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

flitted across his lips. He liked this. He liked being touched by her. For a moment, she couldn’t do anything but admire his beauty. His eyes didn’t leave hers. There was something raw in them, hidden deep. A well she wanted to swim to the bottom of.

Clay’s gaze dropped to her mouth.

“Five-minute call!” The assistant slammed the door behind her. The moment shattered into a thousand shining pieces.

“Makeup,” Zia repeated, biting back a smile.

The photo shoot took place in a warehouse. Under blinding-white lights, against a white backdrop, Clay posed in a series of casual menswear outfits—leather jacket and distressed jeans, unbuttoned white shirt and white pants, some very flattering swim trunks. Zia was quite proud of her amateur makeup effort from the three products she’d found in the bottom of her purse. Tiny bit of Burt’s Bees lip gloss, little concealer under his eyes, and mascara to make his dark eyebrows extra smooth and impressive. She could never have faked it with a female celebrity, but so much less was expected of men. And Clay was already so handsome.

The shoot was fun. Zia chatted and joked with the other assistants, fitting right in. It was easy and enlivening to drop into different worlds like this. Being a chameleon was Zia’s superpower. There was nothing she liked more than ending up in the most unlikely place. She was glowing. Every time Clay caught her eye, the glow got brighter.

At the end of the shoot, Clay found her by craft services, putting some leftover salmon and tuna salad into containers she’d charmed from the caterer. Omega-3s were good for her sister’s arthritis, and Layla couldn’t afford prime cuts of fish. “Thought I’d drop some food over to my family.”

“Awesome idea.” He helped her stack them into a tote bag. “A lot of food doesn’t get eaten at these things.”

“Twenty percent of landfills is wasted food,” Zia said. “And half of that is from businesses.”

“That much? I should know that.” Clay addressed a passing assistant. “Hey, can we do something about all this leftover food? Donate it to a shelter, and order less next time? We shouldn’t be throwing anything out at the end of a shoot.”

The assistant nodded, making a note. Zia was impressed and maybe a little jealous that for someone like Clay, it was easy to make change.

He lingered. “Thanks for that. And for today. I really like the down-to-earth approach.”

“I had a feeling you did.”

“Well, bye.” He opened his arms. She moved into them for a hug. Their bodies pressed together, hip to hip, her soft breasts against his hard chest. Warm, solid muscle enveloped her. A feeling of complete safety filled her entire being. Her eyes drifted shut, relishing the closeness. The intimacy in Zia’s life was all platonic. It’d been way too long since she’d held another person like this.

Someone called Clay’s name. Zia pulled away.

He pressed a folded scrap of paper into her hands. “Gracias, Zia. Por todo.”

Clay was hurried off, the center of a traveling circus onto the next town. Zia headed for the exit, feeling like a tightrope walker who’d just made it safely back to solid ground.

20

Zinc Bar was a well-regarded jazz club in New York’s West Village, the backroom of which generally hosted a respectful audience of locals and tourists. Except for Monday nights. Monday nights were different.

They were reckless. Wild. Completely unhinged. And that was because Zach Livingstone was in the house, whipping the crowd into a Dionysian frenzy. Look at him now, standing in front of the Steinway, shirt soaked, hair a mess, fingers dancing up the keys.

“C’mon, New York, let’s hear you!”

Darlene revved into their crowd-pleasing closer, “Rehab” by Amy Winehouse. “ ‘They tried to make me go to rehab—’ ”

“ ‘I said, No, no, no,’ ” scream-sung the crowd.

The set started lukewarm, the audience chatty and distracted and not planning on getting wasted on a Monday. But song by song, Zach worked the crowd, getting them hot. Now, people were dancing on tables, doing shots, and making out with strangers. Darlene was on the floor, in the crowd, belting it out in that smoky, sexy voice of hers, “ ‘Yes, I’ve been black, but when I come back—’ ”

“ ‘You’ll know, know, know!’ ” shouted the crowd.

Despite the chaos, Zach never missed a note. This feeling of being in sync with another musician, and the audience, and himself, was better than anything. Even sex. And there was no one he was more connected with than Darlene. Maybe it was the way their differences fit together: she was technical, he was instinctive. She was polished, he didn’t own an iron. American, Brit; Black, white; girl, boy. Or maybe it was just that indefinable thing called chemistry. Offstage, it was muted. But onstage, it was neon bright, and everyone in the club could see it and hear it and feel it in waves.

They finished with a flourish, crowd and musicians singing as one: “ ‘He’s tried to make me go to rehab, I won’t go, go, GO!’ ”

The crowd went nuts, cheering and screaming and stamping their feet. Darlene caught Zach’s eye and laughed, the stage lights bouncing off her hair and body. She looked absolutely bloody beautiful.

This gig was always, without fail, the highlight of Zach Livingstone’s week.

Offstage, Zach high-fived the bartender and returned with two shots of tequila. He and Darlene did them together, and it filled him like fire, like starlight, like love. He shouted over the still-noisy crowd, “You killed it!”

She waved it off. “I was pitchy in that last chorus—”

“Mitchell! You crushed it!” And somehow they were hugging, which they never did, his arms around her soft, perfect body, holding each other hot and close, spontaneous and free.

Life was very, very good.

After a few too-short seconds, she let go. He could see her organized brain putting a wall back between them, moving them onto load-out and logistics. A young man with surfer-blond hair and an obnoxious tan swaggered in front of them. Annoyingly, Zach was forced to back up.

“Hey.”