I Have Never (A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy)

by Camilla Isley

  He clears his throat before speaking. “Is it just meat or everything coming from animals you don’t eat?”

  “I’m vegetarian, not vegan. Otherwise, you’d be totally screwed as I wouldn’t eat a thing in this place. Anyway, I try to steer clear of dairy, but I eat eggs if they come from happy chickens.”

  Richard’s lips twitch. “And how do you assess the happiness of chickens?”

  “If they’re free-range chickens that eat real grass and are not stuck in a cage all their lives, they’re happy chickens.”

  The boss roars with laughter. “I’m sorry,” he says between chuckles. “But before today, the welfare of chickens was a foreign concept.” Still smirking, he adds, “And I don’t mean it in an insensitive way.”

  The server arrives with our salads.

  Richard takes a forkful of his bacon-covered lettuce wedge and asks, “So you’re never having a bite of meat ever again in your life?”

  I take a second before answering. Never eat meat is part of the list, but so is never make exceptions. I’ll make the exception to stay a vegetarian and cross out the two.

  “Nope.”

  After the potentially rocky introduction, the conversation flows between us for the entire evening. Our food arrives—T-bone for him, mushroom fettuccini for me—and we eat, drink wine, and chat happily.

  “So how was it growing up in England?” I ask at one point. “Did you do all that cool Harry Potter stuff?”

  Richard stops cutting his steak. “You mean battling the most powerful dark wizard of all time and destroying his soul bit by bit?”

  “No.” I giggle. “I meant going to a fancy boarding school in a castle somewhere with houses and everything…”

  “Ah, that part. Then, yes. I told you boarding school is where I met Chris.”

  “Was it as cool as Hogwarts?”

  “If you can compare math to charms and chemistry to potions…”

  “I guess being away from your parents was a plus too.”

  The boss frowns. “Not really. Okay, being away from home was an adventure at thirteen, but I missed the old folks.”

  “I would’ve given everything to leave home at thirteen instead of having to wait five extra years.”

  “Why?”

  I hesitate. “Well, my parents’ marriage wasn’t exactly a happy one…”

  “They argued a lot?”

  “No, more… politely ignored each other. And they were so strict with me. Don’t do this, don’t do that…”

  Richard smiles. “Now I’m beginning to understand that list of yours.”

  I drop my fork and cover my face with both hands. “I still can’t believe you read the list. I try to forget about it.”

  “Besides getting drunk and arrested, how’s the conquering going?”

  Liquid courage, help me. In one gulp, I finish the wine in my glass and Richard pours me another one. “I bet I could still win at Never Have I Ever.”

  He throws me an interrogative stare.

  “The drinking game?”

  The boss shakes his head. “How does it work?”

  “All participants take turns in saying something embarrassing or daring they’ve never done. All others who’ve done that particular deed have to drink a shot. I never took a shot.”

  “So your new life’s goal is to get wasted at a drinking game?”

  No, apparently it’s digging my own conversational grave. “Of course not. I’m just saying that if I were to play, I’d still end up sober because I’ve done nothing that interesting.”

  “Besides getting arrested.”

  “I wouldn’t call that interesting.” I need to change the subject, fast. “But enough about me, tell me more about England.”

  That gets him started on boarding school, his college years, and eventually the move to the big city. Richard is in the middle of telling me how much he loves London when I ask the wrong question.

  “So why base Inceptor in New York?”

  The boss shakes his head and looks far away into another life, mouth tense, lips pressed in a sad line. The easy-going atmosphere drains away from the table, only to be replaced by a thick emotional wall between us.

  Richard stares at his plate and takes a sip of wine. “Something happened, and I needed a change of scenery.”

  He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, and I don’t know what to do. I’d like to ask more, but I sense it’d be an awful idea. Especially with him sending me mind-your-own-business vibes so strong I’m tempted to run to the restroom and hide there. Hello, brain? Please provide something to say. But I was never good at improvising.

