Never Have I Ever

by Blakely, Lauren

  But lately, it’s less so. It feels like it’s peeking around corners, poking at me. And that’s both a welcome and a terrifying thought.

  I shake it off, concentrating on the here and now. “And are you happy with how everything came together?”

  “I will be, once we make it through the last-minute addition to the agenda.”

  “And what is that? A pub quiz? Ride the London Eye? A Jack the Ripper tour?”

  Like she has a secret, she shakes her head. “Nope. Clubbing.”

  Visions of sweaty bodies, blaring techno music, and neon-blue drinks fill my brain. “Did you just say ‘clubbing’? As in, going to a nightclub?”

  She laughs, waving toward the front door. “Down the block there’s an ultra-cool club, where one of the city’s best DJs spins tunes all night long. You should come.”

  Jessica and Charlie appear beside Piper. Charlie wiggles his eyebrows. “The nightclub scene here is top-notch.”

  I shake my head. “Love you, man, but I’m not a nightclub person.”

  “C’mon. It’s fun.” As Jessica pulls Piper away, Charlie lowers his voice. “Plus, Eliza says she thinks you’re a handsome bloke. Her words.”

  I stare at him. “Do you really think I’m going to have a one-night stand while my kids are back at the hotel?”

  “You have a sitter, man. Use that to your advantage.” He winks.

  “It’s not going to happen.” Though, truth be told, the hotel nanny service said Louise could stay well past midnight if needed. She told me herself that I needn’t worry about her curfew. I’m in graduate school for English literature, so feel free to stay out late, she’d said.

  Translation: she needs the money.

  He claps my shoulder. “A night out could do you good.”

  I hold my arms out wide, gesturing to the club. “What’s this? I’m out. Right now.”

  “You know what I mean.” He nudges my arm. “I’m just trying to have your back.”

  “You’re convinced that sex is going to cure me of whatever you think ails me.”

  “Sex cures everything, doesn’t it?”

  I laugh. “Wouldn’t that be something.” I take a beat, then turn more serious. “Listen, nothing ails me. I’m fine.”

  He furrows his brow. “I know that. I know you’re good. I’m just trying to help you feel a little better.”

  “You’re like a drug dealer for sex.”

  He snaps his fingers. “Yes! That’s it. That’ll be my next business venture.”

  “Oh, good. Because there’s nothing at all like that in the marketplace.”

  His eyes twinkle with mischief. “Can you hear the music? Can you picture the British women dancing at the club? Bet they all want you.”

  “You are literally the world’s worst pimp.”

  “I’m not trying to be a pimp.” He puffs out his chest. “Wingman. Call me the world’s best wingman.”

  “Thanks, Goose. But I’m not going to a club. Sorry if that makes me the world’s worst best man, but I don’t club, I don’t need to get laid, and I also don’t want a hookup in London.”

  My eyes catch on the far edge of the room where Piper and Jessica are laughing with some of Jessica’s local friends.

  And if I did hook up with someone, it would be with the brunette who smells like an orange, looks like the sexy girl next door, and treats my daughter like her best friend.

  17

  Zach

  When the party makes its way out of the restaurant en route to the club, I say my goodbyes on the sidewalk, telling Charlie I’ll see him on the course bright and early, ready to destroy him.

  “I’m prepared to be crushed.”

  “I’d crush all of you if I liked your brand of golf,” Piper adds as she unzips her purse and slides on some lip gloss.

  “What’s your brand of golf?” Graham asks her curiously.

  She mimes swinging a club. “Mini golf. I rule when it comes to obstacle courses with clowns, dinosaurs, and windmills. I played it in high school and college, and I won a ton of tournaments.”

  His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “I had no idea that was a thing. How cool. I’d love to hear more about it.”

  Is he for real? He wants to hear about mini golf? I mean, the game is fun, but could that be any more of a line?

