I Have Never (A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy)

by Camilla Isley

  “I doubt this is nun-wear, even in LA. This is the kind of dress you have to double tape to keep everything in place.”

  “So it’s a bit more revealing than what you’re used to,” Nikki says. “What’s the big deal?”

  “I can’t show up at work like this.”

  “Come on,” Nikki insists. “It’s not work.”

  “But Richard will be there!”

  “The more reason to wear the dress.”

  Mandy injects herself into the conversation. “Is there a gentleman involved?”

  “No,” I reply, just as Nikki says, “Yes.”

  “Then you must definitely choose this one,” Mandy concludes, taking Nikki’s word over mine.

  “Definitely,” my nasty roommates agrees.

  “Or maybe I should try on one of the other dresses…” I take a more conservative-looking black gown off the rack. “This looks much more—”

  “Safe,” Nikki ends the phrase for me.

  “I was going to say appropriate. Come on, Nikki,” I protest one last time. “This is not me.”

  “That’s exactly my point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This dress was totally made for the new you. If you can go to jail, you can wear the dress.”

  Mandy is looking at us as if we’re crazy. “You went to jail?”

  I jump to reassure her. “It was a bureaucratic misunderstanding. I wasn’t really arrested.”

  Her expression relaxes.

  Nikki pushes her point, “There must be something on your not-to-do list of things you have to do that forces you to wear this beauty.”

  I mentally scroll through the items and smile devilishly. “Always dress appropriately…?”

  “Then it’s decided!” Nikki’s smile is almost as wicked as mine.

  Mandy nods her approval, but it’s Chevron’s bark of endorsement that seals the deal.

  Nine

  Never Confide in Strangers

  I shouldn’t be so early. Simple as that. There are a million reasons to keep a decent buffer when traveling, but I should’ve kept it practical. Three hours for a domestic flight is an eternity. Even the monstrous departures board of JFK informs me I’m definitely too early. No gate info yet.

  I need to find somewhere cozy to wait. The only place with seats in sight of the board is an airport bar, so I drag my suitcase along and sit on a stool at the counter.

  “Hi,” the bartender—a friendly looking blonde-hair-blue-eye type with a warm expression—greets me. “What can I get you?”

  “Something to drink, please,” I say.

  “Cocktail, beer, a soda?”

  “No thanks. Do you have any organic juices or a relaxing tea?”

  The bartender’s blue eyes twinkle. “Let’s see.” He squats behind the counter to open a fridge, I assume. “On the organic shelf, there’s OJ, Honeycrisp apple juice, carrot beet ginger juice, or mango tea.”

  “The carrot ginger, please.”

  Mr. Friendly & Cute shakes the bottle and pours the juice into a tall glass. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” I take a sip and check my watch.

  “Waiting for someone?” the bartender asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are they late?”

  “No, I’m early.”

  “Better safe than sorry. When does your plane leave?”

  “In three hours.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “International?”

  I shake my head.

  The bartender lets out a low whistle. “That’s a big buffer for a national flight,” he says, and then pours me some tortilla chips.

  The poor guy hasn’t asked why I’m so early, and Mr. Cute here probably doesn’t care, but I don’t know why I start spilling out all the details of my personal life. “Truth is, I have to go on a business trip with my boss. We’re going to LA for the weekend and I was nervous about this whole away-with-the-boss thing. So I came to the airport super early. Just in case. One never knows when traffic will go crazy in this city.”

  “Is your boss the fastidious type?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. I’m probably more fastidious than him.”

  The bartender chuckles. “So what is it?”

  Totally against my will, my cheeks heat up, and I try to hide the blushing by taking another sip of juice.

  “Ah.” The bartender smiles knowingly. “I see. You have a crush on your boss?”

  No point in denying it. Mr. Cute knows.

  “Can I at least ask your name before I tell you all my darkest secrets?”

  “Mark Cooper, pleased to meet you.”