  Richard proves better. “How was your pasta?” he asks.

  “The fettuccini were delicious,” I say, glad he came up with a conversational decoy.

  “Good.”

  There’s a weird look in his eyes. Surely, fettuccini—tasty as they are—can’t make the boss this emotional.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I’m just glad you don’t eat burgers.”

  That’s a weird thing to say. “Why?”

  He shakes his head again in that resigned way. “It’s a long story.”

  Uh-oh. Was the ex a meat-eater? A burgers-lover? She must’ve been.

  “It’s getting late,” Richard says, shifting the topic completely. “We should probably ask for the bill.”

  No sooner has the word bill left Richard’s lips that our server magically appears next to us. Is the table bugged?

  “Would you care to have that boxed, sir?”

  Richard and I reply at the same time.

  Him: “No, thank you.”

  Me: “Yes, please.”

  The server stares at us, confused.

  “We’ll take everything,” I say. “Please box the bread as well.”

  The server boxes our leftovers and hands me the bag. “Can I get you anything else? Coffee? A dessert?”

  “Just the bill,” Richard says.

  The server takes it out of his apron and drops it on the table. “Please take as much time as you like.”

  Richard slips some dollar bills into the leather folder and gets up. I follow.

  “I thought you didn’t eat meat,” he says, jerking his chin toward the doggy bag in my hands.

  “No, but since the poor beast has already been slaughtered, I’d like to put the sacrifice to good use.”

  Near the low wall separating the beach from the promenade, a homeless man is sitting on the floor with his back against the barrier. Balancing my tight dress and spiky heels, I crouch in front of him, feeling Richard’s gaze burning a hole in my back.

  I give the food to the poor man and try to ignore the filth on his hands as he shakes mine to thank me. Trying not to fall on my butt, I straighten up and turn around ready to be taunted.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Call me goody two-shoes all you like.” The remark has stayed with me since he bailed me out of prison.

  Richard gives me a long stare. “I wasn’t going to.”

  Something in his gaze makes it impossible for me to keep eye contact, so I walk away.

  Richard falls into step next to me. “That was very generous. Such a simple way to help, but the thought never even crossed my mind.”

  I look at him, searching his eyes for any trace of mockery. There’s none.

  “These people… it’s so easy for them to disappear. We become so used to seeing them on the streets that they become invisible, but they each have their stories. You’d be surprised by some.”

  “You know many homeless?”

  “In a way. I volunteer at my neighborhood canteen for the poor once a month. When I have time, I sit down for a chat.”

  “That’s remarkable. You’re putting me to shame.”

  “A day a month is nothing. I bet you did more good with your donation for tomorrow night.”

  “Maybe, but that’s just money. Devoting your time to a good cause
is different. Come here, Walker”—Richard slips an arm around my shoulders—“let’s go get some sleep.”

  Together? I don’t think he meant it like that. Pity. Anyway, it’s the first time he’s called me by my last name—I like it—or touched me beyond a handshake. I’m not sure if it’s a gesture of camaraderie or… something else. I let my shoulders enjoy the weight of Richard’s arm and try not to read too much into it.

  At the hotel, we stand awkwardly in front of my door to say good night. I-had-two-glasses-of-wine me wants to haul Richard into my room and onto the bed by the collar of his shirt, but it would probably require I-had-two-bottles-of-wine me to do something like that. So I politely say good night and agree to meet him in the morning for a day of sightseeing. I slip under the covers, alone, feeling a disproportionate euphoria at the idea of touring LA with the boss.

  Indira was right; I’m in so much trouble.

  Eleven

  Never Skinny Dip

  Thanks to the three-hour jet lag, I’m up earlier than usual at four thirty. Even if it’s seven thirty in New York, I doubt Nikki will be up, unless Chevron—tuned to my hours—dragged her off the bed. Either way, better if I wait a couple more hours before I call. It’s silly how quickly I’ve turned into such an anxious pet parent, but I literally feel like I’ve left my child behind.

