Someone popped a bottle of champagne.
Bang. The starting gun on a new life. “Oooh, yes!” Zach grinned at his girl. “Let’s get sloshed.”
“That’s my boy,” Darlene said, and it was true. He was hers, and she was his.
Imogene put on “Voodoo Child” and people started dancing and things got deliciously hectic and celebratory and fun. And everything in Darlene Mitchell and Zach Livingstone’s small corner of this big, unwieldy world was completely as it should be.
78
“Flight HA51 to Honolulu is now ready for general boarding. All passengers please have your boarding passes ready.”
Zia grabbed her backpack and joined the queue of fellow travelers waiting to board the first of three flights to Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. Total travel time: fifty-nine hours and forty-five minutes. She’d forgotten to pack a neck pillow. Or snacks.
Usually waiting for a flight, even a long one, filled Zia with excitement. But leaving New York had never felt so hard. Her fingers found the gold necklace that still circled her neck. The Japanese symbol for light. Every day she woke up telling herself today was the day she would take it off. And every night she went to bed with it still warm and close against her skin.
The line moved forward.
There was no line when she and Clay flew to Tokyo. After getting dropped off at a small airport in New Jersey, they were on the plane and taking off within fifteen minutes. No customs, no security, no check-in. It was less like flying, and more like relaxing in a small, comfortable room. Their friendly flight attendant (one attendant, for the three people onboard) had ordered everything off the menu at Clay’s favorite Italian restaurant. They ate cacio e pepe and grilled swordfish, served with silver cutlery and wine pairings. But it wasn’t the luxuries that caused her heart to ache. It was the company. Clay was so sweet on that trip. So attentive. So happy. So was she. Like they were at the very beginning stages of falling in love.
Forget him, she instructed herself fiercely. You’re going to help people who need it. It’s going to be very rewarding.
The line shuffled forward. Zia waved down a harried flight attendant. “What’s the food like on this flight?”
The attendant looked wry. “Nothing to write home about.”
Wherever that was. Zia glanced around, looking for somewhere to buy an overpriced salad.
And that’s when she saw it. Some sort of… commotion at the far end of the airport. A man. Running toward her gate, a sizable crowd following him. A spike of panic flashed in Zia’s chest—terrorism?—before she heard shouts of laughter. Whoops from the crowd.
There was something familiar about that man…
Everything around Zia warped, and slowed down. Her boarding pass fluttered from her fingers.
“Zia!” Clay shouted, waving. “Zia, wait!”
He was red-faced and drenched with sweat or rain, his button-down shirt soaked. There were hundreds of people behind him; it was like a festival or a riot. Frantic airport security were trying to disperse the crowd, but it was too big, too focused on Clay. No one was going to miss this.
Whatever this was.
He came to a stop about twenty feet away, puffing and wild-eyed. “Zia,” he said between pants. “Hi.”
The line for the flight had morphed into an oval encircling them. Someone nudged Zia’s back. She stumbled forward a few steps. How was Clay here, out in public? How did he get to her gate—buy a ticket? For a flight he wasn’t even taking? Everyone was whispering, pointing, filming them with their phones. That’s her, the girl from the photo.
Finally Clay regained his breath. He ran a hand through his hair and good God, he looked gorgeous. Not because of the golden tan and solid muscles and the five o’clock shadow lining his jaw. Because he was smiling. A blazing, megawatt grin.
“Hey,” he called to her. “You going somewhere?”
“Um, yeah,” she managed, and the crowd laughed.
He squinted at her and made a face. He was enjoying this. “Too bad. Was gonna see if you were free for dinner.”
Laughter and sighs and oh my Gods scattered among the ever-increasing crowd. “Well, you’re too late,” she told him, unable to fight a smile.
“Yeah, I figured. I figured you might say that.” He took a few steps toward her, the crowd moving with him like magic. His tone softened. “Zia. I’ve been a gigantic ass. I never should’ve let you go. Baby, I’m so sorry.”
She could tell from the self-aware glint in his eye that Clay knew he was delivering every clichéd line spoken at every Hollywood airport set—but at the same time, he meant every word. And so it wasn’t a cliché at all.
“I was an ass, too. I never should’ve…” She glanced around, self-conscious. About a million phones were aimed at her.
Clay waved a hand airily. “You can say it. You shouldn’t have taken a picture of my cock.”
The crowd exploded. Every inch of Zia’s skin scorched. It was just so impossible that he was here, in public.
Clay shrugged, shouting over the feverish crowd. “We all make mistakes.”
Someone called, “And you have an amazing cock!”
Clay laughed. He laughed. “See? I have an amazing cock.” Then his face turned serious and the crowd quieted. He took another step forward, his focus only on her.
“Zia,” he said, so softly she almost couldn’t hear him. “Before you get on that plane, there’s something I need to say. Something I should’ve said months ago.”
It felt like everyone in a five-mile radius was holding their breath. Including Zia. She could barely get the word out. “What?”
His eyes didn’t leave hers. Eyes the color of a sunset. Eyes she knew so well. “I love you.”
Zia didn’t hear the gasps and the screams. She didn’t see the thousand camera flashes. She only saw Clay. She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I love you too, Clay.”
Before her knees gave way from the sheer insanity of it all, his arms were around her, and his lips were on hers, holding her, kissing her.
Around her, total and complete mayhem. But all Zia felt was a calm, beautifully clear rightness.
She pulled back to stare at him. Her flight was still boarding. But Zia wasn’t going anywhere except home with Clay. “You’re crazy.”
“And you’re the one for me,” he murmured. “Always.”
And in this matter, Clay Russo was absolutely correct.
79
Henry called to Gorman, “Honey, have you seen my keys?”
“Don’t think so.” Gorman popped his head out from the bathroom, smoothing product into his hair. “I’ll be ready in five.”
It was a cold, rainy Sunday in New York. But rather than veg out on the couch in sweats, catching up on Dancing with the Stars, Henry and Gorman were going out for dinner at Frankies. It was Gorman’s idea.
“What’s the occasion?” Henry had asked, snipping the thorns off a bunch of burgundy roses. Even though the high season of summer was long past, Flower Power, Honey! was still full of customers. “The extended run?”
Tears of a Recalcitrant Snail was playing for an extra two weeks. They’d recouped their investment, and even made a little extra. Gorman downplayed it, but Henry knew he was proud.