Never Got Over You

by Scott, S. L.

  Pleading, I ask, “Can we forget this ever happened?”

  “Most definitely not,” he says, chuckling.

  Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. “Great.”

  “Let me ask you, Natalie, how’d you set up a date if you don’t have each other’s numbers?”

  “I deleted it at dinner.”

  “The Chad was that bad, huh?”

  “Worse than you can imagine.” A horn blaring from across the street draws my attention. I truly never thought I’d see Nick again, and it’s not that I’m rendered mute now, but where do I start? Our first conversation was determined by the confidence attained from too much tequila. Or was it rum? Our next, a broken Vespa. In other words, there was no typical context to draw from, drunken or otherwise. But now? I want to know what he’s been doing. Has he been back to Catalina? Is he in New York for only a short time or staying?

  I want to know if he’s dating someone. Please let him be single.

  And has he thought about me as I’ve thought about him? Or even a little. I’d settle for a thought or two over the months since we parted ways. Although I want to know everything about him, every detail we glossed over the first time, I probably shouldn’t hit him with fifty soul-searching questions, so I start with a softball. “How are you?”

  “I’m good, better now.” When his gaze veers to the surroundings, I take the chance to get a good look at him. Is it strange to notice that although he looks like the Nick I once met, he also appears different in the slightest of ways?

  Are the lines beside his eyes a little deeper, or is it an offshoot shadow from the dry cleaner’s fluorescent sign? Surely, his shoulders can’t be broader. Can they? Has he been working out . . . more than he did before, that is? Maybe the final stages of boy to man have come to take their rightful place. And let me tell you, it is oh, so right.

  I bite my lower lip before I even reach the superficial stuff like the stainless-steel blue-faced Omega watch wrapped around his wrist. Blue, not black. Friendly. Business yet approachable.

  In California, he oozed the lifestyle of the West Coast in his casual but refined taste of old money. Nick said he’s here on business, so the dark suit makes sense and gives off a Manhattan vibe. But the tie isn’t missing because it was never a part of the look. That crisp white shirt shows no signs of wrinkling around the collar and highlights a tan that couldn’t have lingered from last summer but appears to be a part of him naturally.

  Why does he have to be so damn handsome? Still.

  I’m not usually tongue-tied, but I stand there silently, admiring the man who not only remembers me but also recognized me on the street in a city of eight million people.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “About that date. The offer still stands if you’re up for it.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Right now.”

  Checking my watch, I purse my lips in thought. “I don’t know. I’m coming off a bad date, so that puts a lot of pressure on you to redeem my night. If you don’t, that will be two bad dates in one night. Might be a record.”

  “I’m up for the challenge.” I knew he was, but I love that he takes the bait . . . I mean, up to the task. When he looks at me, it’s as if he sees my thoughts, and my cheeks heat in response. Taking a few steps closer, so close that my eyes dip closed as if I’m about to be kissed, he says, “As I see it, we have several options.”

  Playing off how bad I just misread that situation—again, I might add, recalling the last rejection from him that I barely survived—I tap my eye as if dust invaded the corner. “Sorry,” I reply, blinking like a crazy person. Lowering my arm, I latch my good eye onto him. “Several options, you say? Do tell.”

  He gives me a second full once-over and then rubs the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip as if he’s devising a plan. The intensity of his eyes lands back on me. “We can get a drink at a nearby bar. Or maybe you’re up to hang out at my hotel suite . . . or your place. Whatever you want to do, I’m all yours.”

  “Are you?”

  A smirk splits his lips. “Since Catalina, but that’s old news, and I want to hear about the new you.”

  “Like?”

  “Natalie in New York versus you in California.”

  Undecided on what I want to do, I look down the street one way and then the other, but with him standing so close, his scent has our past trickling back into my memories. I turn back to face him. “I know a place not too far from here. It’s low-key at this hour, but then turns into an after-hours dance club.”

  “I prefer low key.”