  Mark offers me a hand and I shake it. “Blair Walker. Nice to meet you, too.”

  “So, this boss…” Mark lets the phrase hang.

  “Do you ask all your patrons about their private lives?”

  “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

  Again, his kind expression compels me to talk. “Yes, I sort of have a crush on my boss.”

  “Mmm…”

  “And we’re going to LA for the weekend,” I continue.

  “For?”

  “A charity gala.”

  “Oh, black tie event?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I run the women’s section of an online magazine.” I hand him a business card. Never miss an opportunity to market. “You should check us out.”

  Mark takes it. “Inceptor Magazine. Cool name.”

  “Yeah, Richard picked it.”

  “Richard the forbidden boss?”

  “The one and only.”

  “So tell me.” Mark leans his elbows on the counter. “What are the obstacles for this impossible love story? Is the boss-man already taken?”

  We chat a little and I explain the situation, even including the sordid details of the first time I talked to Richard—at least the one time I remember.

  “So you’re hoping something will happen this weekend?” Mark asks when I’m finished.

  I shrug. I don’t know what I do or should hope. From the moment the boss asked me on this trip, I’ve spent countless hours daydreaming about what could happen. Dinner à deux by the ocean, dancing at the ball—very Beauty and the Beast in my head—bookended by Richard whisking me off my feet at the end of the night. In reality, I’m pretty sure nothing is going to happen. This is just business for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he brought a Californian date along for the evening. Oh, the horror… what if he does?

  “Are you still here?” Mark interrupts my mental rant.

  “Yeah, sorry.” I’m about to explain my inner turmoil when my phone beeps, startling me. “It’s Richard, he’s here.”

  “Please tell him to join you,” Mark begs. “I have to meet this guy.”

  “You can’t say anything,” I warn.

  He does a zipper-over-the-mouth gesture. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Do you mind if I change shoes?”

  Mark seems surprised by the question. “Please, go ahead.”

  I climb down from the stool and swap flats for spiky black pumps.

  “Whoa.” Mark’s eyes widen when my head comes back level with his. “You shot up… like… five inches!”

  “That’s the whole point.” I store my ballerinas inside the hand luggage, close the zipper, and sit back on the stool.

  I wring my hands together until Mark places a warm, dry hand on top of mine and says, “Relax. You don’t want to spook the boss.” He smiles encouragingly.

  When he lets go, I force my hands apart and dry my sweaty palms on my skirt. “Do I look okay?”

  “You look perfect. The guy’s a fool if he doesn’t notice.”

  “Blair.” Richard’s voice makes me jolt. “There you are. I thought I was early, but you beat me.”

  “Hi, Richard.” Even if I see him every day, my pulse starts racing and I suspect my cheeks
are once again matching my red hair.

  Mark winks and buys me some time to recover. “Hello there, can I get you something to drink?”

  Richard scratches his head. “What are you having?” he asks me.

  “Organic carrot beet ginger juice.”

  “Erm, sounds delicious.” The boss tries not to make a too-disgusted face and turns toward Mark. “A pint of lager please.”

  Mark’s lips twitch. “I only have American-sized pints if that’s okay?”

  “You shoddy Americans.” Richard laughs and Mark chuckles along. At once, it’s like they’re old friends who’ve been running the I-am-American-you-are-British joke between them for years. This Mark guy really has a way with people.

  Right at this moment, my mind’s whizzing with unspeakable thoughts so I let Mark entertain Richard while I enjoy the view. The boss didn’t shave before coming here. His jaw is already sporting a five o’clock shadow, making him even sexier than usual. From the way he casually places his sunglasses on top of his head, to the way he now rolls up the sleeves of his shirt—making me stare like the little pervert I am—everything about Richard exudes sex appeal. The only flaw being that lingering sadness behind his eyes. The one he works so hard to hide.

  When he’s halfway through his beer, Richard’s phone rings. He looks at the screen and smiles apologetically. “I’ve got to take this,” he says, walking away.

