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

A hand reaches past Zeke, who is literally standing between me and fifty Before Midnight–obsessed fans. A head bobs over his shoulder and it’s—

“Sierra!” I shriek.

My best friend wriggles past Zeke and gives me a tight hug. “Holy crap! What is your life? What is even happening?”

“Cindy, we gotta move,” Zeke says with a warning in his voice.

I look up to him. “Should I remind you who’s keeping whose secret?”

His lips press into a thin line as he lets me squeeze under his arm while he continues to help the remaining women into the van.

Sierra is wearing a ribbed black maxi dress with huge red sunglasses and bright yellow platform Tevas.

“I wish I could stay and talk,” I tell her, suddenly feeling like I might be on the verge of tears. “And PS, you look delicious. Did you get the gig with Opening Ceremony?”

“Yes, and it’s all I’ve wanted to talk to you about! I mean, besides all this.” Her mouth wrinkles into a pout, and I can see tears welling in her eyes.

“Don’t cry,” I beg her. “If you cry, I’ll cry.”

She nods furiously. “There’s just so much happening, and there’s so much I want to talk to you about and—I’ve seen you on TV, but it feels like I’m having a one-way conversation and I just—”

“Cindy,” Zeke says.

I take both Sierra’s hands in mine and squeeze tight. “I gotta go, but I’m so proud of you for landing that gig. I miss you so much it hurts,” I tell her. “I love you, and I promise we’re going to have a major catch-up sesh when this is all over. I promise-promise.”

She gives me another hug and slides something into the pocket of my jeans.

“Smooth operator,” I whisper.

“You know it, baby!” she says, swallowing back tears.





Back at the hotel, the valet helps us out of the van and the concierge is waiting for us with camera people also in full swing.

The concierge, a round man with an olive complexion, thick silver hair, and a matching mustache, says, “I have a note for a Ms. Cindy.”

I gasp and push forward to the front of the crowd. “I’m Cindy! That’s me!”

He smiles with a chuckle and hands me the note, which I quickly tear open.



“Is it a date?” Sara Claire asks, peering over my shoulder.

“Of course it is.” Addison pushes through all of us and storms off into the hotel lobby.

Stacy rolls her eyes. “Forget her. She has the temperament of a thirteen-year-old.” She shakes her head. “Actually, scratch that. My thirteen-year-old niece would never.”

I croak out a laugh, but I can’t get to my room fast enough. A solo date. Henry and me. And about fifteen crew members. I didn’t expect to be this anxious, but my nerves are more frayed than a Canadian tuxedo.

Upstairs, I have a few hours to myself, so I pace the length of my room until all I can do is crash face-first into the freshly made bed. There’s nothing I can do to prepare for this. No homework or studying. All I can do is the hardest and most terrifying thing of all. Be myself.

I didn’t expect to be invested in this. I wasn’t prepared for this guy to be someone I can’t get out of my head.

I’m full of jittery energy, and I’ve got to do something to occupy myself or else I’m going to be bouncing off the walls by the time I go on my date. I reach into my suitcase for my pencil bag and sketch pad. Lying down on my stomach with the view of the city spread out before me, I open my pad and just let myself doodle. Everything from flowers to patterns to just signing my name over and over again. The last few times I’ve attempted sketching, this insurmountable pressure hung over my head, but today I decide to just let my pencil lead me. This morning at LuMac when I had no other option but to act felt freeing in a way. My choice was to innovate or walk down the runway naked. Backed into a corner and left with no other alternative, I created…something. Something that, it turns out, I was quite proud of. And for the first time in a very long time, I’m sitting down to sketch. Not because I have to, but because I want to.



An hour before my date, Irina, Ash, and Ginger descend upon my room armed with everything they need to turn me into a princess, and I’m still sketching. I hide my sketch pad away with my nearly dead walkie-talkie and let them groom me. After this morning’s near catastrophe, Irina even scoured the city for size-eighteen-and-up options.

Even still, I scroll through the rack of dresses she’s rolled in, fully expecting to have to wear the backup dress I ironed just moments ago. I appreciate her efforts, but nothing on the rack is what I would call striking.

“I bring you every dress in the city and still nothing to your liking?” she asks incredulously.

“It’s not that,” I say. “And don’t give me that ‘every dress in the city’ crap. Surely you can at least admit that the options out there in my—”

There are three quick knocks on my door, and Ash rushes over to answer it.

Beck is standing there sweaty and short of breath. “I got it,” she tells Irina.

Irina gives a sly grin as she takes the dress bag from Beck.

“What is it?” I ask anxiously.

Irina’s only answer is to hang up the dress and unzip the garment bag for me to see.