  “Then we have ourselves a date.”

  We make it to the corner before he says, “You look good, by the way.”

  “Thanks. You aren’t so shabby yourself.” The sound of his laughter is addicting, and don’t get me started on that cute smile. I’d almost forgotten about those dimples.

  He playfully knocks his elbow into mine. “Looking on the bright side paid off.”

  “How so?”

  “You told me that if we look on the bright side, we won’t be strangers the next time we meet. And here we are—not strangers.”

  “At the time, it was one of my wiser pieces of free advice.”

  “What about now?”

  “I’d tell you to get my phone number. Much wiser, but you know, we could reintroduce ourselves and share our numbers just in case one of us goes MIA.” Hint. Hint. Hint.

  He takes hold of my hand and entwines our fingers. “We have time, but don’t worry, come tomorrow, I’m not letting you slip away before we exchange the vital details.”

  “We’re on the same wavelength.” When I see the neon sign ahead, I rush toward the entrance of the bar and then spin back toward him on the sidewalk. Kicking out one of my feet, I sport jazz hands. “We’re here.”

  He stops in front of me but glances up at the sign above the door. Smiling—big and broad, blindingly sexy like a movie star, and so dimpliciously—he says, “Avalon.”

  12

  Nick

  Natalie talks a lot.

  Not annoyingly like some people who love to hear themselves and blather on about nothing. She holds my complete attention, covering topics from a star-less Manhattan night to Quokkas smiles not reaching their souls.

  I’m not even sure what she’s talking about on the latter, but I could listen to her all night. As if I reminded the universe, Natalie checks the time on her phone. “I’ve been talking so much I haven’t heard anything about you.”

  “I prefer listening to you.”

  Her lighthearted smile disappears. “But we’re running out of time.”

  Glancing around, I hadn’t noticed how the staff had cleared away so many tables. Although I hate being the one to suggest it, I guess the night has to end sometime. “And I’m not really the nightclub type.”

  “I don’t want the night to end.”

  “They’re not kicking us out yet.”

  Soft laughter escapes her as she reaches for the wineglass, the silky material of her shirt slipping enough to expose her collarbone. I lick my lips and trace a line up to her eyes. She sips, and when she lowers the glass to the table, she spins it by the stem. “I’m rambling because you make it so easy to feel free to say anything.”

  I wish I were closer, wanting to inhale her scent that I only caught a waft of on the street. “Like old friends.” Teasing her, I say, “Remember when we were strangers?”

  “We weren’t for long, only long enough for me to want to know you better,” she says, laughing a little fuller. “But we were kind of forced together—”

  “I don’t remember it that way. I readily admit that I took advantage of the opportunity to get to know you.”

  Angling her chin down, she raises an eyebrow. “Confession time. Did you let the air out of our tire?”

  She doesn’t sound upset but looks at me in anticipation. Although I was about to take a pull from my glass, I chuckle, lowering the glass down again. “
What do you think?” I’m not sure what she thinks of me, good or bad, but she gives me more credit on the conniving side than I feel is warranted.

  Despite the dim glow of the candles on the table and the soft, golden light from above, I can’t take my eyes off her. Back in Catalina, I tried to memorize everything about her—the curve of her waist to her hips, the way she touched me tentatively at first and then with purpose soon after.

  I have relived that moment in the bar many times over the past year or so.

  “How are you so hot?” She closes her eyes, and then whispers, “Dear Lord, please don’t let him be a mirage.” I chuckle. Who is this girl? And why is she so sure she’s dreaming. Should I burst her bubble and miss out on the fun?

  “I’m real.”

  I nearly moan when she bites her bottom lip. “Mm, so real,” she purrs. Good God, that’s sexy.

  But it was the way she looked at me with her ocean eyes later that night in my room—like she saw the man I wanted to be—that had me missing her the moment she left that hotel room.

