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

Sam, 7:50 p.m.: You okay?

Liv, 7:55 p.m.: HA HA HA!

Inside the brownstone, he could hear Fleetwood Mac. The soft, rocking blues took him back to being long-haired and loose-limbed, pre-children, pre-marriage, even. A time without consequences, when the future was nothing but possibility and pleasure. Sam took a moment to ruffle up his hair and then unruffle it. He’d slept with a few women since his divorce, but not someone he really liked. There’d been a moment when they first met, her waving a banana, when her bathrobe had gaped open and he’d almost glimpsed a nipple. He’d thought about that moment many times. Liv was complex, sometimes prickly, sometimes even mean—and he liked it. It felt dangerous. And he had a suspicion she’d be a little hellcat in bed. Not that they would definitely have sex tonight: they were taking it slow. No matter what happened, they’d have fun.

And, hopefully, they’d have sex.

Sam rang the doorbell.

From the other side of the door, uneven footsteps approached. Then, nothing. “Liv?”

A muffled squeak sounded from the other side of the door, followed by a giggle.

He smiled. “Hello?”

The door yanked open. Liv was wearing a black silk robe over a pair of jeans. Her hair was wild. Her lips were painted dark red. The effect was witchy and a little weird. Not unappealing. She planted her hands on either side of the doorframe. “Hello.” Her voice was husky. “Mr. Sam.”

A rill of excitement pulsed through his body. This was a Liv he hadn’t seen before. The fact that this complicated, alluring woman could keep opening up to him was thrilling. “Hello,” he replied, “Ms. Liv.”

She threw her head back and laughed.

Sam chuckled along, double-checking that what he’d said wasn’t actually that funny. Was something off? Or was she just nervous like he was? He followed her inside. “You seem very, ah, chill.”

“I am.” She sounded drifty and full of air. “I’m chill. Chill as a cucumber.” She spun around, putting both hands atop her head like a little hat. She made her voice high and squeaky. “Hello, I’m a cucumber. Put me in salads.”

“Okay…”

Liv swept into the living room and started dancing to “Dreams.” Well, dancing wasn’t the right word for it. Flailing was more accurate.

A half-empty bottle of red wine sat on the coffee table. Next to it, half a joint.

Oh.

“Hey babe, have you been smoking?”

“A little.” She blinked slowly. “A lot?”

Fortunately you couldn’t overdose on weed. But the combination had clearly pushed Liv over her limit. Sam picked up the joint and the wine bottle from the coffee table. Liv watched them go, saying, “Nooo,” in a small, sad voice.

Sam stowed the bottle of wine he’d brought in the pantry, corked the open bottle, and poured a glass of water. “Drink this.”

Liv took a sip and made a face. “It’s water.”

“Yup.”

“Yuck.” She turned her face away from it, like a child refusing brussels sprouts.

“Please? For me?”

Sighing as if this was the single most annoying thing that’d ever been requested of her, Liv took a few gulps. She leaned back into the sofa, propping her head up in a sloppy approximation of sexy. “Why don’t you show me that cucumber in your pants, Sammy?”

“Oh, boy.” Sam laughed. “I don’t think so. Not tonight.”

“But we have a sex date,” she whined. “I got a wax. It hurt.”

Sam inhaled, oscillating between concerned and amused. “That’s very thoughtful, sweetie, but you’re a little out of it.”

Liv launched herself at him, her fingers diving for the top of his jeans. “I wanna see it.”

Sam skidded back. “No, Liv.”

“I wanna see your cucumber!”

“No, baby.”

“Yes!” She fought to undo his top button.

“No!” Sam wrestled her eager hands from his fly, his voice gentle but firm. “C’mon, darling. It’s time you went to bed.”

With much effort, Sam managed to get Liv into bed and drink another glass of water. “You’ll thank me in the morning,” he said, moving to turn off the light. The paintings on the wall were bold and interesting, and the bed was a king. It was a bedroom he’d, ordinarily, enjoy having sex in.

“Sam?” Liv’s voice was already thick with sleep.

“Yes, babe?”

Her eyes were closed. He was ready for some unchecked confession. Maybe I like you. I really like you. Maybe Thank you. Liv’s voice was gentle in the near darkness. “I just farted.”

He pressed his lips together so as not to laugh and switched off the light. “Good night, Liv.”

60

The after-party dinner for Charles’s book launch was at a nearby restaurant, in a private dining room lit by undulating chandeliers. Zach was pleased to see the long table held at least sixty name cards. Perhaps he and Darlene would be seated far away from Charles and they’d manage to have something of a pleasant dinner date. No such luck. Charles was seated across from them. Darlene was seated next to Jon Favreau. The name card for “Zack L”—handwritten, probably because he didn’t RSVP—had him next to Darlene on one side, and Rachel bloody Maddow on the other.

“Lucky you.” Darlene snuck a peek at Charles and ran her tongue over her bottom lip.

That was his nervous habit: Darlene did that when she got cute and shy around him.

“Yes,” Zach replied tightly. “Lucky.”

Bowls of salad were placed on the table. Zach racked his brain for a good opening line for Rachel. He’d mixed with plenty of impressive people in his life, and ordinarily felt comfortable in pretty much all social situations. But tonight was different: Darlene’s indifference had undermined his usual social ease. And he didn’t understand political stuff in the way he understood music or sex or humor; things you felt rather than things you knew. “This salad’s really good,” is what he landed on.

Rachel’s smile was mild. “Delicious.”

“People think salad is easy, but it’s not. You’ve got to get the right ratio of dressing to greens.” What was he doing? Why was he talking about salad? “Too little and it’s not very flavorful, but too much and it gets wet