It Had to Be You Georgia Clark (bookstand for reading txt) 📖

head chef. It made Honey feel confident she knew enough about food to hire the right cook. Honey was only twenty-five but the food scene was a good place for the young and ambitious; the owners of ’Shwick Chick were two guys in their early thirties. And Honey’s ex was a designer. “You know—for the logo and stuff.”

Honey had never mentioned anything about her private life. Savannah didn’t know if this was a mistake or an invitation. “That’s handy.” And then, because she really was curious about how relationships in New York started: “How did you meet?”

“Online. It’s one of those on-again-off-again-I’m-losing-my-mind-again things.”

It wasn’t a mistake. They were definitely in the waters of a deeper friendship. “Maybe I should give that another go. Online dating, I mean, not getting back with my ex.” He died. Savannah saw his dead body, something she tried not to think about but would come back to her in disturbing flashes. Poor Eliot’s death was obviously why the idea of dating guys in New York still left her so cold. “Think you’ll get back with your guy?”

Honey inhaled a breath and wrinkled her brow. “It’s a long story. For another time. Sit tight and I’ll get some leftover pie to wash down that whiskey. Then if you’re up for it, come get a drink with us.” She indicated the rest of the staff. “There’s a dive around the corner we usually hit up.”

Savannah was surprised she’d been deemed cool enough to be invited along. “I’d love that.” She leaned across the bar to give Honey a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for being such a good friend, Hon. It’s really good to have someone to confide in.”

“You’re welcome. And don’t worry about Kamile. You’ll figure it out.” Honey topped up her drink. “Go the extra mile. Roll up your sleeves and just get it done.”

Go the extra mile. Just get it done.

Yes.

Savannah swirled the whiskey, mind whirring. A plan started to form.

26

Zia picked up extra shifts, working parties and events, in an effort to save for Mozambique. Global Care would pay for her flight and accommodation, but the weekly stipend was tiny, and she’d spent all her savings on helping her sister. It didn’t make sense to text Clay. But while her brain made a perfectly rational case, her subconscious had other plans. Clay Russo filled her dreams. Every night. The feeling of his mouth on hers, bold and sensual. Frankly, she was stunned at the way she was responding to this man. The crush was interesting, but learning something about her own body was fascinating. Come Saturday night, her resolve broke.

Zia, 8:35 p.m.: Hey, it’s Zia/your favorite makeup artist. I’m going out dancing tonight. Bembe in BK. Wanna come?

Clay, 8:41 p.m.: Hello! Nice to hear from you. Dancing sounds fun, but crowds can be tricky. A drink at my place? No funny business, would just like to talk.

Zia, 9:06 p.m.: I hope your funny business rule doesn’t extend to Bill Murray, I love him . I need to move tonight, so Bembe’s my jam.

Clay, 9:18 p.m.: Totally get it. Can we make a plan for next week? Dinner + a Bill Murray movie?

Clay, 10:15 p.m.: Are you still going tonight?

By day, Bembe didn’t exist. It was just a faded black door, messy with graffiti, notable only for its location tucked under the giant steel beams of the Williamsburg Bridge. But by night, long lines braved muggy heat or bitter cold to get into the city’s best global music dance club. Bembe was a place people came to dance. Feel-the-music-in-every-cell-and-let-it-move-your-hips dance. Salsa and dancehall and Afrobeats, all with live percussion. Zia squeezed her way onto the crowded dance floor and let the beat start to dictate her movements. Feeling lithe and supple, all thoughts of Clay left her head.

An hour or so later, a man in aviator sunglasses and a baseball cap grooved up next to her. When she turned away, he was back in front of her. Take a hint, bro! The man took off his glasses, and winked.

Clay. He showed up. Despite the worry about crowds.

He must really like her.

Giddy, she lost the beat, bumping into the people around her.

“Two left feet?” he teased, showing off his own skills with a fluid hip swivel. The man knew how to move.

Zia refocused. She may not have experience flirting with mysterious movie stars who showed up at tiny Brooklyn clubs. But she could dance. She leaned in close to his ear, one hand on his bicep. Still as warm and hard as she left it. “¡Vamos, chacho!”

Once again, Zia was back inside the music, snaking her hips and shaking her shoulders. But this time, she wasn’t alone.

It was well into the witching hour when they decided to call it a night. “Can I give you a ride home?” Clay asked.

Zia wiped off her forehead, sweaty and spent. Almost postcoital. “I’m staying with a friend ten minutes away. You can walk with me, if you want.”

Clay nodded, pursing his lips. “Let me talk to my security.”

He conferred with a serious, swarthy man, both of them huddled in the shadows. A glimpse of Clay’s larger world, the one that required him to have a bodyguard, edged into Zia’s consciousness. It was like glimpsing the ocean for the first time: something vast and thrilling with an undercurrent of danger.

Clay reappeared, smiling as he shrugged on a leather jacket. But when she moved toward the front entrance, Clay turned her around. “Cameras just arrived.” Then, off her look of confusion: “Paparazzi.”

Clay’s security guard, Angus, led the pair into a back office. Clay handed Angus his hat and sunglasses. Angus was the same height and build as Clay, and was wearing the same outfit. He would be the decoy, and the paparazzi would follow him back to Clay’s apartment in SoHo, allowing them to leave via the service entrance at the back of the club.

They snuck into the empty,