  She smiles at him, and I wish I could tell if it was a professional smile as a wedding planner or a friendly smile as the maid of honor or a flirty smile as a woman. “Consider yourself warned. I can talk mini golf all night long,” she answers, and I grit my teeth, seething inside because I can’t tell what kind of smile she’s flashing his way. And I don’t want her doing anything with him all night long, no matter what the nature of the challenge.

  Graham steps closer to her. “Challenge received and accepted. We can chat at the club.”

  “Good luck talking over the music,” I mutter, like the third wheel I’ve become.

  “Good point,” Graham says, smacking my shoulder, then turning his focus back to her. “Piper, I’ll have to take you on a tour of London where it’s not so noisy. See the little side streets. The shops only the locals know.”

  Great. Just great. I’ve unwittingly set them up. Why don’t I just suggest he take her to a bookshop and seduce her senseless? Here’s the key to winning her, courtesy of the jackass who’s heading home alone.

  She gestures down the block. “But for now, why don’t we just go to the club? I need to be there for Jessica.”

  “The club it is,” Graham says, sweeping out his arm as if he’s a gallant Sir Walter Raleigh.

  Briefly I consider jettisoning my rules about clubs. Protecting my turf. Tossing her over my shoulder and claiming mine.

  But she’s not mine.

  I’m not hers.

  And I have kids asleep back in Kensington. I have a nanny to pay gobs of pounds to.

  That’s my element. That’s where I belong. I don’t have my feet in this clubbing, partying, no-kids world. Hell, perhaps it’s fitting that Charlie’s going to be living here half the time. I’m the interloper in his world—mine is back in a hotel suite.

  I wave goodbye, march up the block, and catch a cab once I’m away from all of them. As I buckle in, a text flashes at me from Louise, telling me the kids are sound asleep and have been for a few hours.

  Sleep sounds . . . impossible.

  I’m not the least bit tired, thanks to the time change. And I’m not the least bit relaxed, thanks to Graham and his fucking I want to hear about mini golf bit.

  Wanker. Fucking wanker.

  But he’s a wanker with Piper at the club. He’s likely slinking an arm around her waist, buying her a cocktail, telling her he’ll take her to a quaint little bookshop tomorrow then go grab a spot of tea. Speaking in that accent that makes women drop their panties.

  My muscles bunch as images keep relentlessly taunting me. Staring out the window, I have half a mind to stop the car and walk the rest of the way back to burn off this frustration.

  But I need to do more than walk.

  I text Louise that I’d love to hit the hotel gym, if she’s still willing to stay. She says she’d be thrilled. When I reach the suite, I say a quick hello then stop in the kids’ adjoining room where I drop kisses onto their foreheads. I pause for a moment, savoring the quiet, the sweet, sleepy faces. Neither one of my babies stirs, and in moments like these, I’m home. Completely home.

  “Love you,” I whisper. “So much.”

  I change quickly in my room and tell Louise I’ll be back in an hour and a half. She waves me off. “Take your time, Mr. Nolan. I’m going to pop open my laptop and do some more work on my thesis. That’s what I did when your little darlings fell asleep. It’s so much quieter here than at my flat.”

  “Great. Good luck with it.”

  I head downstairs for a workout, where I crank up the volume on my playlist and prepare to pound out miles on the treadmill to AC/DC, since that’s my mood at the moment. I zoom in on the tunes,
hoping they’ll erase whatever’s happening at the club.

  Soon enough, I’m in the zone, running in place, my brain bathed in head-banging music. Eventually, I’m no longer thinking of anything but the burn in my legs and the pounding of my heart.

  When I return, Louise is conked out on the couch, her laptop open on the coffee table.

  I scratch my jaw.

  Do I wake her up? Let her snooze?

  I turn down the volume on my phone so a sharp alarm or loud ring doesn’t wake the kids. I park my hands on my hips, assessing the situation.

  I can’t sleep with the nanny on the couch. That’s . . . strange.