  Seeing her again, even though by chance, has me believing that maybe we were meant to meet again. I’m not normally a destiny kind of guy, despite being from the New Age capital of the United States, but Natalie has me wanting to believe that some things aren’t left to chance.

  “Not that I’m appreciative of that suit on you, but what kind of business are you doing in the city?”

  I don’t think I’ll ever understand her train of thought, but I won’t complain about it either. She keeps things interesting. “I’m an attorney.”

  Her palm sways out as if I’m evidence of this conclusion. She quirks a cunning grin, and then replies, “Lawyers aren’t capable of being dangerous.”

  “Is that so?”

  She nods. “Assholes, yes. Dangerous, no.”

  I balk with laughter. “Just like that, I’m lumped in with all the other assholes? That’s disappointing.” I take a drink, the scotch going down smoother with every sip. “What do you have against lawyers, anyway? A relationship gone bad?”

  “No, they’re not my type.”

  “That doesn’t bode well for me.”

  Resting back, I relax in the leather wingback, watching as she tucks her legs under her, seeming to settle in for a little while longer despite the subdued atmosphere on the verge of changing. “You don’t have to worry. You’re boding well.” I’m glad to see she’s not in a hurry. Folded into a matching chair like mine, she asks, “Have you thought about me, Nick?”

  “How honest are we being, Natalie?”

  Sipping her wine, she follows with a small smile. “I’m conflicted.”

  “About?”

  “This is easy between us. How much do we want to complicate it?”

  It’s a valid question, one I’ve asked myself many times. “I was under the impression we would walk away unscathed that night, but that wasn’t the case when morning came. I thought I’d get another chance.”

  “What would you have done with it?”

  “I would have made sure I could contact you again. If we’re really being honest, I was left in worse condition than you found me.” I could have kept joking with her all night and continued this farce we’ve been willfully writing since we met to protect ourselves from getting hurt. But guess what? It didn’t work. The biggest distraction these past few months hasn’t been the pressures of my career or my family.

  It’s Natalie.

  Straightening her back, she slips her legs over the edge of the seat again. “Because of me?”

  I sit forward, resting my forearms on my legs. This is that second chance I’ve been wishing for. “I made a mistake and let you go last time without telling you how much I enjoyed that night on Catalina, and I’ve thought of you every day since.”

  Her eyes lower to the glass she set back on the table. When her gaze finally latches onto mine again, she leans forward, and whispers, “I was wrong for leaving. I’ve regretted it every day since I left.”

  My heart beats against my chest. This is what living feels like, a reminder of how my life used to be. The music is louder, the lights brighter. The world awakens around us as if we’ve turned up the volume and are hearing our song for the first time, our confessions the melody we’ve been blocked from hearing. Until now.

  She finishes her wine, tipping the glass back as if that will ease the reality of what she just said. When she sets the empty glass back down, questions rush from her lips, “What kind of business do you have in the city? How long are you here? A day? Maybe a few, at best?”

  There’s an unexpected tremble to her tone. It’s not that I’ve been evasive to hide some secretive life, but hearing about my family and their desire to expand the firm isn’t exactly exciting stuff. Not compared to hearing that Quokkas don’t actually throw their young at predators. Who knew?

  Natalie. That’s who. It’s a defense mechanism. She hides in humor, so this side is revealing of how vulnerable she really is. I won’t be the one to rip the carpet out from under her. Not looking to tear down walls she’s carefully constructed, I let her reside inside her fortress. For now.

  Anyway, since I’ve learned of her distrust in the entirety of the profession I’ve chosen for my career, I think it’s wise if I don’t push my luck. “Trust me when I tell you that it’s boring. You’d literally fall asleep on this table, and then I’d have to carry you out of here. I have no idea where you live, so that would leave me no other option than to take you to my hotel.” I smirk. “And you remember what happened the last time you came to my hotel room.”

