September arrived and with it, Clay’s newest show at his gallery. The opening was in two hours and Clay was, as always, ruing the day he’d agreed with Amanda that it behooved him to show up dressed for the occasion. He was a jeans and T-shirt—or sweatshirt when cooler weather arrived—kind of guy. He had no use for suits and ties. “And for damned sure not tuxes,” he grumbled, checking his image in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. “Hair combed? Check.” He ran his fingers through his longish brown hair, undoing most of what the comb had put in place. “Better. I don’t want people thinking I’m a businessman instead of an eccentric artist.” His hazel eyes seemed more green than otherwise at the moment but he knew that was only because of the lighting. At the gallery they’d definitely be am
