film and television productions. Nondescript warehouses were filled with secret, fleeting worlds—a bloody crime scene, a sunny high school cafeteria, a 1950s street corner. And it was one such warehouse that Zia approached a few hours later.
She’d been sent an address to courier Clay’s wallet, and instructions on how to recoup the charge. But when she called to book it, they’d quoted her a hundred dollars for a same-day delivery. One hundred dollars, and it was only a short bike ride away!
She wasn’t going to see Clay. A very cool project had just come up through Global Care. A six-month volunteer coordinator position at a women’s resource center in Quelimane, Mozambique. The pay was modest but livable. Per the job description, the center helped empower local women to do everything from start their own business to leave abusive relationships. Which resonated. If she got the job—and could work up the courage to tell Layla she was leaving New York again—she’d be off on another mission. With a few clicks, she’d emailed her résumé and expression of interest to the team leader. Done. And right now, she’d drop off the wallet, then ride home along the waterfront.
Easy.
In a scrappy front-office-type area, people milled about, some on their phones, some lounging. It appeared casual, but there was a buzz in the air. Something that mattered to these people was happening. The charge got under her skin, and Zia stood a little taller. She got out the warm, worn leather wallet, and looked around for an assistant.
And that’s when she locked eyes with Clay.
Well, not actually Clay, but his headshot, taped to a wall with C Russo Team and an arrow scrawled underneath it.
His eyes. That mouth. She wondered what he saw when he looked in the mirror.
A young woman in a headset burst into the space, looking around with open desperation. To Zia’s alarm, she beelined right for her. “Are you hair and makeup?”
“No, I’m Zia Ruiz. I’m just dropping off—”
“We’re running so late.” The young woman scanned the foyer. “The only person getting in to see Clay is hair and makeup.”
And then Zia did something that caught her, and the assistant, entirely by surprise. “Oh, hair and makeup? For the Clay Russo shoot?” Zia attempted to look professional. “That’s me.”
In a daze, Zia followed the harried assistant down a series of twisting hallways. Why had she done that? Zia was not a liar. A risk-taker, yes. Impulsive, for sure. But a liar, no. Something just… came over her. What if it freaked Clay out? Would he call security? She didn’t even have a makeup kit; she barely wore makeup herself. Maybe Clay would be with another girl. This was a mistake. A monumental mistake. They’d asked her to courier the wallet, not stalk the owner.
“Excuse me,” Zia squeaked to the assistant. “Actually I, um—”
The assistant opened a door and disappeared inside.
Zia looked left, then right. She had no idea how to get back out of the enormous building. “One more for the memoir,” she muttered, following the assistant.
A mirror dominated one wall, lined by soft yellow globes. A few people sat on a long couch, working on laptops while a couple of others were huddled into a corner in conversation. Sitting at the far end of the room, with a sheaf of paper in one hand and his phone in the other, was Clay.
“Mr. Russo, hair and makeup’s here,” the assistant announced.
Clay looked up. His eyes pulsed in surprise.
Zia inhaled, her heart hammering.
A slow smile spread across Clay’s features, like sunshine warming the corners of a dark room. All of Zia’s concerns evaporated. She smiled back and stepped forward. “Hi, Mr. Russo,” she said, channeling the easy warmth she’d seen the hair and makeup artists offer at weddings. “So nice to meet you.”
Clay was on his feet. “Hi.” The papers he was reading slid to the floor. “Hello. Hi.”
The assistant narrowed her eyes, sensing disturbance. She eyed the purse slung over Zia’s shoulder. “Wait, where’s your kit?”
Zia looked at Clay. “Clay, um…”
“I decided on a very minimal look for this shoot,” Clay said.
Zia scrabbled through her purse. She didn’t have a makeup bag, but she did have a small emergency bag, containing things like a tampon, whistle, copy of her passport. She held it up. By makeup-artist standards, it was microscopic. “I have a very down-to-earth approach.”
The assistant still looked skeptical. But after checking the time, she informed Zia she had twenty minutes, and left. No one else in the room