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

army of ruthless lawyers on it. It’ll be a bloodbath, with billable hours.” Dave blew out a sigh. “Look, thanks again for coming. I know you’d rather be… anywhere but here.”

Clay looked over in surprise. “Hey, this is the only place I want to be. You’re getting married, dude. You’re one of my best friends. I love you, man.”

Dave smiled, stretching the tiny scar on his upper lip from a layup Clay missed, back when they had nothing better to do than play basketball and sink cheap beers. “You’re one of the good ones, Clay Russo. To friendship.”

“To friendship. And to love.” The whiskey surged through Clay’s bloodstream, unlocking some of the tension in his shoulders. This would be fine. He’d stay for dinner, then slip out after the DJ started. Hopefully none of the guests would ask for a selfie.

Dave checked his hair in the large oval mirror by the door. He’d put Clay in the second-nicest room, after his own. “Fair warning: I think Kamile’s put you at the singles’ table.”

“That’ll be a disappointment for the singles. I’m officially a monk.”

“Begin Operation Monk. Understood.” Dave clapped him on the shoulder. “All right. Let’s get me married.”

“Behind you.”

Clay picked up the magazine, tempted to throw it in the toilet and flush. But then the toilet would clog and some poor maid would have to come up and fix it. So into the trash it went. He met his own eyes in the mirror. The breakup had taken a toll physically, but it was likely only he could see it: the deepening lines in his forehead, the shadows under his eyes. He knew he was handsome: good genes and a good haircut, really. But no one at this wedding would be seeing the real Clay.

He arranged his face into that of his public persona, his heart hidden behind a stone wall constructed from neutral, pleasant-looking bricks, and followed Dave out of the room.

13

Cocktail hour was crowded, and Zia knew negotiating it was an exercise in anticipation: of unexpected hugs and dashing children and wild gesticulation. She had just started her fourth circuit, rounding a clump of increasingly tipsy bridesmaids, when she saw him.

Even though she had no idea what he looked like, she knew, without a doubt, that this was the celebrity guest. Because this man was radiant. Like the other groomsmen, he was wearing a tuxedo. It made him look like an ad for cologne or very expensive watches. Broad shoulders filled out a crisp white shirt. And his face… Plenty of guys were good-looking. But Clay Russo was beautiful. Dark stubble shaded a jaw so square, it’d make mathematicians weep. He was tanned, or more accurately golden, a hint of the Mediterranean in the thick eyebrows that gave his face such a sturdy, masculine authority. He was an exquisite human being.

Zia let out a quick breath, regaining control. He was just a guy, no more special than anyone else. He was probably a womanizer. Or worse, boring.

Clay was standing in a small group. No one had any food, and they were exactly in her circuit. She straightened her shoulders and approached.

“Loved you in Adam Atlantis. That chase scene around Rome? So epic.” One of the guests, a finance bro type, held up his phone. “Can I get a selfie?”

“Sriracha tempeh slider?” Zia offered the tray.

The group shook their heads, but Clay said, “Yes, please,” and suddenly everyone wanted sriracha tempeh sliders.

“Like I was saying,” the guest continued to Clay, holding a mini burger he clearly did not intend to eat, “a selfie—”

“What are these?” Clay looked at Zia. His eyes were light hazel, almost gold. To her surprise, her skin prickled.

“Sriracha tempeh sliders,” Zia replied with a smile.

The corners of Clay’s mouth curved upward. His lips were dark pink and soft-looking. “Sriracha…”

“Tempeh sliders,” she finished, a laugh in her voice. It sounded funny when you kept saying it. Clay smiled back broadly. There was nothing snobby or sleazy in his eyes. In fact, she just saw warmth.

The finance bro clicked his fingers. “Just want to get that selfie, dude—”

Zia gave the bro a big shit-eating grin. “I can take a picture for you.”

A whisper of irritation crossed Clay’s face. Zia caught his eye. A look of understanding was exchanged.

She put her empty tray down and took the phone, tapping the icon to flip the screen. “Oh yeah, this is nice.” As she made a show of snapping the group together, the only thing she was actually photographing was her nostrils. Zia turned the phone off before handing it back. “There you go. And, Mr. Russo, the wedding planner asked me to pass on that you have an urgent call.”

He looked surprised for only a second before catching on. “Right. Yes, I’m expecting a call from…”

“Your dry cleaner,” Zia improvised.

Clay’s face turned serious. “I’m very close with my dry cleaner. We speak daily. Excuse me.”

He followed Zia, who was heading for the kitchen to restock her tray, skirting the mingling guests. Zia was laughing. “I love the idea you check in every day with your dry cleaner.”

“Absolutely I do.” He fell in step with her. “I must have updates: solvents, what’s new in eco-friendly practices.”

“Folding,” Zia offered.

“Folding is our favorite topic!” Clay exclaimed. “Don’t get us started on the correct way to fold a fitted sheet.” He chuckled theatrically. “We can talk for hours.”

Zia giggled. She didn’t think of herself as funny, but she loved funny people. Maybe Clay was a bit of a goofball.

Clay’s smile oscillated between pleased and embarrassed. “Sorry. I make a lot of dumb jokes.”

They paused on a slight rise overlooking the party. “Lucky for you, I love dumb jokes.”

His smile settled into pleased. “Good.”

She tucked the tray under her arm and scooped up a champagne flute from the grass. When she turned around, Clay was gazing out at the two hundred guests, all chatting and laughing and downing the specialty cocktail. The late-afternoon sun poured over the trees and shrubs