  But I’m not sure it’s my place to go rustle her either. Anna would have done that. But it seems like something the mom would do, not the dad.

  Deciding to go about my business and hope the ambient noise rouses Louise, I check on the kids once more, unzip my suitcase loudly to grab some lounge pants and a T-shirt, and then peer into the suite’s living room again.

  Louise is still snoozing.

  Impressive.

  And time for me to kick things up a notch.

  Let’s see if the noise of a shower does the trick.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m freshly cleaned, and she’s deeper into the land of nod. She’s tugged the blanket off the back of the sofa, and is snuggled under it, breathing steady and even.

  Look, I know how to be loud. I know how to wake up anyone. But I don’t know jack about Louise. I don’t want to scare the hell out of her. Maybe she desperately needs her sleep. She did say it was quieter here than at her flat.

  Still, I try.

  “Louise,” I whisper from a foot away.

  She doesn't move.

  I draw a deep breath, then gently shake her shoulder.

  She flips over to her stomach, mumbling something that sounds like “I’ll finish the Austen essay in the morning.”

  All right. Let’s give it the old college try. Well, not that. The college try would have entailed dumping ice on a buddy or blasting a foghorn in his ear. Because, well, we were assholes.

  One more nudge.

  “Brontë. The Brontë essay,” she mutters.

  And I thought law school was brutal.

  Bewildered, I grab the card key, snag my phone, and step into the hall to call my sister and ask her advice.

  Before I can dial, I spot a notification. A text that arrived twenty minutes ago. From Piper.

  My jaw tics. She better not be telling me she’s having a great time with Graham, cheery old chap and fan of shitty sports.

  Piper: Apparently, Jessica and Charlie can’t club for long either!!! They’re done, and I’m on my way back. LOL.

  Her name on my phone makes my chest light up and pisses me off too. I reply.

  Zach: Where’s Graham?

  Piper: I don’t know!

  Zach: He’s not with you?

  Piper: Let me look around and check. Hold on.

  I sigh heavily. Doesn’t she know I’m not in the mood? I tap a short message.

  Zach: Piper . . .

  Piper: Wait. I found him in the inside pocket of my purse.

  Zach: Does that mean he’s with you?

  Piper: Yes, he’s eating a cracker that was in my clutch. Hungry little guy.

  Zach: Where are you for real?

  Piper: What’s got into your bonnet? Is this the inquisition? I’m in my room. Jessica and Charlie gave me a bottle of champagne, so I’m having a glass and watching The Crown. Anything else you want to know, counselor? Or has the cross-examination ended?

  I drag a hand through my hair and slump against the wall. What the hell am I doing? I write to her.

  Zach: The sitter fell asleep in my room. I’m standing in the hallway. I have no clue what to do. I can’t sleep in the next room with the sitter on the couch.

  Piper: You can’t?

  Zach: I can’t.

  Piper: So what then?

  I sink down to the floor, parking myself on the carpeted hallway, my phone clutched in my hand, her message blinking at me.

  It’s like a neon sign at the end of a road. Beckoning.

  But what’s my answer?

  The chug of the elevator hits my ears, and I snap my gaze in its direction. A couple stumbles out, laughing, touching, heading to their room. The man slides his key card in the lock. The woman’s arm is wrapped around him. In seconds, they’re in the room, and the hall is empty again.

  I lower my head, picturing what I want, what I don’t want, what I might be able to have.

  I send a text.

  18

  Zach

  Once you decide, you just go.

  With the sent message to Louise on my phone—I stepped out, but I’m in the hotel. Text or call when you wake up and I’ll be right back—I head upstairs, skipping the elevator, taking the steps two by two. I have energy to spare.

  I reach her floor, find her room, and rap loudly on the door.

  Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I wait. She doesn’t answer right away. I shove a hand through my still-wet hair, glad I showered.

  My stomach churns. With nerves? With anticipation? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s with latent annoyance.

