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

Darlene gave Zach a look. Before he could figure out if she was amused or annoyed, Jon Favreau was in her ear again.

Rachel Maddow leaned toward Zach. “You’re obviously not a fan,” she murmured. “What brought you here?”

Zach glanced at the now-distracted Charles and Darlene. “Matters of the heart, Ms. Maddow.”

To his surprise, she looked intrigued. “Spill.”

61

Liv awoke feeling like a notch below fetid-swamp-monster. Her tongue was a secondhand shag carpet. Her brain was in a vise that was tightening. Sunlight barged rudely through the curtains. It was late. Very late.

“Ben!” The word, a choked gasp. School. Ben. Late. She jerked herself upright, flinging a hand, knocking a glass. It fell with a tiny smash.

It was Sunday. And Ben… Ben was at her mother’s.

Last night flooded back in a sickening rush.

Sam.

Sex Date.

Weed.

Cucumber.

Oh no.

Her bedroom door creaked. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

Liv crawled back under the covers, praying for a trapdoor. She heard Sam pick up the bits of broken glass, then sit down next to her on the bed. “How’s the head?”

She could barely look at him. Her words were croaks. “Just… tell me I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

Thrash around to Fleetwood Mac? Cackle like a maniac? Demand you show me your cucumber? She cracked an eye at him. He looked Sunday fresh. Where had he slept? The couch? Ben’s room? Oh God. “Any of it.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, you were a bit out of it.”

“I was catatonic.” Her stomach took this opportunity to rumble loudly. This was all about as sexy as a Pap smear. “What time is it?”

“Time for breakfast. Stay right there.”

There was zero chance she could do anything else.

Sam delivered breakfast in bed. Hash browns and eggs and bacon. Hot and salty and delicious. When Liv was in her twenties, she could knock back a bottle of wine and wake up feeling fantastic. Now it took two cups of coffee, an aspirin, and a long hot shower for her headache to finally subside. She came downstairs in a robe. Sam was in the kitchen, cleaning up. A repeat of the first day they met. Except this time, she knew the man wiping down the chopping board. And she liked him so, so much.

They settled on the couch, Liv’s feet in his lap. It wasn’t yet noon. Ben wouldn’t be back until dinnertime. “So,” Sam said. “What was all that about?”

“Oh, I just like to get shitfaced before I do it,” Liv deadpanned, and Sam laughed. “No, I am really sorry. I was nervous. Guess I overcorrected.”

“I was nervous too,” Sam said. He was massaging her feet. It was making her feel tingly. “It’s been a while, and I wasn’t sure if the, ah, pocket rocket”—he gestured at his lap—“would still be fully functional.”

“It certainly seems to be working. All those nights on your couch…” Her smile was suggestive.

Sam grinned back, his eyes tracing the body hidden beneath the robe. “There have been a few admirable launch missions.”

“Very admirable indeed…”

Perhaps Sex Date was not over yet.

Liv crawled over the sofa to him. She straddled him and kissed his mouth.

“Hello,” Sam said, surprised, but pleased. He glanced at his lap. “And, hello. Houston, we have liftoff.”

Liv giggled.

“Too many space jokes?” Sam asked.

“Never,” she said, and kissed him again. This time he kissed her back, one large hand on her jaw, the other on her back. She was still hungover, but in a way that made her lazy and languid. Able to relax into the unfamiliar-yet-familiar feeling of making love. She took Sam’s earlobe between her teeth. “What time do you have to get home?”

“Dottie’s at a birthday party with her aunt.”

Liv tugged her robe open.

Sam’s eyes glazed as he focused on her breasts. He flipped Liv onto the couch, his mouth on her neck, his body on hers. His full, delicious weight pressed her into the old sofa. Liv closed her eyes and thanked her lucky stars. What was she so worried about? This would be easy.

“To infinity,” she murmured, “and beyond.”

62

“What’s up with you?”

Zia blinked at her sister. Layla was staring back with narrowed eyes. Dark circles cut under them. She looked more tired than usual.

Tell her. Just tell her!

Her niece and nephew were weaving, whining, wanting attention. The television was on, blaring Sunday cartoons. Layla persisted. “What, you have a fight with Tom or something?”

“Actually, yeah, I did want to tell you something about, um, Tom.” They still hadn’t gone public, but Zia knew she was using this as an excuse not to be honest. Maybe Layla would be happy for her. Excited to meet a guy who really cared about her. “The thing is—”

Mateo rocketed past, slamming into a side table, knocking a lamp. It fell to the tiles, smashing to bits. Layla leaped to her feet. “Jesus, what the hell!”

Mateo mumbled sorry. His cast had come off the week before, and he was making up for lost time.

Layla stomped on the pieces, furious. “That’s great, Matty. That’s just great!”

“Calm down.” Why was her sister getting so worked up? “We’ll get another one.”

“As if I can afford that,” Layla muttered.

Zia swept up the broken pieces and dumped them in the trash while her sister poured a very full juice cup of very cheap wine and sent the kids to the bedroom they shared with her. Layla massaged the joints in her hands, grimacing. “So, what about Tom?”

“Oh, it can wait.”

“I’m working doubles all next week.”

“Okay. Okay.” Zia muted the television. Sweat had broken out under her armpits and on top of her lip. She didn’t expect to be this nervous. “So, this is kind of a crazy story, actually. Tom’s name isn’t actually Tom.”

“What, are you banging one of my exes?”

“No! God, no, Layla. It’s, well, I’m kind of dating”—say it. Say it!—“Clay Russo.”

Layla blinked. Frowned. “Is that Pablo’s cousin?”

“No, Clay Russo. He’s an actor, and an activist.”

“I know who Clay Russo is.”

“Well, that’s who I’m dating. Not a gardener,” she