Lucy flashes a big grin and raises her fist. “Girl power.”
I knock back.
After we finish giving the sparkly stones a thorough gawking, we leave and grab a black cab and head over to Kensington Palace, where we tour the state rooms. Lucy and I pretend we are in charge of everything.
Literally everything.
We decide how we want to rearrange the palace and which heads of state we’ll invite to milkshake and french fry dinners. I pretend to spot Harry and William many times over, and Zach shakes his head every time, smiling and laughing. For a fleeting second, it feels like we’re a family.
Which feels weird and squicky. They aren’t my family. I don’t want to adopt them or pretend they’re mine. I’m honestly not even sure I’m truly Daddy’s friend. I’m more like Lucy’s friend and Daddy’s frenemy.
His one-time enemy who he nearly kissed on the plane.
Who wanted to be kissed. Who still wants to be kissed.
Shake it off, Piper.
I tell myself I’m the cool aunt.
Just like I am with Paige’s soon-to-be peanut.
That makes me feel less squicky.
Even though I do feel a little like I’m playing house when later we go for afternoon tea at a fancy shop. As the kids head to the bathroom to wash their hands, I spread my napkin on my lap. “Thanks for letting me tag along.”
He shoots me a look like I’m crazy. “For letting you?”
“You’re being all ‘dad on vacation,’ and I’m the interloper.”
He reaches for my wrist. This is becoming a habit of his, one I don’t want to discourage. “I invited you to spend the day with us. I wanted to do this with you.” The emphasis is most definitely on you. I’m the direct object of his want in this sentence.
Am I in real life too?
My heart skips stupidly. “You did?”
“It was fun. Very Forty-Eight Hours in London.”
“We could write a magazine article on how to do this city in two days.”
“So far it's been good,” he says, his voice a little rumbly. He looks down at my wrist in his hand.
A boldness sweeps over me, buoyed by need. “You seem to be holding my wrist often these days.”
Please don’t let him shoot me down.
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Guess that means you have nice wrists.”
“Do I?”
He tightens his hold, squeezing, sending sparkle after sparkle of fireworks through me. “Yes, you do.”
He peers in the direction of the kids, and they’re not heading back yet, so he inches closer, whispering in my ear, “I’m glad you’re having so much fun here.”
I shiver. Visibly fucking shiver. “Are you?”
He smiles. “I’m having a blast.”
His grin is different this time, like it’s free of his usual wink and a nod. It’s just an honest grin, an honest answer. And the look in his eyes, the expression on his face, melts another layer of ice inside me. I’m not sure I have any left to protect me from him.
But I need some.
I need something.
Because I’m not here to play house.
I’m not here on holiday with this handsome man and his kids, even though I’ve offered to take care of them while he golfs with the guys, and he said yes.
I’m here to be a good friend and to work, and once the tea ends, I dedicate myself to the Jessica cause nonstop, checking on the event, making last-minute plans, meeting up with the bride that evening and ensuring all is in place for her party tomorrow night.
Seeing her is my reminder. I need this job. I need it for myself and for my sister and for my friend. I don’t have the time and space to let Zach Nolan deeper into my life. He won’t stay; he won’t stick. After all, love isn’t a fairy tale. I should know. I’ve watched my mom seek it over and over, coming up short every time.
A man like Zach, he’s already given his heart away, like my mom did with my dad.
It’s best for me to be Daddy’s friend, no euphemism implied. Simply his friend.
The next night, I get ready for the engagement party, grabbing my phone and my clutch.
When it’s time to leave, I run into Zach in the elevator. He wears a dark-blue suit that matches his sapphire eyes so well that it takes my breath away.
“You look . . .” I can’t even finish. I’m as speechless as he is handsome.
He gazes at me in my simple black dress and heels. The wedding planner shall not wear bright colors. “So do you.”
As the elevator whisks us down, those flutters aren’t from the drop, but from the fear.
