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

And even though we briefly pretend we’re both a little immune to the touristy parts of this city that out-of-towners so often flock to, the show is incredible and we’re both taken with a little boy about the age of the triplets sitting below us who stands in his seat to sing along with Timon and Pumbaa.

In the middle of the show, Henry stands and returns with his suit jacket, which he’d hung up just outside of our box. He drapes it over my shoulders to protect me from the icy air conditioner, and while I’m not drowning in it in that annoying way where girls think it’s so cute to flop around in oversize suit jackets or their boyfriends’ boxers, I still appreciate the gesture.

“Thanks,” I whisper. “I think we might actually wear the same size.”

He shrugs. “Looks better on you than it does on me.”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m sort of, like, a big-deal model now.”

He clutches his heart. “Too soon.”

I gasp. “No, I meant this afternoon. Not Sabr—”

In the next box over, someone shushes me.

Henry reaches into my lap and takes my hand. “I know.”

We hold hands like that for the rest of the show, and afterward, we’re taken backstage to film a segment with a few members of the cast. I gush over their incredible talents and costumes, and once we’re done, we’re loaded into another SUV. This time, Henry and I sit as close together as two people can, and I find myself praying for a traffic jam—anything to slow us down. But on this sticky summer night with the clouds rolling back behind the bridges into the boroughs, we hit every green light and there’s not a single reason to slow down. Not even a honking cabdriver. It’s a New York City miracle.

At the hotel, we walk as slow as we can to the elevator with Henry’s arm wrapped around my waist, his hand again resting comfortably on my hip.

With a cameraman close on our heels, Beck announces, “Time to say good night, lovebirds.”

I turn in to Henry, and I want to kiss him, of course, but with the cameras on us—

“Oh,” says Wes, “so you two are okay with getting hot and heavy in the back of a souvenir store, but you can’t give us a little kiss good night?” He throws up his hands and leaves Beck on her own.

“Ignore him,” she says. “And us,” she adds quickly. “But I gotta be in bed before midnight. We got an early morning, and I’m fading.”

“Don’t want you to turn into a pumpkin on us, Beck.” Henry shrugs. “I guess we should give the people what they want.”

I nod and close my eyes as my lips melt into his for a long but chaste kiss that leaves me wishing for more.

His hands wrap around me in a tight hug, holding me close to his chest, and I can hear the thumping beat of his heart. It might be my new favorite sound. One of his fingers traces a pattern into my bare back over and over again.

My head is foggy, so it takes me a moment to realize he’s telling me something. He’s giving me a message. His finger continues to trace over and over again until he pulls away with an innocent, barely there smile on his face.

I can still feel his finger dragging across my skin in a familiar way, leaving a trace of heat, and I hope to God I got exactly what it was that he was trying to say.





Eight. Two. Six. Eight. Two. Six. Eight. Two. Six. Eight. Two. Six. Eight. Two. Six.

Three numbers that could only mean one thing. Henry’s hotel room.

As soon as I walk through the door of my room, Irina is waiting for me.

I let out a yelp. “What are you doing here?”

She holds a hand out. “The dress,” she says simply, not looking up from the game on her cell phone.

I hold my arm up. “The least you could do is unzip it.”

She unzips and gets a whiff of my armpit. “Ugh, I’ve got to get this thing dry-cleaned. It smells like a sports bra. A sad lost-and-found sports bra at the YMCA. Not even the nice YMCA. The kind with a drained pool and one of those jiggle machines from—”

“I get the point,” I tell her as I step out of the dress and into a pair of leggings and an oversize men’s undershirt I cut into a crop top. “The shoes too?” I ask, the memory of Henry kneeling before me sending a chill up my spine.

“The shoes especially,” she says.

I pick up the Jimmy Choos from the floor and give them a quick kiss on the side of the toe. “Goodbye, beauty.”

Irina sighs. “They are very, very good shoes.”

I nod. “They were good to me.”

She takes them from my hands, and for the first time, I think Irina and I have found common ground. At least the woman can appreciate good taste in shoes.

“You might be smelly,” she says, “but you were really something tonight. I perhaps have to put money on you.”

“I’m not a racehorse,” I tell her as she slinks out of the room with the garment bag over her shoulder.

“Tell that to Wes. He won the pot last year and went on a two-week trip to Bali.”

“What?” I ask, but she’s already gone. “What pot?”

Well, that’s just great. Not only am I dating a man who’s dating seven other women, but I guess the crew is betting on us too. Delightful. I sit down at the desk by my window with my sketch pad, the Statue of Liberty glowing through the nighttime haze, and I write his room number over and over again. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Until eventually, it doesn’t look like numbers at all. Just an abstract pattern.