I Have Never (A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy)

by Camilla Isley

  Still looking horrified, Richard shakes his head once and backs further away. Before I can say or do anything, he’s making a run for it.

  What the hell was that?

  I try to chase after him, but my gown isn’t exactly conducive to running. The full skirt certainly doesn’t help me navigate the crowd converging toward the center of the garden to listen to Christian’s speech.

  Slowly, elbowing my way through Hollywood’s best, I manage to reach the edge of the group. Richard is nowhere to be seen. I frantically turn my head left and right, but he’s not here. Not caring that it’s rude to leave without saying goodbye to the host, I take the elevators down and walk to the wardrobe to retrieve my shawl and clutch.

  My phone is in my hands as soon as the clerk hands me the clutch. I try Richard’s number… straight to voicemail. From upstairs comes a boom of applause and, slowly, all the guests start spilling out of the elevators and walking through the reception hall toward me. Well, toward their coats more accurately. Before the horde can trap me, I hurry outside. On the steps of Disney Hall, I try his number again and… get his voicemail again. Awesome. Richard has fried my brain with his insane eyes and made every fiber of my body want him even more, and now he’s disappeared.

  Something boils in my veins. I’m not sure if it’s fury or lust, but I’m certain I’m not ready to let this go. He can’t dance with me like that and then leave me here to fend for myself. Sorry, Richard, but I know where you’re sleeping tonight. I hail a cab and give the driver the hotel address.

  ***

  In the lobby, I pause at the reception desk. There’s a line, so I wait my turn impatiently tapping a shoe on the marble floor. The receptionist is a statuesque blonde who must go around LA carrying headshots. Around here, it seems every other person is in their job only temporarily, waiting to make their big break as actors.

  “How can I help you, ma’am?” the receptionist finally asks me.

  “I’m traveling with Mr. Richard Stratton. He’s staying in room 354. We got separated at a charity gala and his phone must’ve died.” The receptionist keeps on a kind expression, but she’s probably wondering why I’m telling her the story of my life. TMI, Blair. “Anyway, I just wanted to check if Mr. Stratton came back.”

  “Very well, I can call his room for you.” The receptionist focuses on the screen in front of her, clicks the mouse twice, and then looks back at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Stratton has activated the ‘do not disturb’ function. We cannot contact him at this time.”

  “Oh. Does that mean he’s back?”

  “The option can only be activated from within the room. So, yes, Mr. Stratton must be in his room.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  Dread and elation play a boxing match in my guts as I backtrack to the elevator. The fight continues all the way up to the eleventh floor, and by the time I get there dread wins, so I decide to stop in my room first to rally.

  Down the hall, a red light next to Richard’s door catches my attention. The words ‘do not disturb’ are spelled clearly underneath the glowing light. Is he sending me a message?

  In my room, I pace, trying to decide my next move. Should I really go knock on Richard’s door? To say what? Should I go to bed instead? I wouldn’t sleep. The memory of dancing with Richard is too intoxicating. The feel of his hand clasping mine, his arm around my waist, our bodies pressed together… and his eyes. Oh gosh, even thinking about his stare makes me flush.

  I open the window to let some air in, but it’s not the cooling breeze one could expect in New York. Stupid LA heat. This isn’t me. I’m losing my sanity, and I’m not one to lose her head over a guy—especially arrogant, meat-eating, playboy types. I’m also not one to get arrested, adopt a pet, or wear a scandalous dress. This line of thinking suited the old, list abiding me. The new me doesn’t play by the rules.

  On impulse, I walk toward the luggage rack, open my suitcase and fish inside for the list. The sorry sheet of paper has never been more crumpled. I lay it out on the desk, trying to flatten the edges with my palms. Pen in hand, I sit at the room’s desk and scan the list. After crossing out never make exceptions and never skinny dip, I search for something that will give me an excuse to ignore Richard’s ‘do not disturb’ sign.

  There. Never make the first move. If ever there was a time to ignore that rule, tonight is it.

  I kiss the list and get up, trying to smooth the wrinkles in my skirt. Should I change into something less dramatic? A mental vision of Richard undoing my zipper flashes through my head. His hand slowly pulling it down as he stands behind me, his breath hot on my neck. I can almost feel Richard’s hands pulling down the straps of the dress over my shoulders and this once-in-a-lifetime gown falling to the floor, pooling at my feet in silky waves. The dress stays.

  Mirror check: makeup still good, but the hair would be sexier loose. I remove all the clips and fluff it, letting the locks cascade down my back. The bobby pins have left it wavy and voluminous and the curls add a bit of wildness to my look. I give myself a wink in the mirror, and go.

  Richard’s room is only three doors down from mine. Standing here, I suddenly don’t feel so brave. The gold metal plate with the number 354 engraved in black seems to get bigger as I stare at it. This was stupid. Blair, go back to your room. I take a step back; then stop. No, I’m not going back.

  Inhale, exhale, and knock.

  With a pounding heart, I wait for the door to open.

