Never Have I Ever

by Blakely, Lauren

  Emmy nods as if she’s taking it all in. “The old college crew. Right.”

  Ah, I sense an escape route and open the hatch and dive down. “Yep, exactly.” I take another bite, murmuring my appreciation, hoping that does the trick.

  “And did you need alone time wandering down the halls at the hotel one night too?”

  My shoulders tense. She should have been a lawyer. Oh wait, she is. We are peas in a pod.

  I try to make light of it, because I’ve never been able to get away with anything, thanks to Lucy and Henry blabbing about my habits. “Couldn’t sleep and the sitter conked out in the room. I tried to call and ask your advice, and then decided to just walk around.”

  One highly skeptical brow rises up to her hairline. “To Piper’s room?”

  I scoff. “No.”

  She folds her arms across her chest. “Bullshit.”

  I sigh. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I think there’s something going on and, judging from your extreme levels of broodiness the last few days, I’m guessing it’s not quite going how you want.”

  I shrug and throw in the towel. “It’s not going.” My voice is heavy, giving away everything I tried to keep inside. Opposing counsel won this round, it seems.

  Emmy downshifts to gentle, setting a hand on my arm. “Well, have you told her how you feel?”

  “What do you mean, how I feel?” Now my sister’s speaking Turkish.

  “You clearly feel something for her. Maybe try letting her know.”

  I open my mouth to peel off a round of reasons why I shouldn’t: she only wants to be friends, we need to focus on Jessica and Charlie, I have kids, I don’t know if I can give her everything she deserves, and I don’t know if she wants what I can give.

  My sister seems to sense the direction of my protests.

  She squeezes my arm. “What can it hurt to try?”

  I spend the rest of the night telling myself she’s wrong—the part of me that wonders if she’s actually onto something.

  23

  Piper

  Baby clothes. A sea of pink and yellow, blue and peach, and sweetness as far as the eye can see. So many awesome little adorable things that I must buy. Cute little T-shirts with sassy sayings, adorable onesies with giraffes on them, and jammies with cartoonish panda bears.

  I grab one, then another, then one more.

  Wait.

  Look at all those blankets.

  Swaddling blankets. Nap blankets. Sleep blankets.

  How can one baby need so many blankets? I have no idea, but the possibility that my niece-to-be might is thrilling.

  Grabbing my phone in the middle of the department store, I call Paige. It’s ten thirty in the morning, but she answers right away.

  “Hey, everything okay? I have two minutes before a conference call with the superintendent,” she says.

  “I love it when you talk fancy administrator language to me.” I run my hand over a soft robin’s-egg-blue fleece as I return to business. “First, is everything okay with your baby mama?”

  “Yes. Stacy’s doing well. Just a few more weeks now. But there hasn’t been any more drama, just updates on the baby. She’s the size of a honeydew melon and the length of a head of romaine lettuce.”

  I make a mental note to run that past Bud Rose as a possible centerpiece, then dive into why I called. “Second, how many blankets does the lettuce-length, melon-size baby need? Five? Seven? Ten? I mean, she might need a lot of blankets.”

  Paige laughs. “I don’t know. Maybe one or two?”

  I scoff as I thumb through a pile of the softest pink blankies, including one with—eek!—bunnies. Sweet, precious bunnies. “That doesn’t sound right. I’m getting her ten. Love you. ’Kay, thanks, bye.”

  “Don’t jinx us,” I hear her say as the call ends, and I scoop up five, six, make that seven blankets and bring them to the register.

  As I leave, I pat myself on the back—both for stopping at seven and for having successfully avoided thinking of Zach and all that went wrong in London.

  Well, until he popped into my head just now.

  * * *

  Strong fingers dig into my scalp, and I groan obscenely in pleasure. I’m not even remotely embarrassed at the sounds coming out of my mouth. There is little that feels as good as a shampoo.

  This is better than a soak in the tub. More heavenly than lying on a beach.

  “You’re so good at this, you should do it for a living,” I tease.

  Adrien chuckles as he massages the shampoo throughout my hair. “I’ll take that under advisement. See if I can make it as a stylist in New York.”

  “You never know. You might have enough talent.” I open my eyes to shoot him a knowing grin. “You do know that’s how I found you years ago? Women everywhere were whispering about your shampoos and blowouts. They called them orgasmic.”

  He shimmies his shoulders as he works his magic. “I’m not too shabby, it seems.”

  “They were all gabbing about you. I’m not kidding. You were the talk of the whisper network. There’s this stylist in the east Sixties who gives the best blowouts.”

  We both laugh at the sound of that.

  “Well, the boys do say that about me too.”

  I snicker, giving him a wink. “Why am I not surprised?”

  He waggles his hips as he kneads in the shampoo. “When you got it, flaunt it. I’m enjoying my singleness, thank you very much. Now, tell me more about London.”

  I keep my cool, answering lightly, “London was great.”

  That’s all I want to say. He already asked me how London was, and I said it was fantastic. No need to say more.

  I settle deeper into the leather seat, savoring the feel, craving the distraction. All of this—the shampoo, the conversation—it diverts my thoughts from that night and Zach. I don’t want to spend so much brain power on someone I can’t have, so I search for other topics, settling on a safe but amusing one. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I started my first business?”