  A clinking sound ends the silence. Metal against metal. The safety lock undone.

  My pulse spikes. I’m on high alert.

  The door creaks open an inch, then she yanks it open more.

  “Hey?” It’s more than a whisper. It’s a curiosity. In that one syllable she’s asking why I’m here. Of course she’s asking.

  She’s a woman asking an unspoken question after midnight.

  I want to answer, but my throat is dry. She’s not in her black dress anymore. My mind goes haywire as I drink in her attire.

  Or, rather, the lack thereof.

  A strappy black camisole clings to her chest and sleep shorts hug her hips. So much exposed skin. So much territory to explore, to taste.

  Does she still smell like orange blossoms, or has it faded?

  Desire rips through my body, white-hot, vibrating in every molecule. In every cell. I’m shaking with lust.

  “Hey.” I barely recognize my own voice. I barely know what to say. Or do.

  But maybe she can read a million things into that one word.

  Maybe she can translate what I’ve said into what I’m not saying.

  You. I’m here for you.

  To grab her and crush a kiss to her lips. To push her against the wall and strip her to nothing. To take her.

  Because I want her so fucking much.

  And it’s more than a physical need.

  It goes deeper, farther than I expected.

  Seconds pass in silence, and I’m so parched I can’t talk.

  She puts me out of my misery. “I’m guessing you’re dying to know who’s sleeping with the prince?”

  I blink. Is she speaking Turkish? “What?”

  “The Crown. I presume you couldn’t resist the idea of watching The Crown and having champagne.”

  She’s right on one count. “Exactly,” I say, staring at her face then letting my gaze travel up and down her body. I’m transparent. My thoughts are written in my eyes. “I couldn’t resist.”

  Her breath seems to hitch. “Come in, then.”

  I cross the threshold, letting the door fall shut behind me.

  Her room is smaller than mine, a room for one. The bed is made pristinely, the duvet a crisp white cover. Past the bed, a navy-blue couch sits against the wall, a coffee table in front of it.

  Her suitcase is tucked neatly by the closet, unzipped but not open. On the nightstand is her phone and an e-reader. There are no outfits strewn everywhere, no cords to navigate around.

  “You’re neat,” I remark.

  Instantly, I want to smack myself upside the head. You’re neat? Jesus Christ, how long has it been, man, since you talked to a woman you wanted?

  But I know the answer to that. Too long.

  “Confession: I make my bed in the morning.
”

  “In a hotel?” Maybe she is speaking Turkish.

  She nods sheepishly.

  “You do know they have people who do that?”

  With a shrug, she wanders to the couch and flops down. “I don’t like messes. Don’t like looking at them. They ruin my mojo.”

  She lifts her glass, her eyebrows rising too. An invitation.

  Maybe she knows I’m a mess right now. Maybe she’s trying to sort me out.

  I follow her. Do I sit near the armrest? Or close to the middle? Why the hell am I stuck in this morass of indecision? I don’t waffle. I don’t hem and haw.

  But tonight, evidently figuring out where to sit is hard.

  I split the difference as she pours champagne into a bathroom glass.

  I take it. “Nice flute.”

  She winks. “Only the classiest for me.”

  I raise my glass. “What are we toasting to?”

  She tucks her feet underneath her. “You tell me, Zach.”

  And like that, the ball is in my court. She’s asking me what’s going on. Why I’m here. What I want.

  To feel again.

  Instead, I toast to the truth. “To Graham not being here.”

  Rolling her eyes, she clinks, and we drink. She’s quiet, and I guess that means it’s still my turn. And I still need to know if she’s taking a tour with Graham.

  “So, did he hit on you?”

  She runs her finger along the rim of the glass. “Is that why you’re here? To inquire about Graham’s intentions? I thought it was to watch The Crown.”

  I glance at the screen. I bet that queen asked for what she wanted. My lips quirk up. “Never have I ever come here to watch The Crown.”