It Had to Be You, Georgia Clark [phonics reader TXT] 📗

guys in the South. They always felt too familiar or too shallow. Sexless, like a big brother or a best friend. New York had already presented one worldly lover. It was sure to present another. Someone confident and hardworking, with a cheeky glint in their eye. Maybe that was the reason why she uprooted her life and moved to a new city where she knew no one and was unequivocally the tiniest fish in the world’s biggest pond. Because if love wasn’t in New York City—where was it?

Savannah lingered over her drink, not wanting the evening to end. But when the servers started putting chairs onto tables, she knew it was time to face reality. As she slipped off her stool, Honey came out from behind the bar and handed her a folded napkin.

“Here.”

For a disorientating moment, Savannah thought Honey was handing over her own number. But the name Sam Woods and a cell number were printed on the napkin.

“Catering recommendation,” Honey said. “We used to work together. Tell him Honey Calhoun sent you.”

A wave of warm tingles prickled Savannah’s skin. The restaurant, the recommendation, even Honey herself felt like the first glimpse of that New York magic she’d heard so much about. “Thank you.”

She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to squeeze Honey’s arm. To her delight, Honey pulled her in for a hug. A real hug: warm and sincere.

“All right, Kentucky.” Honey let her go. “Even though you’re not a real Southerner, I like you. So come back soon, okay?”

Savannah nodded. “And I’m Savannah.” Not Kentucky. Not anymore.

Honey tilted her head, impressed or maybe just amused. She flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. “Good night, Savannah.”

Savannah stepped out onto the chilly street, zipped up her jacket, and dared to feel hopeful.

5

Sam Woods didn’t typically cook test meals in potential clients’ homes. But Savannah Shipley had been both insistent and charming, and so, here he was on a Wednesday afternoon, outside a lovely old brownstone. A family home. Sam felt an unfamiliar pang of envy as he pressed the doorbell.

The door was answered by a woman in sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt. Unsmiling, but not unattractive. Liv Goldenhorn, presumably. She was about the same age he was, maybe a pinch younger, which was a relief: clients in their twenties and thirties tended to be too demanding or too indecisive. Her gaze flicked to the bags of groceries at his feet.

“Kitchen’s straight through, do you mind?”

He went to explain he wasn’t a delivery man, he was the chef she’d been expecting, but Liv had already disappeared up the stairs. So Sam picked up his grocery bags and did as he was told. He walked down a hallway lined with art, past a wooden staircase curling up, and into an open-plan kitchen and dining room. Certainly, the brownstone was a cozy home, exuding a familial, artsy charm; a fridge papered with school artwork, a dining room table scattered with books and unopened bills, a fruit basket piled with overripe apples and bananas. But it was also a mess. The sink was heaped with dishes. The recycling bin was overflowing. Marie Kondo would have a fit.

“H-hello? Liv?” Silence but for the faint patter of a shower. Savannah Shipley promised she’d be there. He set down the bags and moved toward the patio doors to send her a text. The overgrown backyard was dominated by a fifty-foot weeping willow. It was, sadly, dying. Several of its beefy limbs were already deadwood. The whole thing needed to be chopped down.

The text to Savannah didn’t deliver.

Unsure what else to do, Sam started unpacking the groceries. There was barely enough room on the countertops, so he tossed the oil-slick take-out containers in the trash, wiped down the bench, emptied the dishwasher, and filled it up again. After locating an apron (brand-new and floral), he began chopping onions.

Ah, the noble onion. As reliable and ubiquitous as the faithful hound. Cooking onions actually diminished their bold taste but increased the flavor of the food around them, which Sam felt was generous. With deft, methodical fingers, he peeled his first onion, sliced it lengthwise, and placed it in the center of the chopping board. Then, angling the knife, which he noted was a little blunt, he made five even slices horizontally, cutting back toward the end, then sliced vertically. The result was a small white mound of perfectly diced onion. Cooking relaxed Sam, sending his body and brain into a meditative state. When things got bad, and they had gotten bad, the kitchen was where he felt safe.

He diced the rest of the onions and had all but forgotten about the earlier misunderstanding when Liv hurried back in, tightening a dressing gown. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. Her post-shower skin was pink and moist. She had a lovely complexion, alabaster and luminous.

Liv saw him. Stopped dead. Choked in a panicked, guttural gasp.

Shit. “Oh,” he rushed, “I’m not actually—”

Her gaze flashed to his hand.

He was holding the knife he was using for the onions. “No, I’m not—”

Liv rocketed to the dining room table, scrambling for a weapon, which turned out to be… a banana. “Stay back or I’ll scream.”

He flung the knife in the sink. “No, I’m Sam, I’m Sam—”

“I don’t care who you are! I’ll put you in jail, motherfucker!”

“Liv, Liv, Liv, I’m Sam, Sam Woods—”

“How do you know my name?” Liv brandished the banana again, but the gesture had become a distracted inquiry, as if trying to pinpoint why he was wearing a flowery apron.

Sam spoke slowly and clearly. “Savannah Shipley, who I believe runs a wedding-planning business with you, organized for me to come do a test meal. I’m Sam. I’m a caterer.”

The banana thumped onto the table. “You’re Sam.”

“Yes! Yes, I’m Sam.” He gestured at the front door. “I think you thought I was from the grocery store, but then you went upstairs and—”

“Right, right. That explains the apron. God almighty, I almost lost my mind.”

“Me too,” said Sam.

Their fright