  Thirteen

  Never Lie

  It takes me a few seconds to focus on the person standing in front of me. A tall woman who’s looking back into the room, showing me only a mane of black hair. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s room service,” she says, then turns to face me. Her mouth forms an “O” of surprise before her lips spread in a vicious smile.

  “Blair, what an unexpected visit,” Aurora Vanderbilt says.

  Not her.

  Everything within me breaks. I blink back tears of rage and frustration, but there’s no fighting the angry blush that spreads across my face. The shock and misery must show along with the rash because Aurora’s smile widens.

  “Did you need something?” she asks in a honeyed tone.

  “N-no… just work stuff… n-nothing important…”

  I’m still blabbing nonsense when Richard appears on the threshold. Jacket off. Bow tie gone. Shirt invitingly open at the neck. Sexy as hell. Our eyes meet and a bolt of shame strikes me.

  “Blair!” His eyebrows raise. “What are you doing here?”

  I can’t hide my disappointment, so I look away. Either he’s a better actor than Christian Slade, or the electricity of the night was all inside my head. It wasn’t all inside my head.

  “N-nothing.” I flutter my hands in the air. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?” Now his expression is closer to pity.

  Mercifully, at that moment a server pushing a cart stops next to me and asks, “Is the champagne for this room?”

  “Yes,” Aurora says, opening the door wider.

  The waiter pushes the cart inside and I seize the opportunity to escape. “I’ll leave you to your… uh… thing.” Why can’t I stop my hands from fluttering? “Good night.”

  I don’t wait for a reply. All I can say for myself is that I manage not to run. I retrace my steps to my room, insert the card in its slot with trembling hands, and rush inside. Resting my back against the door, I take a few deep breaths that quickly turn into heavy sobs.

  How could I be so stupid? How could I misread the signals so badly?

  I thought Richard and I had shared a moment, but clearly, all the boss cares about is sharing a bed with Aurora Vanderbilt. But I’m not crazy. Sparks happened, and it must’ve scared the boss so much he wanted to kill this new connection in cold blood.

  Maybe.

  No matter how much I try to rationalize Richard’s behavior, it still sucks. And no justification will
change the fact that he’s spending the night in a hotel room with Aurora Vanderbilt. True, I’m not his girlfriend so it’s not like he’s cheating on me.

  Feels that way all the same.

  A glob of bile rises to my throat. I might throw up. In the bathroom, I splash my face with fresh water, not caring that it’ll send the makeup streaming down my cheeks. I dry my hands and unzip the dress on my own. So much for the sexy fantasies. When the gown reaches the ground, I kick it away from my legs, abandoning it in a puddle on the bathroom floor. Back in the main room, I fling myself onto the bed and cry into a pillow until I fall asleep.

  ***

  I wake up early after a restless night spent tossing and turning over nightmares of Aurora and Richard rolling in bed. A mix of all the fantasies I’ve had about Richard played before my eyes. Only the woman in the dream—nightmare—wasn’t me.

  I throw the blankets away, and after carefully washing my face, I launch myself into my running ritual. Energizing playlist, on. Fit watch, on. I-can-run-my-sorrow-to-death plan, so on.

  This time I choose the running path heading south, and it doesn’t take me long to reach the Venice boardwalk. With only surfers braving the waters, the beach is almost deserted this early in the morning. The quietness helps calm my nerves. So do the exercise endorphins.

  I kick my shoes off and abandon the concrete trail. The sand is cool under my feet, a nice sensation after a long run. I choose a spot on a small dune to sit and stare at the ocean and the surfers paddling on the water. They seem so free and careless as they ride the waves.

  When the sun starts burning my skin, I head back to the hotel. Unfortunately, the jog hasn’t cleared my head as much as I’d hoped. And nothing can change the fact that I have to spend six hours stuck on a plane next to Richard.

  The boss doesn’t know why you knocked on his door last night.

  Maybe not. Aurora might’ve guessed, but no one knows for sure. What if Richard asks me point-blank? A resolution forms in my heart. If asked, I’ll lie through my teeth.

  Hoping to work my body to exhaustion so that I’ll sleep on the plane and avoid unpleasant conversation, I take the stairs up to the eleventh floor. When I get there, I’m positively puffing.

  To my horror, as soon as I push the stairs door open, I spot Aurora and Richard embracing in the hallway. I freeze. My room is past theirs. I consider running away, but Aurora catches me out of the corner of her eye and presses herself even closer to Richard in a goodbye kiss.

  The kiss seems to last forever, but eventually, the leech releases her sucker. Aurora walks toward the elevator, waving at me with a nasty grin on her face. That’s when Richard spots me.

  No escape, then. The only way is forward.

  “Morning,” Richard says, as I pass him.

  I ignore him and carry on along the corridor, walking on tiptoes. Richard has never seen me at my real, non-heeled shortness.

  He follows me. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

  “Morning.”

  “Would you please stop for a second?”

  “Why?”

  “Did you want to discuss something last night?”