  “Well.” Mark smirks scratching his short beard. “I’m not an expert on guys, but the dude has charm. So what’s your plan for the weekend?”

  I shrug. “Survive without embarrassing myself too much?”

  “That sounds like an awful plan.”

  “You have a better suggestion?”

  “Live and embarrass yourself the most you can.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Tell him how you feel.”

  A speaker in the background announces our flight.

  “No way!” My stomach drops at the mere idea. “Shh, he’s coming back.”

  “They announced our flight,” Richard says, and chugs the remaining half of his beer. “How much for everything?” he asks Mark.

  Mark gives him the bill, and Richard pays for my juice as well. We both say goodbye to Mark, and I catch a furtive wink from my new bartender bestie as I stroll after Richard.

  The boss frowns at me. “Collecting admirers?” he asks, as we walk toward our gate.

  “What?”

  “That bloke was all over you.”

  “Who?”

  “Blue eyes, standing behind the bar.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  “He winked at you.”

  Oh, so the boss caught that. Panic! He knows. But then I remind myself that there’s no way Richard could know Mark and I were talking about him. Let him assume Mark’s wink was about how much the bartender liked me and not how much I like my boss.

  I shrug and stop in front of our gate. “Mark is a friendly guy.”

  “Mark? Is that why you were holding hands when I arrived?”

  Richard stops next to me and gives me a once-over, his eyes lingering long enough to give me goose bumps.

  “We… I mean, what?”

  Is the boss annoyed because he thinks I’m behaving unprofessionally? No, Richard isn’t prissy like that.

  So what then? Could he be acting… jealous? No. No way. Blair, repeat after me: “You are on a business trip.” But I’m not the one getting all worked up over a stupid wink. And he’s ogling my shoes.

  Richard’s eyes travel back up my body, stopping when they meet mine. “Do you always fly dressed like this?”

  Okay, I admit I made a bit of an effort. In my defense, it wasn’t to seduce the boss. After only a few days, I was so fed up with the athleisure style, I couldn’t wait to put on an elegant dress. And this little black midi dress is nothing too provocative. Maybe it’s the shoes. The super narrow, super high stiletto heels must be eye-catching. Richard was openly staring at my feet just a moment ago.

  “Well, since I didn’t have to walk for once,” I finally reply.

  Richard’s gaze flickers to the ground again, and I suppress a tiny smile. Are shoes his weak spot?

  Ten

  Never Make Exceptions

  By the time we land, I’m so over the shoes. As gorgeous as my pumps are, I can’t wait to kick them off. No matter that I’ve been sitting the entire time; these shoes were not made for pressure-bloated feet. Outside LAX, we hop in a cab to reach our hotel, and I have to muster all my willpower not to kick the stilettos off during the ride and reach for the flats in my suitcase. No pain, no height.

  Indira chose a nice hotel in Santa Monica, near the ocean and with a stunning view of the pier. We check in and agree to meet in the lobby in an hour for dinner. The room is cozy if a little nondescript—a typical hotel chain with standardized furniture. But the view is everything.

  A quick shower, and it’s already time to get ready for the night. To pack light, I’ve picked out all my outfits in advance. The designated one for tonight is a sheath bandage dress in a shimmering metallic gold-bronze. The bandage’s horizontal stripes and thick fabric are body-sculpting and make sure everything hangs just right.

  But the real stars of this outfit are the shoes. As I take them out of their travel bag, I smirk. If Richard liked my pumps, wait until he sees these beauties. Knee-high metallic sandals with eight narrow straps, toes-to-knee, of which I have to individually buckle the last six. Not a quick job, but worth the trouble.

  The soles are cushioned enough for me not to need gel inserts. Since the shoes are already such a statement, I keep the makeup light and natural.

  In the lobby, I’m rewarded for my efforts with a long stare at my lower legs and two raised brows as I walk down the hall to meet Richard.

