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

I stifle a giggle and take the cup from him, rinsing it out and filling it with water.

As he’s taking a drink and wisely holding the cup with both hands, I squat to get on his level and smooth back his soft curls. “Don’t forget to go to the bathroom,” I remind him.

He nods dutifully. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going on a trip,” I whisper.

He leans in, and his bright blue eyes widen into saucers. “Is it a secret?”

I nod. “Can I trust you?”

“Oh yes,” he says without pause. “But do you have to go?”

And that’s the question, isn’t it? The big question pounding in my head and in my heart. “Yes,” I tell him with a firm smile. “I do.”

He pouts briefly before putting on a brave face, shoulders pinned back. “I love you, Cin-Cin.”

“I love you, Gus-Gus.”

“Tell the pilot to do a good job,” he says as he turns to walk back down the hallway to his room.

“I’ll let him know you said so.”





My meeting with Crowley Vincent is at a restaurant so fancy I didn’t even realize it existed after living in this city for four years. Le Bernardin is situated in Midtown on West Fifty-First Street, just a block from Radio City Music Hall. When I arrive at noon—9:00 a.m. back in LA—I’m escorted to a private dining room large enough to seat at least eighty people.

I check my phone once more before putting it on silent and out of sight in my camel-colored Madewell tote. The villa episode aired last night, and between sneaking out and catching my flight, I managed to miss it completely, which is just as well. I don’t think I could handle seeing Henry and me together for the last time. Just joking on that boat, like I had no idea what was coming.

Inside the private dining room, the tables are bare save for one large round one, which has two settings opposite one another. Crowley Vincent sits with his long legs crossed and dangling at the side of the table. His pointed white crocodile loafers are exquisite and look like they’ve never seen a walking surface rougher than shag carpet. He wears a white mesh tank top tucked into a pair of tailored green velvet trousers, and hanging like a cigarette between his lips is a felt-tip pen.

He clears his throat and stands, plucking the pen from his lips with two fingers. “You must be Cindy,” he says in a severe British accent.

“I am. It’s so wonderful to meet you, Mr. Vincent.”

“Call me Crow,” he insists, pronouncing it like it rhymes with wow. He makes little flighty wings with his hands before motioning for me to sit down. “I’d like to actually eat lunch if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course,” I say, unable to hide the confusion in my voice.

“You’d be surprised to know that no one ever eats lunch at lunch meetings.”

“Oh.” I laugh. “Well, I pregamed the menu before I got here.”

“Oh, do tell,” he gushes.

“I think I’m going to take a chance on the halibut.”

“Brava,” he says. “The pickled beets are a revelation. Did you catch that?” he calls over my shoulder.

I glance behind me to find a sharply dressed woman lurking a few tables behind us. She nods.

“I’ll have the salmon,” he says.

“Thank you so much for meeting with me today,” I tell him. “I’m trying to act as professional as I can…but I’m…just a really big fan.”

“I like people who aren’t scared to like things.”

That sets me slightly at ease.

“So Renée tells me you’re straight off a television show.” He says the word television like it’s a foreign word he’s only just trying out for the first time.

“I am. I…hope that’s not a problem….”

He nods and puffs on his pen, and I get the feeling he’s recently kicked a smoking habit. “I saw a highlight reel of sorts. You’ve got good taste.”

“Thank you,” I say, trying not to pump my fist in the air.

“In fashion and men.”

My cheeks warm with blush, and even though I try to keep my expression neutral, I can’t help but think of Henry and where he might be right this moment. A sinking feeling settles in my chest. He’s probably at the château on the verge of finding out I’ve ghosted him.

“Sore subject?” Crow asks. “I guess nothing on television is real, but you had me fooled.” He clears his throat. “I assume you’ve brought your portfolio?”

I reach into my bag to see my phone buzzing incessantly. Streams of messages. Beck. Erica. Missed calls. Drew. Anna. Even Sierra—who knows I’m here and is probably fielding calls from everyone else. I flip my phone over and reach for my iPad and the large portfolio resting against my chair. “Digital or hard copy?”

“Oh Lord,” he says, “I do love a woman prepared. Give it to me old-fashioned.”

I pass the leather portfolio across the table. “Those are a little rougher than my digital versions.”

“I like rough.” He taps his pen against his lips. “I’ve heard good things about you from a contact of mine.”

“From Parsons? I really loved my adviser, Jill. She—”