If the Shoe Fits (Meant To Be #1) by Julie Murphy

I stand up quickly and run back into the kitchen, where—sure enough!—there on the second kitchen island is a small stack of papers stapled together—much less ostentatious than last night’s scrolls.

I grab a Henry Bible for myself and return to the pool, where I find Anna polishing off the rest of my breakfast. “Anna!”

“What?” she asks with her mouth full of my eggs. “You know I can’t cook.”

It’s true. She’s like a little raccoon, always eating everyone else’s scraps. “It’s fine. I’ll make some more in a bit.”

She lies back and rubs her now-full belly as I study the Henry Bible. The first page is all about his mom and the business, but I probably could have written a better version myself.

Lucy Mackenzie is a Parsons alumna, so I am plenty familiar with her. The faculty talks about successful alumni on a loop, like it’s some kind of infomercial even though we’ve already agreed to sink an ungodly amount of money into our education. Lucy Mackenzie was a favorite of several of my professors. She’s best known for her slip dress, which was a ’90s phenomenon where everyone started wearing lingerie as clothing. Everyone always credits Calvin Klein or John Galliano as the creators of the slip dress that started it all. But Lucy Mackenzie (maiden name Mercado), a young, recently married half–Puerto Rican designer from Queens fresh out of design school actually debuted her version of the slip dress at her senior show in 1994, which was actually based off a design in her admissions portfolio from 1989. She worked under Isaac Mizrahi on and off for a little while before striking out on her own, and by 1997, her slip dress was being worn by pop stars and the teens who loved them. She managed to evolve through the early 2000s and expand into streetwear and footwear. Now her dresses have become a staple in department store formal sections, which is not so good for a luxury brand. I think I remember my textiles professor saying the company had recently filed for bankruptcy.

As for Henry, the packet tells us he’s just about to take over all of LuMac’s business dealings and has high hopes of expanding the brand, but as much as I can’t stand Addison, she’s not entirely wrong. LuMac is in desperate need of a face-lift.

All I know about Henry is what I’ve heard around Parsons and read on Page Six. He went to Harvard Business School and has been seen all over town with other children of famous people. Though I never actually committed his name to memory, because he was just another designer’s kid. Plenty of celebrity kids went to Parsons, so I know the exact type of crowd he might have hung out with. Half-assing their way through school because they’ve already got a job or a golden opportunity waiting for them on the other end. And charming as he might be, I’m sure Henry is no different.

When I head back upstairs to toy with my walkie-talkie some more, I find Sara Claire in a towel on her bed. “Did you know that girl Chloe has a whole room to herself now?” she asks. “All of her roomies got sent home last night.”

“That’s some incredible luck,” I say, and then eyeing Addison’s bed, I add, “Maybe we’ll manage to get just as lucky.”

“Fingers crossed!” She points to the papers rolled up under my arm. “Well, I was sort of right,” she says. “He’s here for redemption. I just didn’t think it would be Mommy’s company on the line. You’re in fashion. You heard anything about him?”

I sink into the armchair in the corner. “His mom went to Parsons, like me, and she’s a big deal there. I haven’t heard much about him other than the usual Page Six stuff.” I shrug. “New arm candy every night. Bad-boy antics in the Hamptons. Et cetera, et cetera.”

He was so witty on the plane…and then again last night, but now it’s hard to imagine him as anything more than just another rich boy.

“Where’d you go last night?” she asks. “During the blackout? I kept meaning to ask you.”

“Nowhere,” I say too quickly. My throat feels like sandpaper all of a sudden. I hate lying, especially to people I like.

“You were there one minute and gone the next, and then when the lights came up, I didn’t see you.”

I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “I guess we just got split up in the dark. What do you think, I’m some Navy SEAL?”

Sara Claire snorts. “Yeah, I can just see you slinking around the château in that super-sexy dress with some serious night vision goggles on. Not at all suspicious.”

“Da-dum, da-dum,” I sing.

“All right, Pink Panther Elite, I’m going to get dressed and then I guess we just go downstairs and wait around for a group-date invitation.”

“Oh, yay, more waiting around for men to do something.”

“Cue the confetti cannon,” she says.





“This place reeks,” Addison mumbles.

Sara Claire snickers. “Welcome to a farm, babe.”

We all sit on our yoga mats, miked up and ready to go. It’s our first group date, and while I’m not opposed to yoga or goats, this isn’t exactly my ideal first date. The invitation didn’t come for a whole two days. A few of the others were about to go absolutely feral, begging the producers for details and hints. But they held firm while keeping us busy with confessionals and interviews. I took every possible moment I could to sneak away and play with my walkie-talkie radio thing like I was twelve years old, but all I heard was a few crew members asking why there aren’t enough gluten-free options for lunch.