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

and turned the nearby pond into a sheet of gold. On the small stage, Darlene was singing “London Boy” while Zach accompanied her on guitar. “ ‘You know I love a London boy, I enjoy walking Camden Market in the afternoon.’ ” It was lovely. Romantic and happy. If only life could always be like this.

Clay nudged Zia’s shoulder with his. “Hey, thanks for saving me back there. I’m Clay.”

“You’re welcome, Clay.” His face was so perfect, it was almost uninteresting. What made Clay attractive was the way his thoughts and feelings surfaced and then submerged, quickly, like moving water. It made him seem intelligent. Zia wondered what he was really thinking. “I’m Zia.”

“Zia. That’s a really beautiful name.”

Zia smiled, not so much at the compliment but the sincerity with which it was delivered. “It means ‘light’ in Arabic.”

“It suits you.” Clay blinked, as if consciously pulling himself out of a too-intimate moment. He moved back half a step and turned to the party. His voice became deeper and more formal. “So who should I talk to? I don’t really know anyone that well except the groom.”

Zia scanned the crowd. “Avoid the bridesmaids. They’re all wasted and would eat you alive.”

“Ha. No, definitely not up for that.”

It seemed this guy was no Zach Livingstone. At least, not today. “Best to avoid the sad aunts and uncles,” she continued. “They’re all talking about their knee surgeries and what’s wrong with the younger generation.”

“Buzzkill,” he agreed.

“The high school friends are all taking a lot of photos, which you don’t seem that into.”

Clay’s gaze dropped to his shoes. “I’m, ah, pretty private.” He said it like it was a minor flaw. “By the way, did you flip the screen back there?”

“You know it.” They high-fived.

“This is good.” Clay indicated the party. “You’re good, keep going.”

“Oh, I’ve got it. Stylish older ladies, eleven o’clock.” She indicated a group of brightly dressed women in their sixties, all laughing and toasting with white wine. “They’re all in the art scene somehow. Smart and fun, and they’re not going to throw themselves on you. Probably.”

“Perfect.” Clay crooked his neck to smile at her.

The openness she saw earlier was back.

“Although I’m a little sad I can’t stay here talking to you,” he added.

Was it possible Clay was flirting with her? “What would we talk about?”

He shrugged and angled his body toward her. But he didn’t try to brush her arm or lower back. He respected her physical boundaries. “You.”

“What about me?”

“I know your name and that you’re clever and that you’re the purveyor of delicious sriracha tempeh sliders. What else?”

The memory that came to mind was one she hadn’t thought about in years. “When I was about seven, I started a club that rocked PS Eighty-Four. POCTA.”

“POCTA?”

“Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”

Clay repressed a laugh.

Zia did not. “I know, not the most catchy acronym. We raised thirty-five dollars in a bake sale and donated it to the local animal shelter. But then one of the guys in our class started calling us Perverted Old Cows Together Again, and the whole thing fell apart.”

“Still, you made an impact.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of into that. Being a good person. Or, trying to,” she added.

“I’m kind of into that too,” Clay said. “But I’ve got nothing on POCTA.”

“Zia!” Liv strode toward her, a determined look on her face. As her eyes moved to Clay, her expression changed, lightening from disapproval into wonder.

“I’m so sorry,” Zia said to Liv. “I was just about to—”

Liv waved it off. “Welcome back, honey. It’s good to see you.”

Zia found herself being hugged. She certainly considered Liv a friend, she’d worked for her on and off for ten years, but Zia had been closer to the more playful Eliot. Liv’s warmth was because of Clay, somehow.

He introduced himself, and he and her boss exchanged a few pleasantries. Then Liv tactfully informed her there was another tray of sriracha tempeh sliders with her name on it, and headed off.

“Duty calls.” Zia squeezed Clay’s upper arm. The sensation of her touch flickered lightly over his face. “Have fun on the dance floor—the DJ’s great.”

“Oh, I’m leaving right after dinner.” Clay offered his hand. “But very nice to meet you, Zia.”

“You too, Clay,” she said, shaking it. He let it linger. Just for a microsecond. But enough for the feeling to race up her spine, sparking across her back. She could feel him watching her when she left, happy to be wrong about the very charming celebrity guest. Or if he’d been acting, at least she’d never know. She’d likely never talk to Clay Russo again.

14

Cocktail hour became dinner. Speeches were made. Glasses were topped up for one, two, five toasts. Kamile danced with her father in her Chantilly lace dress, weeping in his arms. After the song ended, Dave and Kamile embraced, and everyone spilled onto the dance floor around them. From outside the tent, Savannah’s eyes welled. “They’re so beautiful. Love is just so beautiful.”

Liv stubbed her cigarette out on a tent pole and put the butt in her fanny pack. “I give it ten years.”

Savannah fixed her with a disapproving look. “How can you say that? Look at them. They’re besotted.”

“Of course they are,” Liv said. “They’re young and gorgeous and in perfect health. They found a best friend and a lover and a confidant and a co-parent and an adventure buddy and a muse. They found their soul mate, and they’re so lucky because not everyone does. But after the literal and metaphorical honeymoon is over, they’ll find that being an amazing lover and best friend and parent and every other little thing on their list is a pretty tall order. And after a while, or maybe all of a sudden, the way she’s so outspoken doesn’t make her strong, it makes her a bitch. And the fact he opens bottles of expensive wine every night doesn’t make him classy, it makes him an alcoholic.” Liv didn’t sound angry. She sounded resigned. “She’ll get crow’s-feet,