“I wasn’t working the floor. Just cleanup. How was it?”
“Excellent. The risotto was fantastic. Basically licked my plate clean.”
At least she wasn’t throwing away Clay’s leftovers. She held up a can of club soda. “This’ll get that stain out.” She looked at him expectedly.
Clay’s eyebrows flickered down. “Should I just…”
Zia gestured around the kitchen. “Everyone’s on cake duty. There’s no one else here.”
He unbuttoned the top button. “As long as I’m not sexually harassing you by stripping down.”
She laughed. “I’m basically ordering you to.”
“Not mad about it.” In one fluid motion, Clay slipped off his shirt, revealing his bare torso.
Zia almost did a double take. Clay’s body was the brutal, beautiful wedge of a Greek warrior. Smooth, bronzed skin. A quilt of stomach muscles. His arms were the right sort of big, both biceps bulging and thick. She was vaguely aware Clay was in action movies, and yes, this was the body of a man destined to save the day, and look damn good doing it.
“Wow. You have a beautiful body.” She took the shirt off him, matter-of-fact. “You must get that all the time.”
He chuckled, and was he actually blushing? “Not to my face.”
Zia tipped the soda water over the stain. “Life’s too short not to say what’s on your mind.”
He stood next to her at the sink, looking a little uneasy at being semi-naked in her presence, which was, Zia thought, pretty cute. “Unfortunately I don’t get to do a lot of that.”
“Well, what are you thinking right now?”
“Right now?”
She tingled. She was flirting but pretended she wasn’t. “Yeah.”
“I’d say… that… you have a beautiful body too, Zia.”
Blood rushed her cheeks. She focused on the shirt. “I’m pretty active. Biking, rock climbing, surfing.”
“Surfing, nice. Never tried it.”
She wrung out the material, squeezing hard. Her skin felt tender. “It’s amazing. Total feeling of freedom. Nothing like it in the world.”
“Nothing?”
His eyes were the color of a jungle cat. His lips were parted, which made Zia conscious of her own mouth. This man was attracted to her. She was always the last person to figure it out, but right now, she was certain. The idea of kissing him flashed in her mind. A sticky wave of heat pulsed through her body. She swayed an inch closer to him. He did the same.
Holy libido: get a grip. Zia backed up a step and exhaled. “Let’s get this dry.”
Clay snapped back to reality. He looked as confused as she was. “Yeah, I need to get going.”
In the white-tiled bathroom, the dull roar of the hand dryer made conversation impossible.
She snuck a glance at him and caught him watching her. His gaze bounced away. She could not kiss Clay. He was basically a stranger, and she was working. Plus she’d signed some sort of contract about this guy, and not mauling him with her mouth was probably in the fine print.
As soon as the shirt was wearable, she all but thrust at it him and busied herself with washing her hands while he buttoned it up. But when she turned around, a light laugh escaped her lips. His shirt was askew. “You missed a button.”
He followed her gaze and let out a soft, amused breath.
Without thinking, she moved toward him to rebutton it. Being so near to him was like seeing a statue come to life: startling, beautiful. She was so close he could take her in his arms. So close she could tilt her head up and feel his mouth touch hers. His presence pounded through her like a storm. Zia had always assumed the ability to be wildly, uncontrollably attracted to someone was just a rare human quirk, like having two different-colored eyes. But it was happening to her, and she didn’t know what to do. She could barely ease the black button through the stiff buttonhole. She was undressing him. As if for bed. As if for sex. His body on top of hers, moving together in a hot, hungry rhythm.
Her fingers found his bare chest, touching the smooth, hard muscles. Clay inhaled. His chest rose beneath her fingertips. His musky, masculine smell made her mouth water. Her body was one hot surging mess of driving need. Desperate for contact. Desperate for this man.
She dared to look up at him. His eyes were glazed and hooded. Drilling into her. His voice was low and almost strained. “Zia…”
She yanked his shirt toward her.
“The thing about straight weddings—”
Before their lips had a chance to meet, Henry’s voice crashed over her like a bucket of cold water. They sprang apart like guilty teenagers as Henry and Gorman entered the bathroom.
“—is no one knows how to dance…” Henry trailed off as both he and Gorman stared at Clay. Then at Zia. Then back at Clay, a tennis match of surprise. Zia’s face was burning. Clay’s shirt was half unbuttoned.
Gorman cleared his throat, his fingers resting lightly on his chest. “That’s because straight people feel so guilty about sex. Don’t you agree, Zia?”
Usually Zia enjoyed the florist’s dry humor, but at that moment, she couldn’t even look at him. Or Henry. Or the man she’d just been about to kiss. Her heart was striking a steady beat of What? The? Hell?
“I’ll, um…” Clay’s attempt at speech was a failure. He gave Zia a parting look of mute bewilderment, and left the bathroom.
Henry looked rattled. “Did we just walk in on a Me Too moment, Zia?”
“No!” Zia shook her head. “No, that was… I don’t know what that was. But I liked it.”
“I’ll bet you did,” murmured Gorman.
Zia’s gaze fell to the floor. Something square, made of dark brown leather, was at her feet. A wallet. Even before she flipped it open, she knew who it belonged to.
“Good,” said Henry. “And, bonus: now you know who Clay Russo is.”
16
Henry packed the table arrangements back into boxes, extracting the dainty flowers from a battleground of soiled napkins, spilled booze, and discarded menus. Dave and Kamile didn’t want to keep the arrangements, so whatever the other guests hadn’t taken, they’d donate to a local assisted-living facility. It was an excuse to stay till the end, really: he and Gor wanted to keep an eye on Liv, especially given the free-flowing alcohol. But the wedding had turned out pretty much perfectly. Possibly the part where the bride mentioned the hashtag in her vows was a little odd. But otherwise, gorgeous.
Henry finished one box and started another.
Clay and Zia. Huh. If they got married, maybe Henry would get to make a speech. Zia and Clay are a passionate couple. I walked in on them about to share their first kiss… in a public bathroom! Henry had made a dozen speeches at weddings over the years. People said he was good at them. He just always imagined the sort of speech he’d want to hear at his own wedding.
In the weeks following his birthday and the infamous stand mixer, Henry had begun to feel increasingly insecure. Maybe he’d been too subtle about wanting to get married, maybe not. Either way, it was obvious Gorman didn’t want to marry him. But instead of addressing the issue as he typically would, his lack of confidence made him fold back on himself. Maybe he should just let the idea go. Gay marriage as fiction, as performed normativity—could he make it his truth, if he had to?