  I change into running gear—leggings, tank top, iPod strap, fit watch—and wander down to the lobby.

  “Hi,” I say, startling a half-asleep receptionist.

  “Hello, ma’am.” He jerks himself awake and sits straighter in his chair. “How may I help you?”

  “Is there a good running trail around here?”

  The clerk blinks at me, still shocked someone would be this chirpy at such an ungodly hour. But he recovers fast. “Er, the best option would be to turn left as soon as you exit the hotel and run along the beach. If you head south, you’ll find yourself on the Strand, a paved bike path that will bring you to the Venice boardwalk. Or you could go north and loop Palisades Park.”

  “Is the park open this early?”

  “Yeah, it’s twenty-four hours.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  I press play on the iPod and jog outside where it’s still entirely dark. There’s only a hint of light glimmering behind the hills on my right, which means the temperature is still manageable. I doubt I’d be able to run with the Californian sun shining high in the sky.

  I turn left, follow the road to the beach trail, and head north toward the park. If the Hudson waterfront is one my favorite trails in New York, it has nothing on the ocean. I’m only missing Chevron.

  After the first loop, I check my watch. Eight minutes per mile. Way below my average. Lately, I’ve only had time to run on the weekends, and my lack of constant training is showing. I should start over, but I’m too lazy, so from the park, I cross over a bridge to the beach to go exploring. The shore is deserted, too dark even for surfers.

  As I stare at the water, a terrible idea strikes me. Faster than I can stop myself, I remove all my clothes and run into the ocean stark naked. Never skinny dip—I can cross you off the list!

  I don’t linger in the cool water more than thirty seconds. Not just because I’m butt naked in a public space, but also because the Pacific is freezing. I re-dress faster than ever and with fresh adrenaline pumping in my bloodstream, I run back to the hotel, breaking every personal speed record ever made.

  By seven, I’m showered, dressed, and ready to rock LA. I’m finishing applying makeup when a knock distracts me.

  “Who is it?” I call.

  “Richard.”

  My stomach does a triple axel. I slip on my cord wedges—a good compromise between the necessity to wear heels and a long day of walking—and open the door.

  “Whoa.” Richard’s eyes widen. “And I thought I was up early,” he says, eyeing my already-prim attire.

  He’s still wearing gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. Soft, damp curls are clinging to his forehead as if he just came out of the shower, which he must have. Someone, please shoot me now! Sweat-panted Richard is too good a sight, and showering Richard too good a fantasy, for me to preserve my brain cells.

  “I’m a morning person,” I say apologetically. “And there’s the jet lag.”

  “Yeah, so would it be okay to meet downstairs in fifteen?”

  “Super, see yah there.”

  ***

  Richard jerks his chin toward my shoes, unimpressed. “Are you sure you want to walk in those all day?”

  So wedges aren’t his thing. Mmm, I’ll see if I can do better tonight.

  “Yeah, I always wear heels.”

  “Why?”

  We are not all blessed with Saskia Landon’s legs.

  “I just love heels.”

  “But we’ll be walking a lot.”

  “I’m used to it, no big deal.”

  He shrugs. “I was thinking we should turn today into something different.” Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump. Can anyone else hear my heart beating? “Would your readers be interested in an ‘LA in One Day’ feature?”

  Good thing I removed the fit watch. Otherwise, it’d be sending off all kinds of alarms at my heart stopping to beat due to mortification. When will my brain finally grasp that this is only work for Richard? Strictly business. No romantic agenda.

  “You might’ve just dug your own grave.” I smirk vindictively.

  “Why?”

  “Because my readership would prefer something titled ‘One Day Shopping Spree in LA.’”

  “Ah. You’re killing me.” Richard mockingly brings a hand to his chest. “Where should we start?”

  “A walk towards the unique finds of Venice Beach, and then we’ll work our way up to Rodeo Drive.”