The fear that something is happening between us and I can’t stop it.
16
Zach
Garbage day in Manhattan.
The musk of the men’s locker room at the gym.
Cooked onions.
Clenching my fists, I do my best to imagine Piper smells like something other than an orange blossom, because her citrus scent is driving me wild.
Also, is this torture? I don’t think she’s smelled like this before. Or maybe I’ve never noticed.
As the black cab we share—why the hell did I think it was a good idea to share a cab with her?—plods through London’s evening slog of traffic, we make small talk.
What the kids are doing tonight. I tell her I hired a local sitter through the hotel’s nanny service and Louise is in the suite with them, reading books, playing board games, and ordering fish and chips, since they begged for an English supper.
Who’s coming to the engagement party. Jessica’s friends and colleagues here in London where she’s been selling books like a bandit, and some of Charlie’s new friends too, Piper informs me.
What we like most about London. The side streets and little lanes with bookshops and boutiques, she says.
Shopping. Kids. Chitchat.
The conversation steers me back to safer shores so I’m not lasering in on how much I want to bury my face in her neck, sniff her hair, and kiss the hell out of her.
“I could get lost in the bookshops here,” she muses.
“I thought you’d say the jewels and palaces.”
She shakes her head. “That’s my dream side of London, and I love it. But when I’m traveling, I always like to picture myself living in places I visit, so I see myself in a little flat above a bookshop.”
I laugh gently at the image. “And then you’d visit the bookshop every day and smell the pages of old books.”
“I absolutely would. And you?”
Wait. Why am I laughing at her answer? She met her ex-husband in a bookshop. She fell for his artistic side. Perhaps that’s her type. Maybe she wants to live above a bookshop and meet some looks like James Bond, fancies himself a poet type. I can picture it too perfectly: Daniel Craig acting all moody and broody as he convinces her to go for tea then a shag.
I hate him.
“And you?” she asks again, reminding me that I never answered her question.
What would I be doing in London?
Spying on Daniel Craig in the bookshop.
I square my shoulders. “Just running my international spy organization. I believe they call it MI6 on this side of the pond,” I say, since I don’t have an ounce of artist in me.
Her lips form an O. “Not chasing down the bad guys yourself?”
With a lopsided grin, I answer, “I’d have done that over lunch.”
“Impressive,” she says as the cab speeds up, rushing to beat the light.
As the driver swings onto the next block like he’s operating a race car, Piper slides a few inches closer, her shoulder slamming into mine.
Great. Her orange scent drifts to my nose, and I fight not to dip my head and inhale the scent of her hair. To ask, Is it your shampoo, your perfume, or your skin that smells so damn decadent? And can I take you back to your flat above the bookshop and find out?
“You okay?” It comes out strangled. I feel strangled.
She no
ds, straightening. “That was a sharp turn.”
“Just taking a detour,” the driver calls out. “I’ll have you there in a jiffy.”
“Better to be early,” Piper says, sliding away from me back to her spot.
I want to haul her back over here, thread my hands in her hair, and devour her lips. Let her straddle me. Forget the traffic and the driver. I want her on me, under me.
But as she adjusts the neckline of her dress, I grit my teeth and tell myself she’s wearing that outfit for Jessica. For our friends. For her job.
She’s not here for a tryst in a foreign country.
Nor am I.
I need to focus on my role. “Yes. I’m aiming to be an ideal best man, arriving early.”
Recalibrating, I stare out the window as the car shimmies down a quieter street, passing streetlamps outside of quaint shops. “Looks like Diagon Alley,” I say, since that’s a safer topic.
She raises a brow. “Are you a Harry Potter aficionado?”
“If by ‘aficionado’ you mean did I take my kids on a Harry Potter walking tour of London today, complete with stopping by the spot outside Scotland Yard where the red phone booth would have been located, the one that zipped Harry into the Ministry of Magic, then the answer is yes.”
