must be heartbroken at whatever circumstances lead to such a painful decision.

The woman in the lobby had her back to me when I entered the room, providing me with the perfect view of the red soles of her gold Christian Louboutin stilettos. I must admit the sight caught me off guard. She didn’t look downtrodden. And I knew how much those shoes set her back—more than she paid for the Chihuahua, for certain. Perhaps there had been a tragedy in the family or she’d suddenly been rendered deathly allergic to dogs.

“Can I help you?” I squeaked out, trying to avert my gaze from her footwear.

The woman turned to face me, her perfectly made-up face absent of any sign of death, tragedy or allergy severe enough to require emergency injections of epinephrine. “I have the papers for the Chihuahua I brought in earlier today.” She shoved the envelope emblazoned with the AKC logo in my direction.

“Thank you for bringing them by. I’m sure her new owner will be glad to have them.” I took the envelope and fumbled with it in my hands. “Do you mind if I ask you why you surrendered the dog?”

She glanced down at my own Christian Louboutins and then back to my face. “Well, I just redid my whole living area. She doesn’t match the décor anymore. When it was done in shabby chic, she looked adorable curled up on the sofa. Now I have a more contemporary look, and she doesn’t blend.”

“I beg your pardon? She doesn’t blend?”

“No. She looks out of place.” Once more, the woman looked pointedly at the shiny black stilettos on my feet. “I’m sure someone like you understands what I mean.” Then she turned and flounced out the front door.

Someone like me. Not anymore.

I slid the shoes off my feet and left them right where they stood in the lobby of the animal shelter. Abandoned. In the exact spot where countless dogs were abandoned every day.

I was the anti-Cinderella, turning my back on the ruby lacquered soles and all they represented. What I wanted more than anything in the world at that moment was to go home where Prada waited for me. My perfect little Fairy Dogmother.

The tile floor of the kennel area was cold on my bare feet, but I didn’t care. I scooped the new Chihuahua out of her cage and held her close to my heart until Lynette arrived, tears causing black rivers of mascara to run down my face.

“Nicole, are you okay? Where are your shoes?” She must’ve been seriously worried about me because she dropped the French accent.

“Gone.” I held the Chihuahua toward her waiting arms. “This is the dog I called you about. Her owner surrendered her because she no longer matched the furniture.”

Lynette cooed at the dog and stroked her little domed head with loving tenderness. “Poor baby.”

“I know she’s not a poodle. And I don’t know if that color is really café au lait. But she’s sweeter than candy and she needs a loving home.” Another tear slid down my cheek. “Could you consider a Chihuahua? Por favor?”

“Sí. Gracias, amiga.” She held her new dog in the crook of her left elbow and wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get you home. I think you need a serious dose of Prada right about now.”

She was right. I let her lead me out the door and to my waiting car. All I wanted was to snuggle with my dog and slide my feet into my old, worn pair of fuzzy slippers. The perfect choice for someone like me.