  “As a wedding planner?” he asks as he rinses the shampoo.

  “No. As an entrepreneur. When I was in high school, I bought a bag of Blow Pops every day from the local drugstore for two dollars. Before homeroom, I’d usually sold them all—twenty-five lollipops at twenty-five cents a pop for a little more than six dollars per bag. Made four dollars profit. Used it for lunch money. So yes, my first job was earning lunch money selling Blow Pops,” I say with a naughty twinkle in my eye.

  “It’s hard to say that without it sounding dirty, isn’t it?”

  “But I was sooo innocent.”

  “And now? You’re not so innocent, Blow Pop girl.”

  I tut. “Please. I’m a good girl.”

  He pours conditioner into my hair, working it through. “I’m not so sure about that. You have that look about you.”

  “What look?”

  He stops, walks around me, and peers at my face. His silvery eyes seem to read me like a crystal ball.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He shakes his head. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind, love?”

  “What do you mean? I’m telling you.”

  He rolls those metallic irises and heaves a dramatic sigh. “Piper Radcliffe, I have known you for more than a decade. I’ve seen you fall in love, get married, get divorced—”

  “Shhh.”

  He waves a hand. “No one is here. And I’ve seen you date men you like and men you might love. And there is one thing all those ups and downs have taught me about you.”

  “What’s that?” I ask cautiously.

  He returns to my hair, the maestro resuming his podium before the symphony. “It’s that you love to ramble and share tales of days gone by when you don’t want to tell me what’s really going on.”

  I scoff. “I tell you everything.”

  He arches a brow, staring down at me from a strange, inverted vantage point. He’s a cat, and he won’t lose this s
taring contest.

  “Why don’t you tell me, then, what happened in London that has you dodging the question How was London?”

  “This is not fair,” I say with a huff.

  “Life’s not fair, but what is it about my question?”

  “Because you have my hair in your hands and you’re demanding stuff of me.”

  He laughs as he finishes with the conditioner. “Ah, so there is stuff to tell.”

  “Please. You know your mind-reading skills are spot on. Of course there’s stuff.”

  “So tell, tell, tell. I want to know.”

  I draw a deep breath then blurt it all out. “I slept with Zach. It was amazing. The next morning when his kids called, he took off like he was doing the hundred-meter dash then kind of ignored me all day, but whatever. I got over that. And when he wanted to talk that night, I let him down easy for both of us. He doesn’t want to date, he’s said as much many times, so I said let’s be friends. And now everything is back to normal.”

  I slap on a cheery grin.

  Adrien lifts a brow. “I think that was mostly the truth except for the bald-faced lie at the end. Nothing is back to normal. You don’t sleep with someone you’ve fired missiles at for years and then go back to normal. How is it, truly, between you two?”

  “I’ve been busy,” I say, glad my schedule has been packed. “Fittings with Katya and so on, and when I saw him the other day, it was cordial.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  I look up at my friend, and for the first time in days, something unknots and lets relief flood in. I haven’t whispered a word of our night to anyone, not my sister, and clearly not Jessica. But telling Adrien feels like I’m untying a shoe that’s too tight.

  Wanting Zach is a gnawing ache I’ve clutched and kept secret. But talking is a balm, a salve to the wound.

  “Sad,” I say softly. “It makes me sad.”

  He finishes the rinse, drapes a towel around my neck, and offers a hand. He tugs me up from the chair, parks his hands on my shoulders, and stares fiercely at me. “So what are we going to do about that?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not on the dating circuit. I can’t change that. All I can change is what I do. And I need to keep moving forward.”

  “Or maybe you need to tell him you want to have hot hotel sex with him again, then order room service after, and have him take you to the movies the next day.”

  I laugh at his way with words. “Why, yes, I’ll order that up from the kitchen now.”

  “Fantastic. It’ll arrive at your room in thirty-five minutes.” He escorts me to his booth and combs out my wet hair. “Or . . . you could ask him to dinner and see what happens.”

  I shudder.

  “Oh, please. Don’t be such a princess.”

  “I have nothing against asking a man out. I just don’t want to be rejected.”

  “No one does. Fear of rejection is part of being human. So is facing that fear and vaulting over it.”

  I swallow thickly, considering. “You want me to ask him to dinner?”

  He smiles at me in the mirror, nodding exaggeratedly. “I do. Stylist’s orders.’”

  My stomach twists. “What if he says no?”

  “If he says no, I will give you a free orgasmic shampoo and blowout.”

  It’s not a bad consolation prize. “That’s tempting.”

  “Of course it is. Now, tell me what he was like under those delicious clothes of his.”

  I don’t tell all—I’m a lady, of course—but I give enough tidbits for Adrien to whistle in appreciation.

  Which is only right. Zach deserves whistles, cheers, and ovations for the magic he performs in the sheets.

  * * *

  When I leave, I head to meet Jessica for lunch as planned, since she’s back in New York, working in her office here for a few days. As I walk up Madison Avenue, I run through my call list, chatting with Bud Rose, with Jonathan at the Luxe, and with concierges across town.

