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

“Henry,” I say, his name sucking the air right from my lungs.

He looks up with a sad smile spread across his lips, and the constant five o’clock shadow I left him with has turned into a slight beard. “I—I thought you’d gone.”

“I had…I am…I just—My friend forgot something, so I…”

“Do you permanently live out of suitcases?” he asks. “Or do you just like to keep a collection of shoes on your person at all times?”

“Still a smartass,” I say.

“Turns out reality TV didn’t bleed my whole personality dry.”

“Lucky me.” I take a few steps closer, hesitantly. I feel like I’ve trapped a wild animal, and I don’t want to run the risk of spooking him. “Did Jay tell you where to find me?”

“Among other things. Honestly, I was just hoping to leave you something for when you got back.” He sits down on my stool. “Congrats, by the way. Gossamer is a pretty big deal. They’re lucky to have you.”

“Thanks.” My pulse quickens the closer I get to him, and I wonder if he feels it too—that electric excitement that comes when it’s just the two of us, like we still have a whole production crew and house full of women to hide from.

He holds up a glossy white shopping bag with Jimmy Choo spelled out across the front in delicate gold letters. “I thought I’d bring you a peace offering. I’ve got to get back to work eventually, and it turns out fashion is a small business, so what better way to clear the air than with shoes?”

“You’re speaking my language,” I say, tiptoeing closer so that we’re only a foot apart.

“Erica is my stepmom,” I tell him. “I wanted to tell you the whole time.”

He nods. “Beck told me.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I, uh…When I wasn’t working on the show or putting out fires at work, I was duking it out with the network execs over ‘wifey.’ God, is that just the worst word of all time or what?”

“Moist,” I say. “But after that, yes, wifey. But you wanted to choose me? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I didn’t want to promise you anything I couldn’t deliver on,” he says. “Contracts had been signed. They wanted me to propose. To Sara Claire? Can you imagine? I barely even know her. I said yes at first, because, yeah, I liked you, but I went on the show to save LuMac. They promised me things that…well, things that could have saved the business overnight. Featuring LuMac in all their programming and productions. Runway sponsorship. Prime-time commercial spots. But, uh, I pretty much ruined all that.”

“What now?” I ask. “What happens to LuMac?”

“The show gave us a boost. That’s for sure,” he says. “It’s not the big splashy deal the network offered. But we’re out of the SOS zone, and we’ve bought ourselves enough time to figure out how to move LuMac into the future. And we get to do it without selling out to Hollywood, which makes Mom happy.”

“You and Jay are a force,” I tell him.

He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, long overdue for a cut. His jeans are worn, and his white T-shirt is likely nothing more than an undershirt. I wonder if all the suits were Irina at work, and if this is the real Henry. Threadbare jeans, T-shirts, and Converse. This is much closer to the version of Henry I met on the plane. “Well, I thought my peace offering was splashy, but I guess you one-upped me.” He motions to my open sketch pad, where my Henry-inspired design is on full display.

My cheeks flush with mild embarrassment at the thought of him seeing my work and the fact that it’s so heavily inspired by him. I reach past him for the prototype, and a vein in his neck jumps as my waist grazes the side of his arm. “This isn’t even a sample,” I say. “Just something I’ve been fooling around with, but, Henry, meet…the Henry.”

He takes the shoe in his hand, running his thumb along the material so that he can feel both the rough and smooth sides of the suede. “Do you mind?” he asks, looking down at his own feet. “They look to be about the right size. And then I could say I’d tried on a Cindy original.”

“I’d be honored,” I tell him as I take the shoe from him and drop to one knee. Carefully, I untie the laces of his well-loved all-white Converse. Looking up to him, with my shoe in hand, I ask, “Ready?”

He nods as he slides his foot in, his heel popping perfectly into place.

“It fits,” he says, a lilt in his voice.

“It looks perfect on you,” I say, trying not to sound as sad as I feel. “Henry?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I just…I didn’t think you would pick me, and I couldn’t risk missing out”—I motion around to this beautiful space—“on all of this.”

“Don’t you be sorry,” he says with force, pulling me to my feet so that we’re only a breath apart. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I was trying to save LuMac and play my cards just right when I should have just been up front with you all along. Cindy, it was always you. It was you from the moment we met outside of our gate at JFK.”

“But—but then why did you agree to choose Sara Claire to begin with?”