  I’m greeted with a smirk of her own. “I do. I remember very well.” Her eyelids dip closed, and she whispers, “Is this asleep enough?” Squinting one eye open, she adds, “Or maybe we can skip a few steps forward, and you can just tell me what will lead you to carrying me back to your room.”

  She’s going to do me in.

  I can already tell.

  Just like in Catalina.

  If given an inch, this woman will take a whole damn mile of my time and willpower. “I think I approached this from the wrong direction.”

  She sits up, her blue eyes wide open. Man, I could lose days staring into them again, not losing a second to other distractions. “Oh, yeah? Is there a better route? Or do I get options again? I know how much you love a plethora of those. Hit me with the options, Nick.”

  “One. We can part ways on the sidewalk with a goodbye until the universe brings us together again.”

  Her eyes roll, but it’s undermined by laughter. “So very Californian of you.”

  I shrug because she’s right. My mom has a directional life coach. Need I say more? “Two. We go to your place, play some backgammon until you’re tired, and I leave, again, going my own way.”

  She shakes her head in disapproval. “Although a rousing game of backgammon is tempting, I’m holding out for option three.”

  “We stop playing games of any kind and go back to my hotel room.”

  Her eyes go wide, and her hands clasp together against her chest. “Don’t leave me hanging. What happens when we get there?” Hook. Line. “I mean, if no games are involved, which is no fun, by the way, then what’s on the agenda?”

  “We could have sex?”

  Her grin grows. “You’re asking me?”

  I nod.

  There’s no mulling the options for her. Nope. She’s a woman who knows what she wants. “Are you in the area?” Sinker.

  And even though I’m apparently not her type, I’m the lucky asshole she wants. At least tonight. But I’m up for any challenge she throws my way, including changing her mind about the kind of guy she thinks is her type. “Just around the corner.”

  She pushes up from her chair. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  I won’t keep her waiting. I’m on my feet, and we’re out the door. But when we’re holding hands walking down the street, I start to realize that this feels too good to part ways twice. Here I thought I was getting her to
fall for me, but it’s obvious that I’m the one who’s sunk.

  * * *

  The doorman holds the door wide for us, nodding to Natalie, and then saying, “Welcome back, Mr. Christiansen.”

  Though my cover’s been blown, she doesn’t say a peep after hearing my last name, but sensing the silence that’s shrouded us, I can tell she’s dying to. I tell him, “Thank you,” and press my hand to Natalie’s lower back, walking beside her to the elevator.

  When the elevator doors slide open, we maneuver inside, slumping against the mirrored wall, and begin a round of the quiet game. Grasping the brass railing, I brace myself for the impending onslaught of questions.

  Abruptly turning to face me, she asks, “Christiansen is your last name?”

  I can’t read her tone. Is she mad we can’t continue pretending there’s an iota of anonymity, or is she curious because she didn’t imagine me as a Christiansen? I can’t say my name in LA without instant recognition, but I don’t think it holds the same weight in Manhattan. That’s exactly why I’m here—to expand the business and brand. “I had no idea he’d say it. It’s not going to get all weird between us, is it?”

  Elbowing me in the arm, and though her expression is shaped by amusement, she replies, “Everything about us remains weird, except your name. Nick Christiansen is a great name. It’s strong and classic, like a Ralph Lauren model. It suits you.”

  I lift her hand and kiss the inside of her wrist. Exotic with the faintest sweet scent of fragrant undernote. “I’m not sure what that means, but thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” The elevator dings, stealing her gaze away. She starts moving, but I tug her back, wondering if she’s going to share her surname.

  She’s captured a second wind, the renewed energy felt when she tugs me forward. “Come on, Nick Christiansen.”

  I want to know everything about her, but I won’t pressure her for secrets she doesn’t want to share. As I’ve learned, what’s meant to be will be.

  Without hesitation or questions, she gives me her trust and follows me down the hall. I unlock the suite and let her enter first. Although my steps are tentative, hers are not, and she enters like she entered the villa in Catalina—like she owns the place.