  ***

  Richard bears the window-shopping like a man. From Venice to Beverly Hills to the Fashion District, he follows me around town not once complaining. I select a bunch of indie stores and interview the owners and designers. Richard is a good sport even when we try out a few male boutiques, going so far as to offer himself up as a human guinea pig—er, male model.

  As we walk out of the umpteenth shop, Richard asks, “How much time do you need to get ready for tonight?”

  “An hour, an hour and a half tops. Why? Should we already head back?”

  Richard looks at his watch and sighs. “No, we’re good for another two hours or so.”

  “Then what do you say we do something non-shopping related?”

  The relief on his face is humorous.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “A quick trip to Griffith Observatory. Everyone agrees it’s the one view in LA you can’t miss.”

  “Will we have time? With traffic and everything.”

  I check my phone. “The map app authority says it’s half an hour to get there and half an hour to get back to Santa Monica, even in traffic.”

  “And how long from Santa Monica to downtown?”

  I swap addresses. “Half an hour.”

  Everything seems to be spaced half an hour away in LA.

  “Then we’re good.”

  Richard calls an Uber, and we ask the driver to wait for us as we do a quick tour of the observatory.

  After taking a couple—okay, an unhealthy number—of pictures of the Hollywood sign, we make our way along the promenade that wraps around the main dome. We stop under an arch to admire the Los Angeles skyline. The day is clear, and the view stretches far into the distance.

  “This city is ginormous,” I say. “I could never live here.”

  “Because of the long drives?”

  “No, the weather. Too hot.”

  “I thought you’d enjoy the warmth.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re like fire.”

  I stare up at him and find him gazing intensely at me.

  “Let me guess, the hair? I get that a lot.”

  “Yeah.” He
nods, looking almost relieved. “The hair.”

  Being this close to Richard, his scent fills my nostrils. Pine cones and rain. Even in sunny California, the boss still manages to smell like a cold winter day.

  “Anyway, I prefer winter…” and before I can shut my stupid mouth, I blab the next thought that pops into my head, “Your aftershave smells like a snowy forest, you know?”

  No time to add anything to justify my silly, and totally inappropriate comment before his jaw tightens and his eyes harden.

  “We should probably go,” Richard says, looking away. “The meter is running.”

  “Sure.”

  I follow him around the dome and back to the car with a large, inexplicable lump in my throat.

  ***

  The wistfulness of the observatory visit dissipates as I take advantage of every minute I have to get ready. I scrub and pamper myself until I’m the best beauty products can make me. Tablet connected to the hotel Wi-Fi, I experiment with two of Tracy’s tutorials to style my hair in a loose hairdo, and contour my cheekbones so they’d make Katharine Hepburn burn with shame.

  At the designated hour, I make my way down to the lobby and, for once, Richard’s eyes don’t wander straight to my shoes but linger on my plunging neckline. I take a deep breath and try not to blush.

  “Wow.” Richard’s eyes widen. “You’re stunning.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” I say.

  “No, it’s just… I didn’t expect your dress to be so…” Flattering? Revealing? Sexy? I’m right there with you, Richard, I would’ve never expected to wear a dress like this, not in a million years. “…colorful.”

  “Colorful?” That’s not the adjective I was expecting.

  “Yeah, somehow I had myself convinced you’d come out in a black dress.”

  Which I totally would have if it weren’t for the stupid list and stupid friends. “Why black?”

  “It’s safe.”

  “Are you calling me boring?” I say, more flirtatious than reproachful.

  My coquettishness earns me a smile, a real one, not Richard’s usual guarded smirk. And as the boss lets himself go, his entire face changes. Crinkly lines appear at the corners of his eyes, and for once, warmth radiates from his gaze instead of mistrust. His sexy dimples make an appearance too. If I thought he was handsome before, I knew nothing. When Richard smiles, really smiles, he is sensational. It sucks the air out of my lungs and sends my heart into a pounding frenzy.