Cocktail hour was crowded, and Zia knew negotiating it was an exercise in anticipation: of unexpected hugs and dashing children and wild gesticulation. She had just started her fourth circuit, rounding a clump of increasingly tipsy bridesmaids, when she saw him.
Even though she had no idea what he looked like, she knew, without a doubt, that this was the celebrity guest. Because this man was radiant. Like the other groomsmen, he was wearing a tuxedo. It made him look like an ad for cologne or very expensive watches. Broad shoulders filled out a crisp white shirt. And his face… Plenty of guys were good-looking. But Clay Russo was beautiful. Dark stubble shaded a jaw so square, it’d make mathematicians weep. He was tanned, or more accurately golden, a hint of the Mediterranean in the thick eyebrows that gave his face such a sturdy, masculine authority. He was an exquisite human being.
Zia let out a quick breath, regaining control. He was just a guy, no more special than anyone else. He was probably a womanizer. Or worse, boring.
Clay was standing in a small group. No one had any food, and they were exactly in her circuit. She straightened her shoulders and approached.
“Loved you in Adam Atlantis. That chase scene around Rome? So epic.” One of the guests, a finance bro type, held up his phone. “Can I get a selfie?”
“Sriracha tempeh slider?” Zia offered the tray.
The group shook their heads, but Clay said, “Yes, please,” and suddenly everyone wanted sriracha tempeh sliders.
“Like I was saying,” the guest continued to Clay, holding a mini burger he clearly did not intend to eat, “a selfie—”
“What are these?” Clay looked at Zia. His eyes were light hazel, almost gold. To her surprise, her skin prickled.
“Sriracha tempeh sliders,” Zia replied with a smile.
The corners of Clay’s mouth curved upward. His lips were dark pink and soft-looking. “Sriracha…”
“Tempeh sliders,” she finished, a laugh in her voice. It sounded funny when you kept saying it. Clay smiled back broadly. There was nothing snobby or sleazy in his eyes. In fact, she just saw warmth.
The finance bro clicked his fingers. “Just want to get that selfie, dude—”
Zia gave the bro a big shit-eating grin. “I can take a picture for you.”
A whisper of irritation crossed Clay’s face. Zia caught his eye. A look of understanding was exchanged.
She put her empty tray down and took the phone, tapping the icon to flip the screen. “Oh yeah, this is nice.” As she made a show of snapping the group together, the only thing she was actually photographing was her nostrils. Zia turned the phone off before handing it back. “There you go. And, Mr. Russo, the wedding planner asked me to pass on that you have an urgent call.”
He looked surprised for only a second before catching on. “Right. Yes, I’m expecting a call from…”
“Your dry cleaner,” Zia improvised.
Clay’s face turned serious. “I’m very close with my dry cleaner. We speak daily. Excuse me.”
He followed Zia, who was heading for the kitchen to restock her tray, skirting the mingling guests. Zia was laughing. “I love the idea you check in every day with your dry cleaner.”
“Absolutely I do.” He fell in step with her. “I must have updates: solvents, what’s new in eco-friendly practices.”
“Folding,” Zia offered.
“Folding is our favorite topic!” Clay exclaimed. “Don’t get us started on the correct way to fold a fitted sheet.” He chuckled theatrically. “We can talk for hours.”
Zia giggled. She didn’t think of herself as funny, but she loved funny people. Maybe Clay was a bit of a goofball.
Clay’s smile oscillated between pleased and embarrassed. “Sorry. I make a lot of dumb jokes.”
They paused on a slight rise overlooking the party. “Lucky for you, I love dumb jokes.”
His smile settled into pleased. “Good.”
She tucked the tray under her arm and scooped up a champagne flute from the grass. When she turned around, Clay was gazing out at the two hundred guests, all chatting and laughing and downing the specialty cocktail. The late-afternoon sun poured over the trees and shrubs 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.