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

I gasp. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Sierra asks.

“Turn on the TV. Turn on the TV!”

“Ugh, first you want it off. Then you want it on.” She forces herself out of bed and begins to fidget with the plug and then the remote. The TV screen is static, and clearly, we’ve somehow reset it after ripping the plug from the wall.

“I don’t know where he is,” I tell Beck, but the line is already dead.

“Ho-ly shit,” Sierra says as the TV comes back to life.

On the television, Sara Claire is sobbing with her back to the camera, and Addison is on an absolute tirade, demanding to know where Henry is. Chad is arguing with Beck, and the whole thing is being televised.

Chad crosses his arms. “So you’re telling me you don’t know where this guy is? Literally one of the most heavily guarded reality television stars, and he just up and disappears?”

“Should I remind you that we’re live?” Beck asks.

“We’re back from commercial,” Mallory snaps.

Beck gives Chad a do something look.

Chad turns to the camera, a crazed look in his eyes and hair disheveled. “Well, folks, it appears we’ve got a missing person to report. Anyone want to put an AMBER Alert out on Henry Mackenzie?”

“Maybe it’s not the best time to make jokes about abducted children,” Sara Claire says through her tears.

“Does this mean no one wins the money?” Addison asks.

Chad looks to Beck, and she shrugs and nods.

“What a crock,” Addison says before storming off past the camera.

Chad begins to laugh maniacally, going from American dad to American psycho in record time.

Sierra turns to me. “I think you just broke Chad Winkle.”





At first, Henry was on every tabloid and gossip website. #MIAsuitor was trending for three days with one particularly memorable Twitter account posed as a fake tip-line, tweeting Henry spottings everywhere from Mount Rushmore to a Sbarro’s in Iowa.

Part of me thought he would turn up at the hotel or that I’d see him on the street somewhere, but every night when I go to bed, my hope that I might see him again diminishes a little bit more.

I’m on a first-name basis with most of the staff at the St. Regis. Sierra offered to let me stay in her room with her, but as part of my Gossamer contract, Erica insisted that I push for them to cover moving expenses and housing for the first six weeks. When I haven’t been at work or apartment hunting, Sierra and I spend most nights at the pool or in the hot tub. Luckily, last week I found the perfect place in Park Slope. When I told Sierra I wouldn’t be in Manhattan, she acted like I’d just cut off one of her fingers, but she quickly decided that this just meant she had a place to crash in Brooklyn.

I do a quick lap around my hotel room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Earlier, I found a shoe stashed under the bathroom sink, so there’s no telling what I’ve left behind. I touch my hand to my neck once more to make sure my necklace is still there. I found a heavy-duty corded gold chain to hold my parents’ rings. I wear both their wedding bands around my neck every day on a long chain along with my locket, and I left my mother’s engagement ring back at Erica’s for safekeeping.

“All clear,” I mutter to myself as I pull out the bedside drawer. Whatever I might have left behind belongs to the St. Regis now, as far as I’m concerned.

After work today, I’m leaving for a two-week seminar in Italy with the new women’s footwear team, some of whom are industry giants and others who are just as green as I am. It’s all a little intimidating, but I’ve already made a few work friends, which Sierra is very impressed by. (Of the two of us, she was the only one who ever attempted to expand our friend group.)

As I step into the elevator, my phone vibrates. “Hello?”

“Oh, Cindy, I wasn’t expecting you to answer. I was just going to leave a voicemail,” Erica says in a hurry.

“I’m just now leaving for work. What’s up? Isn’t it, like, five thirty in the morning there?”

“I’m trying a new hot-yoga class with Drew, and the only time we could get in was the six fifteen class. Anyway, I’m in the car, so apologies for the road noise, but what was the apartment number again?”

“One thirty-four,” I tell her.

“Oh, darn, I could have sworn it was eleven thirty-four. I’ll have my assistant call and fix it. I’ve got a delivery company all set to deliver your wardrobe when you return home from Italy. I’m planning on coming out that weekend so we can go furniture shopping?”

“Erica, you really don’t have to do that. Sierra and I can take her uncle’s truck out to an IKEA.”

Erica clicks her tongue. “I’ll not have you furnishing your first adult apartment with Scandinavian particleboard, thank you very much.”

I sigh into the receiver. “You know you can just come visit. You don’t have to use furniture shopping as an excuse.”

The day after the finale, I called Erica to apologize, and slowly over the last few weeks she’s warmed back up to me. It doesn’t hurt that the show has been the talk of the town since that night, but we’re still trying to find out how our relationship functions post Before Midnight. She was also impressed to know that I’d run away from home for the sake of a job interview.