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

“No, no, a little birdie by the name of Jay.”

“Jay? LuMac Jay?”

“Watch out, there,” Crow says. “Before they were LuMac Jay, they were Gossamer Jay, and I’m a Scorpio, so once I claim you, that’s it. I tried to poach them for this new…venture. But they’re too good. Too loyal.”

As he’s perusing my portfolio, I feel like after coming all this way, I owe him some honesty. “Uh, Mr. Vin—Crow, I should tell you…I’ve had a hard year, and my portfolio isn’t as up-to-date as I’d like it to be. I just…I spent the last year just trying to survive and it didn’t leave a lot of brain space for creating. But I think I’m ready to dive back in. I think it’s time.”

Without looking up, he says. “Use it,” he says. “Whatever it is that had you hung up. An ex, a death, or just plain old depression. The best part about crossing any bridge is the chance to look back and be able to fully understand where you came from. You’re not a machine. You’re not a computer. You’re an artist, and any good artist knows life feeds into art and art feeds into life.”

I clear my throat. My mind knows he just said smart things that will undoubtedly sink in over the coming days, but my heart and my body are in total overdrive from just being in the same room with such an icon. “I—I really appreciate you taking the time to share that with me.”

He snaps the portfolio shut, and my heart drops to my gut. He didn’t like it. No one can tell anything about a designer with that brief of a glance at their portfolio. “I, uh, have some other things I could show you if—”

“Renée will reach out soon.” He stands and pulls an olive-colored bomber off the back of his chair before tossing it over his arm. “Darla? Darla?”

I nearly tell him my name isn’t Darla, but then the woman who took our orders appears behind him, as though she materialized at the sound of her name.

“I’ll be in the car. Please have my meal wrapped up to-go for me.”

“Uh, I think they just plated—” She stops short. “I’ll meet you down at the car.”

“De-lightful.” Crow turns back to me. “You’re interesting. I like interesting. Is your passport up-to-date?”

“Uh, yes,” I say, sounding more unsure than someone who was just in another country with a legal passport should.

He’s gone before I can say anything else.

I throw my hands up, not entirely certain of what exactly just happened. “What was that?” I mutter to myself.

“He let you order lunch, didn’t he?” a voice asks.

I turn around, and Darla is standing there with a brown bag in her hand and her nose in her phone.

“Um, yes,” I say. “I can pay for that if I—”

“That means it went well,” she says without looking up. “Did they put you in the St. Regis? The late-night room service menu is surprisingly good. Try the sweet potato fries and ask for a side of vanilla glaze.”

“Got it…” It takes a minute for what she just said to really sink in. She’s nearly gone when I say, “I’m—I’m sorry, did you just say this went well?”

She slides her cat-eye sunglasses on and glances over her shoulder. “And it so rarely does. Stay and finish your lunch. We have the room for another hour.”

As I sit back down in my seat, a waiter brings out my first course. I don’t actually know what it is, but it’s orange and I’m starving, so I scarf it down in one bite. The only time my lunch has had multiple courses is when I’ve gone back for a second grilled cheese.

I scoop my cell phone out of my bag to face the music. Normally, in a restaurant like this, I’d be embarrassed to even reach for my phone, but considering I have a whole banquet hall to myself, my etiquette is flexible.

My finger hovers between Erica and Beck in my missed call list. Both of them are going to kill me, but I just can’t decide whose wrath will be less.

It doesn’t matter, though, because right that moment, my phone vibrates, choosing for me.

“Hi,” I say after the second ring.

“Well, I’m glad you’re alive,” Beck says. “But could you please explain to me why I’m standing here with an empty limousine.”

In the background, I can hear people asking her questions. “I’ve got her,” Beck calls out. “She finally answered.”

A distinct voice definitely belonging to Erica barks, “For Christ’s sake, where is she? Is she okay?”

“Where are you?” Beck asks me, her voice slightly nicer than Erica’s. “I’m sending a car.”

“I don’t think it would get here in time…” I say quietly.

“The helicopter, then. Whatever. We’re live in five hours.”

Honestly, I couldn’t even get there by plane if I wanted to. “I’m in New York,” I finally blurt.

“As in the state on the exact opposite side of the country?”

“The one and only.”

“You’re kidding. This is a joke. Ha-ha, Cindy. So funny.”

“I’m not. I’m sorry.”

“I need you to get your ass to the airport. Pronto. We’ll stall. I’ll helicopter you in from LAX. It’ll be great. The drama of it—”