“And did you pretend to dial MAGIC to be let in?”
I blow on my fingers. “That’s six-two-four-four-two, if you didn’t know.”
“Oh, I know. What house are you in?”
“Slytherin. Obviously.”
She smirks. “Me too.”
“You? Slytherin?”
“What? I’m not conniving enough?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“Maybe I am,” she says, and it comes out flirty, sexy.
Or maybe that’s where my mind is.
But that’s exactly where it shouldn’t be. I’m not Daniel Craig, but I am the perfect best man.
And I plan to stay far, far away from her bookshop.
* * *
The restaurant is beyond trendy. It’s so swank, it’s going to set a whole new standard for hip with its colorful cocktails and small plates. Jessica’s friends are clever and interesting, sharing stories about living and working in this city, while poking fun at the bride and groom.
Throughout the evening, I’m zeroed in on Charlie and his new English buddies, as well as a few Americans working here who they’ve befriended.
I’m here for him, being the best fucking best man ever. He stood for me at my wedding more than a decade ago, and he didn’t try to get with the maid of honor. I can do the same.
We make our way around the crowd, and I am the consummate best mate, poking fun when called for, talking him up at other times.
I don’t look at Piper once.
Charlie introduces me to a bearded guy named Graham. One of Jessica’s top clients, he’s an outgoing and remarkably loud fellow who shares a story of the first time he hung out with Charlie.
“And then he asked me,” Graham recounts, dipping into an American accent, “‘Are you a fan of Manchester United?’”
Charlie shrugs amiably. “In my defense—”
Graham cuts him off with a cheery smile. “There is no defense. You think we’re all fans of Manchester United. There are other teams, you know.”
“But they’re a good team,” Charlie points out.
“Some of us like Arsenal,” Graham says, tapping his chest pointedly before he takes a drink and turns to me. “What about you? Favorite football team?”
I’d rather organize my utensil drawer than watch a soccer match. But that’s not an acceptable answer this side of the pond, so I go for a diplomatic one. “I’m more of a Yankees man myself.”
Graham furrows his brow. “The baseball team?”
“That’s the one.”
“You’ve got to have a football team, mate.”
“The Giants, then, since we did beat Tom Brady twice.”
Graham’s expression turns aghast. “American football is dreadful. How do you even watch that? It’s like rugby gone wrong.”
“I’m starting to prefer English football,” Charlie admits.
I stare daggers at my friend. “Charlie, you’re a traitor. It’s that simple. That’s high treason. We’re sending you to the Tower of London.”
“Unless you stay here,” Graham chimes in. “If we can convince you to move, there will be a stay of execution.”
Hold the hell on.
Is Charlie relocating to another continent?
“I thought Jessica was coming back to New York. Are you and Jessica moving here?” My gut tightens at the thought. While I don’t see Charlie often, I like the possibility that I could see him anytime. For basketball, for beer, for a board game with the kids. Charlie’s been in New York since I graduated from law school and he from business school. He’s my constant. I was friends with him before Anna, during Anna, and after Anna.
He’s been the same, and I love it.
He smiles a little sheepishly. “I’m not actually sure. She has so much business here, and I can work from anywhere at the moment.”
Graham jumps in. “You’ll stay here. Mark my words. This city is addictive.”
“It is,” Charlie says, and my stomach churns. “But I think we’ll live in both places. Split the time.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Correction: a half sigh, because he’ll be half gone. But some of Charlie is better than none. “Good.”
Charlie claps my back. “Aww, you’d miss me.”
I scoff, lying through my teeth, “Not in the least.”
His grin spreads. “Yup. When you deny, it’s really a lie.”
I laugh despite myself. I love this guy. I don’t want to lose someone else, though I won’t admit that now. “I wouldn’t even notice you were gone.”
“You’d notice, and you’d cry. Because you love me. It’s that simple. You love me, and you’d be sad if I left. I know that’s what you really meant.”