  Anything to keep my mind off Adrien’s advice.

  His sage advice?

  His insane advice?

  Which adjective applies?

  I don’t know. All I know is I haven’t felt this kind of longing, this kind of ache in my heart since I met Jensen.

  I switch off the faucet of thoughts, choosing instead to admire the chichi shops and cute boutiques, the florist on the corner with the display of cornflowers and daffodils, all while savoring the June sunshine that warms my shoulders.

  Yes, I’ll just focus on the weather.

  So much easier that way.

  When I arrive at the café to discuss the next set of pre-wedding fiestas, Jessica has already snagged an outdoor table. Sporting big sunglasses and a huge grin, she pops up when she sees me and throws her arms around me.

  “So good to see you.” She holds me tight, like we haven’t been together in ages.

  I hug her back, curious. “Good to see you too. But what’s with the exuberant welcome? I saw you last week. Not that I don’t love seeing you. But you seem particularly peppy.”

  She gestures to the seat across from her, and I grab it, dropping my purse on the empty chair.

  Her brown eyes sparkle with a festiveness I haven’t seen on anyone in a long time, and she seems to be positively bursting with news. “Piper,” she whispers giddily.

  “Yes?” I say, a little cautious, but excited too, because her enthusiasm is infectious.

  “You remember my plan to do a few pre-wedding parties? London and here?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “We need to skip the New York one. Can we move up the wedding?”

  “It’s your wedding, sweetie. We can do whatever you like.”

  She claps twice. “Thank God. Because I want to switch it to next month.”

  And a skywriter wings her message across the clear blue canvas of day.

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “Yes!”

  24

  Piper

  Six weeks pregnant.

  Anguilla.

  A July wedding.

  I repeat those three key facts as I tuck into work at my office later that afternoon.

  Because . . . hello???

  I have to plan a summer wedding in a fancy tropical locale in a mere four weeks. Jessica doesn’t want to be huge, as she put it, for her wedding.

  I reassured her that she probably wouldn’t show at ten weeks and likely not even till five months, but she was having none of that.

  Her parents are conservative, so it’s better off this way, she’d said.

  I’m not so sure they’ll be fooled when she pops out a baby less than seven months after the wedding, but who am I to argue?

  Especially with a preggers lady.

  Sheesh.

  Bridezillas are easy as pie next to that.

  Here I am at my desk, diving into a veritable four-week all-nighter as I take a crash course in pulling off a destination wedding in one month. One mere month. So much to do. So damn much to figure out. I barely have time to think about anything else, let alone to marinate on Adrien’s advice about Zach.

  Dinner? It’s going to take all my Super Wedding Planner Strength to squeeze a meal in at all in the next four weeks.

  I spend the afternoon researching the ideal venue in Anguilla, making calls to my contacts in New York to ask for referrals. I lob in a quick call to Jason, just in case he knows anyone.

  “Bloke expert, at your service,” he says when he answers.

  I smile. “I need your expertise, but the best man, not the bloke, part.”

  “Let me switch hats.” I can hear him pretend to put down the phone, then bring it back to his ear. “All right, best man extraordinaire here. How may I assist you?”

  “Any chance you know anyone in Anguilla? My client wants a wedding there next month.”

  “Someone has a bun in the oven,” he says, singsong.

  “That obvious?”

  “As lipstick on a coll
ar.”

  I sigh. “I know. Now I need to pull off the impossible.”

  “But that’s what you do. This is a chance for you to show your mettle.”

  “I take it that’s a no, you don’t have any tips for Anguilla?”

  “Sorry. I haven’t made it there yet. But a lad can dream.”

  I shift gears. “Tell me more about your dreams. How is the pursuit of your lady love going?”

  He chuckles like he finds the situation thoroughly amusing when he says, “She hates me.”

  “Sounds perfect for you, then.”

  “Indeed.”

  We chat more about his dilemma, then I hang up and cuddle up with Google for the next few hours.

  I learn that they need to be in Anguilla forty-hours before they tie the knot. Easy enough. I learn the cost of a marriage license. And I find a great room rate at a hotel for about twenty people, which is the number Charlie Warbucks wants to send to the island.

  But finding a wedding spot is a wee bit harder.

  After several exhausting phone calls, I’m a teeny bit closer, but only in the sense that I’ve been told ten times, “We’ll check our calendars and get back to you.”

  I drop my forehead on my neat desk—there’s barely anything on it except a laptop and a mug—and mutter against the wood, “Who do you have to screw around here to get a wedding venue in Anguilla?”

  “I know someone.”

  I startle, lifting my face. Zach stands in the doorway, doing that tie thing. God, why does he have to look so damn sexy smoothing his green tie? His emerald-green silk tie that I want to grab to yank him to me, then hike a leg around his hip and kiss the hell out of him.

  “You know someone who’ll trade sexual favors for a wedding venue?” I ask.

  He laughs, leaning against the doorframe. “If you’re particularly keen on trading a BJ for a spot on the beach, I suppose that could be arranged. But I don’t think it’s required.”

  I laugh. “My days of selling Blow Pops are over.”