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

“Let’s pretend for just a moment,” he says.

And he doesn’t have to be any more specific than that. I know just what he means. Let’s pretend we’re two normal people on a normal date taking a normal stroll in a normal park that I haven’t been dreaming of since I was old enough to know what Fashion Week was.

Looking around, there are all sorts of couples. Some spry and others who are a little slower these days. Some men with men and women with women.

“Sometimes,” I whisper, “I look at older people and wonder what my parents would have looked like at their age.”

He rests his chin atop my head and pulls my hand to his lips, kissing each one of my knuckles. We sway quietly to music we can barely hear, but that’s okay, because this city is our soundtrack. Honking horns, conversations about little things and big things, flocks of birds descending, and the sounds all slightly dulled by the trees surrounding us.

“Do you think Beck and Wes are losing their minds yet?”

“They’ve probably already hired private detectives to find us.” His chin moves from its perch on my head. “But I think the instructors have found us out.” He takes my other hand. “Excuse us,” he calls as we weave through the rest of the class and exit back out the way we came. Currents of electricity flow between us, and I think I’m catching feelings for him. The kind that burn.

Dutifully, we walk in the direction of Times Square, like a couple of kids preparing themselves to face the music. Our whole history thus far is just a series of these bite-size moments, and I wonder what we could even become with time that was our own. It excites me and frightens me in equal measure. But instead, we’re constantly racing against the clock. Always running out of time. In the distance, I spot Mallory spinning in circles, hands waving as she talks into her Bluetooth headphones, not yet noticing us.

“There’s Mallory,” I say. “And she doesn’t look happy.”

Henry groans. “I’m not ready.”

I shake my head. “Me neither.”

“Follow me.”

My heart pounds as Henry pulls me across the street, dodging in out and of cars, and into a two-story souvenir store that stretches an entire block.

The clerk barely even looks up from their book as we rush to the back of the store. Henry’s chest is heaving as he curls an arm around my waist. “The cameras can’t follow us in here. Private property.”

I press a hand to his chest and throw my head back in a breathless laugh. “You’re going to get me kicked off this show.”

He leans down and presses his lips to my throat, and I gasp softly. Goose bumps trail up my arms as he wraps another arm up my back, pressing our bodies as close as two bodies can be while still fully clothed.

I don’t even have time to think about how sweaty I feel or if I need deodorant after our little run. All I can manage to think about is his arms around me and his lips on my neck and all the things we might do if we weren’t standing in the middle of a dusty Times Square souvenir shop.

His hand finds the back of my neck, and my fingers run up his arms to his shoulders as he tilts his head up to meet my lips.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Hi,” he says, studying my lips.

I feel intoxicated with want as we both dance around this moment for a second longer, his nose grazing mine until finally—finally!—he presses his lips against mine, like I’m the only oxygen he can breathe.

My lips part against his tongue, and it’s these moments of just the two of us that trick my brain into thinking that we’re just a couple of lovesick nobodies slowly falling for each other.

Someone loudly clears their throat, and it takes two more times before we manage to disentangle ourselves.

I peer over Henry’s shoulder to find Mallory standing there with her hands on her hips. Just behind her is Beck, outside with her inhaler in her mouth and the crew fuming beside her.

“I think we’re in big trouble,” I whisper.

“It was worth it,” he tells me with a quiet growl to his voice.

We walk outside like two defiant teenagers with Henry’s hand cradling my hip. After our little runaway situation, we’re loaded into a black SUV and driven just a few blocks to the Minskoff Theatre for a showing of The Lion King, where we’re seated in a private box that is not at all that private if you count our entourage.

As we’re sitting in our plush chairs away from the horde of tourists, waiting for the show to start, Henry leans over and says, “If you haven’t guessed, they don’t actually let me plan the dates.”

“Mr. Henry Mackenzie, do you mean to tell me that you’re not a fan of The Lion King?”

“Listen, I’ve got no beef with Simba, but if I were going to take you to a show, it wouldn’t be at an overstuffed Broadway theater.”

“Oooo, now that’s some New Yorker shade. Well, I, for one, am truly enjoying the ideal my-grandmother-is-in-town date. All that’s missing is a trip to Serendipity for frozen hot chocolate. This date sponsored by the New York City Board of Tourism.”

“You’re ruining the surprise!” The lights around us lower, but I can still see the brightness of his smile as he says, “One day I’ll show you my New York.”

I lean my head against his shoulder. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”