  I smile. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself,” Richard says. “Fancy dinner near the beach?”

  “Couldn’t think of a better place.”

  If May in New York is mild, in California it’s already summer. I don’t have much time to enjoy the warm evening breeze, however, as we hop in a cab right outside the hotel.

  Richard gives the driver the name of a restaurant and we zip off into traffic.

  “You know why Indira picked a hotel in Santa Monica when the gala is downtown?” he asks.

  I suspect it was her idea of a joke. The beach being more romantic than skyscrapers.

  I pretend to be clueless. “She said no one comes to LA to sleep downtown.”

  Richard doesn’t ask me any other questions, and I’m too on edge to spark a conversation. The protracted silence makes the journey seem even longer. By the time the driver pulls over, we could’ve traveled from New York to Philadelphia for all I know. But I guess LA has a different spread than Manhattan. Everything seems broader here.

  The driver kills the engine. “Sorry, but you’ll have to walk from here. The boardwalk is pedestrians-only.”

  I step out of the cab, breathing in the sea air. Our destination looks a lot like the pan shots they do of Venice Beach in movies, even if I’m sure we’re in Some-Other-Name Beach. Wooden buildings litter the concrete promenade on one side. On the other, it’s tall palms then sand, and finally the ocean where the last sunlight is sinking below the horizon.

  Richard leads the way to… oh, no. No! A steakhouse. Story of my life. Guys love meat, and I’m vegetarian. Maybe we’ll skip the whole why-don’t-you-eat-meat-oh-I-could-never-live-without-bacon drill. I’ll order the one pasta dish on the menu, politely decline Richard’s suggestion of bone-in filet or New York strip, saying I’m not in the mood for a steak, and I might get away with it.

  That chance shatters five minutes after we’re seated when a server arrives at our table parading a tray of bloody cuts and starts explaining the various merits of the differently sliced cadavers.

  The sight of raw meat makes me slightly nauseous, so I sip some water to stop my stomach from
heaving.

  Richard notices. “Are you okay?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I mutter, staring away from the tray of death. “Could we skip the visual presentation, though?”

  The server gives me the I-know-what-you-are-you’ll-order-the-cheap-pasta-and-cut-my-tip-in-half evil eye, but he takes the hint and shuffles away.

  Richard blinks. “What’s the matter?”

  “I sort of… don’t eat meat.”

  “Like ever?”

  No point in circling around it. “I’m vegetarian.”

  Richard scoffs. “You should’ve said something. We could’ve switched places. I thought vegetarians were supposed to tell you.”

  Now I get touchy. “Why? Did you introduce yourself saying, ‘Hi, I’m Richard. I’m carnivorous’?”

  “I was talking about the joke.”

  “What joke?”

  “How do you know if someone is a vegetarian?”

  I stare at him blankly.

  “Don’t worry, they’ll tell you. And… you aren’t laughing.”

  His discomfort is so genuine that I crack a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll have the pasta. Steakhouses keep it on the menu to save dudes like you from first date fiascos… N-not t-that I think we’re on a date.”

  “Imagine that.” Richard chuckles. “I’d be sweating cold right now. So why the meat aversion?”

  “Do you really care?”

  “Is it a sensitive subject?”

  “Not for me, but sometimes people get defensive-aggressive about their right to eat meat.”

  “I won’t bite, I promise.”

  He meant it as a joke, but the phrase only makes me imagine the touch of Richard’s lips on my neck as his teeth graze my skin. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I forcibly pull my degenerate brain away from neck-biting scenarios and back to meat-avoiding diets.

  “Well, there’s the animal cruelty, of course,” I say. “The fact that meat is actually bad for our health. And the staggering amount of pollution and water consumption it takes to feed, grow, and slaughter a cow.”

  Richard is looking at me with a weird expression, his lips contracted and eyebrows drawn together. I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed, or if he’s trying too hard not to laugh. The latter, I suspect.