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

The villas are a chic and modern cluster of efficiency apartments grouped along the beach with one main house at the center and an infinity pool that stretches the entire length of the property.

The smiling staff dressed in all white greets us with fresh cucumber- and-lime water.

“I could get used to this,” Sara Claire says.

Stacy chuckles quietly. “Yeah, eliminate me all you want, Henry, but I plan on haunting this place from now into eternity.”

I swat at her. “He’s not eliminating you.” Even though, actually, I do hope he does.

“I haven’t had a one-on-one yet. I’m just here for background noise at this point.”

Sara Claire and I look at each other, waiting for the other to comfort Stacy, but we both know that nothing about that would be genuine.

In New York, it felt like the crew was racing against the inevitable as they tried to hide any and all technology and media from us. But here, everyone is so relaxed—even Wes seems at ease—and with how secluded we are, I can see why. Of course, the televisions have been removed from our rooms, but in these gorgeous villas they don’t seem to leave a gaping hole like they did in our NYC hotel.

Each room has an enclosed outdoor shower, soaking tub, and intricate macramé hammock. Inside, the bed is fitted with white linens and set into a low, dark wood platform frame with a huge canopy overhead and a sheer white fabric draped over the top. Honestly, it feels like we’re all on a polyamorous honeymoon.

Inside my room, I push the huge glass doors aside and the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks is a lullaby so potent that I nearly fall asleep on my feet. A ways down in front of the main house, a huge outdoor dining table stretches across the deck nestled in front of a peaceful sandy alcove leading into the translucent blue water.

“Hi, neighbor!” Sara Claire calls, waving a card in her hand. “Guess I’m first up for the solo dates!”

“Knock ’em dead!” I call back, uncertainty spiked with jealousy gnawing at my insides. “Not all the way dead, though. Just, like, temporarily unconscious.”



That night, Sara Claire and Henry are swept off somewhere for a private romantic dinner with Wes and a bare-bones crew. I get the feeling that this is an attempt from the production staff to make the villa dates as intimate as possible.

This morning, after bagels and the vending machine make-out session, when Henry and I said goodbye, I nearly just blurted out, Choose me. We could go along with this whole charade and I would be a good contestant and wait it out until the very end if he could just tell me here and now that, in the end, he would choose me. But I couldn’t seem to get the words out. I couldn’t manage to expose that much of myself and risk him rejecting me. But most of all, I didn’t want to spoil the absolute gift that last night turned out to be. I wanted to freeze that moment like one of the hotel souvenir shop snow globes so that anytime I was feeling sad or unsure, I could just shake the globe and see us squeezed into that booth with our dim sum and bingo cards.

Stacy, Addison, Chloe, Beck, the rest of the crew, and I all gather on the deck of the main house for an epic buffet. It’s the best food we’ve had since the start of the show—tamales, flautas, gorditas, street tacos, every veggie you can imagine from fresh pico to grilled cactus, and rows of fresh fruit carved in the shape of flowers.

“Trust me,” Beck whispers, “we’re eating way better than those two.”

Despite Addison’s permanent scowl, the evening is delightful. The crew takes turns telling stories about former contestants, and there’s everything from the woman who pooped her pants skydiving to the man who was scared of worms. Some mention Erica and how she used to live on set in the early days. They tease her in the way you can only tease someone who you simultaneously fear and admire. Even though I can’t let on how true all their stories and memories ring, I still feel a twinge of pride at simply knowing her.

After dinner, Stacy and I each take a mango on a stick and kick our sandals off before settling onto a beach bed.

Behind us, the drunken crew sets up a karaoke machine, and their songs and laughter bounce off the water like skipping stones. I have to think that the villas are a sort of celebration for them after slogging through the rest of the season.

“Can you keep a secret?” Stacy asks the moment we’re settled.

“My five favorite words,” I tell her.

She downs the rest of her margarita and plants the cup in the sand before leaning back onto the beach bed. “My ex has been watching the show.”

“How do you know he’s been watching?” Though what I’m really thinking is that I’m pretty sure everyone’s exes are watching.

“She.”

“Oh, sorry, I just assumed,” I say, feeling incredibly foolish.

She leans her head toward me and takes a bite out of her mango. “I like who I like, and just FYI, if you weren’t totally in love with Henry, you’d totally be my type.”

“Wait, wait, wait, I have so many questions, but first off, I think if I were in love with Henry, I’d know.”

She gives me a look that says she’s not willing to contest her point.

“Fine,” I say, “we can hash that out later, but first, can we go back to how exactly you know that your ex is watching the show? Do you have secret ties to the outside world that you’re keeping from me?”