“Asshole,” I mutter.
“Wanker,” Graham pipes in, and I’d really like to give him the side-eye for butting in. I’m having a moment with my best bud.
But I’m the best best man, so I pile on the groom. “Arsehole.”
There. Take that, bearded boy.
Graham laughs, a boisterous sound, then lifts his empty glass. “Now this—this is what’s truly sad. Can we agree on that, lads?”
“That is a sorry sight,” I say, and gesture to the bar.
He heads in the direction of a refill. Good riddance.
Gesturing to the crowd, Charlie lifts his chin. “What do you think? Of this whole thing?”
One quick look at my friend from college tells me everything. “That you’re one happy bastard, and I’m thrilled that you’re loving it here, and loving your life.”
“And I’m glad you could make it, especially with the kids. Looking forward to golf tomorrow, and that’s awesome of Piper to take care of my godchildren. Though what the hell were you thinking with that early tee time?”
“Tee time is always early. Plus, it’s easy to be up at the crack of dawn.”
He arches a skeptical brow. “You say that because you operate on kid time. I bet you’re up at six every day.”
“I’ve been operating on kid time for ten years.”
“True,” he admits. “And it’s pretty damn impressive that we’ve stayed friends even as you went down the parenthood path.”
“And you went down the tech bajillionaire route.”
He scoffs. “Please. Multimillionaire. But we can toast to bajillions someday soon.”
I raise my beer, and Charlie does the same with his. A waiter circles by, offering tuna carpaccio on a chip. We both snag one, then Jessica saunters over, slides an arm around Charlie’s waist, and plants a kiss on his cheek. His expression shifts subtly, like he’s more relaxed, happier when she’s near.
Lucky son of a bitch.
I turn away, but Jessica clamps her hand on my ar
m. “Don’t you slip off. I have more friends to introduce you to. Eliza’s in the biz too. A lit agent who reps all these fabulous nonfiction books that you’d love. Stuff about urban legends and where they came from. Like Mythbusters. You’ll love her.”
She tugs me over to meet Eliza, who’s chatting with Piper.
I brace myself for the scent impact. I’ve been avoiding Piper all night, hanging with the guys, making small talk, but now I’m within a five-foot radius of her. Maybe if I don’t get closer, I won’t be able to inhale her. If I don’t smell her, or touch her, I won’t want to take her to the imaginary flat above the bookshop.
Jessica makes introductions, and Piper’s smile is radiant as everyone says hello. Her smile says she’s happy to be spending time with her good friend. She’s having a blast. She’s in her element.
My element? It’s back in the hotel with two rug rats. It’s the courtroom. It’s the gym. It’s the couch with a book and a glass of scotch late at night. It’s boxing gloves to fight like hell for my clients. It’s math problems and Goosebumps and tae kwon do and Lucy’s list of things she wants to do for the summer.
But I’m supposed to be more social, so I keep up the conversation, talking with Eliza about how the Tide Pod Challenge spread like wildfire. Soon, though, the conversation fades, and when she heads off to join some others, I’m left standing with Piper.
And wondering if she still smells as good as she did in the cab.
I glance around, doing my best to keep the conversation innocuous. “You pulled this off. This engagement party is everything Charlie and Jessica could want. It’s classy and cool, elegant but modern. It’s a perfect mix of new and old, of friends from college and friends from the last year.”
“Thank you. That means a lot to me. And the bride and groom do seem quite happy,” she says.
There’s that word again.
Happy.
Charlie, Jessica, Piper.
Everyone is so goddamn happy. Even Graham. Eliza seems buoyant too.
They’re playing their cards and drawing winning hands.
I don’t know what’s in my hand.
Or what I want to find when I turn over the cards.
All I know is that brand of happiness, the kind I see on their faces, has felt elusive. It’s been so far out of reach for the last few years.
Never Have I Ever Page 13