  “I wanted to pick your brain on some creative ideas…” I say, not looking at him and trying to fit the key in its slot. My hands are shaking so badly it’s difficult.

  “What ideas?”

  I give up the fighting and spin around to face the boss. “It doesn’t matter. I sorted everything out on my own.”

  “I’d like to hear those ideas all the same.”

  “I thought you didn’t micromanage.”

  “Why are you being so snippy?”

  The nerve of him to ask.

  “I’m not. I’m sweaty and what I’d like to do is go take a shower. Last night, I wanted to discuss ideas, but you seemed more interested in trolloping. And I don’t want to talk about it now.”

  Richard scowls. “Aurora isn’t a whore.”

  “I wasn’t talking about dear Aurora.”

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. He’ll catch me now, see right through me. The boss will know this is all my jealousy talking.

  “Judging again, are we?” Richard’s voice rises. “I’m an adult and single. I can do whatever I please.”

  Thank you, boss, for showing all the limitations of your male brain.

  “Of course you can.”

  “And you can stop your self-righteous tantrum and bring that prissy ass of yours back to earth.”

  I narrow my eyes. “If you think this is me judging your lifestyle then you’re such a brazen idiot, I feel sorry for you.” And then I add what I’ve really been burning to say. “Or you’re playing dumb, which is even worse!”

  Working behind my back, I give the key another try and finally manage to slide it into the slot. In a swift move, I free the lock, enter the room, and slam the door right in his idiotic, arrogant—stupidly handsome—face.

  Richard pounds his fists on the wood almost immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean? Hey, open this door.”

  I unstrap my iPod from the belt on my arm and plug it into the dock station sitting on the nightstand. “Sorry, I can’t hear you,” I shout. And to make sure my statement is true, I blast the speakers until I can’t actually hear the pounding anymore.

  With a nod of satisfaction, I shed my sweaty clothes to the floor and hop into the shower.

  ***

  “If you keep staring at that window like that, it’ll melt,” Richard says.

  I scoff, shrug, and do not turn my head. I keep my arms crossed over my chest and my gaze focused on the clouds out of the plane’s window.

  “So you’re going to pretend I don’t exist for the next six hours?”

  Finally, I turn. “How could you sleep with Aurora?” I hiss.

  Richard raises both eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “Of all people, why her?”

  “Why not? Aurora is very attractive… a lot of fun.”

  Which I’m not, I suppose. Oh, why did I ask? His words are like daggers to the heart. Richard wants to keep pretending I’ve no reason to be upset?

  Let’s pretend along.

  “She also stands for everything you hate,” I point out, trying to move the conversation away from my obvious, blinding jealousy.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aurora never had to work a day in her life for what she has. Mommy fed it all to her with a silver spoon.”

  “Oh, so that’s where the drama comes from. You’re jealous because she beat you for the editor position at Évoque.”

  Oh, Richard, if only you knew work is not an envy trigger here. Still, better than you knowing the truth.

  “Aurora didn’t beat me, she cheated. Her mother bought the position for her.”

  “So she’s from a rich, privileged family and she takes advantage. Wouldn’t you do the same?”

  “Not if my family actually stole money by not paying taxes. How dare they show their faces at a fund-raising? They must enjoy pretending to be generous to the community while they’re ripping everyone off instead. All that extra cash has to go somewhere… right?”

  Richard chastises me with a reproachful expression. “That’s a very serious accusation to make.”

  “Not an accusation, a fact.”

  “You’ve proof?”

  “There were rumors at Évoque about a story on Rebecca Vanderbilt that got killed before publication.”

  “Are we talking office gossip or real facts?”

  “A rumor like that wouldn’t spread for no reason.”

  “Why would the magazine kill the story?”

  “Too serious for our type of publication and Maison Vanderbilt is a big cross-magazine advertiser at Northwestern. Even more now after they had to shop for Aurora’s promotion.”

  “Is the reporter who had the lead interested in selling it elsewhere?”

  “She can’t freelance while working a
t Évoque. Why? I don’t see you running a story about dear Aurora’s mommy.”

  “If Rebecca Vanderbilt is cooking her books, you’re damn right I want to run the story.”

  I finally relax my pout. “Are you serious?”

  “Bring me proof and I’ll publish the article.”

  “How am I supposed to prove anything? I’m not a reporter. I never did investigative journalism, I wouldn’t know where to start. And finance isn’t my strong suit.”

  “But you’re smart, bet you can figure a way.”

  “For real? You’re not just saying this?”

  “If you can get the evidence, the story is a go.”

  “Deal.”

  We shake hands, and I regret the physical contact immediately. Richard holds my hand, and my gaze, a second longer than necessary, and I can’t help but enjoy the sensation.

  Arrrgh, this man will be the death of me.

  ***

  That night I’m brooding in solitude on the couch when the apartment door opens and Nikki walks in with Chevron in tow.

  “Hey, you’re back.” My roomie smiles. “How was Hollywood?”

  “A disaster.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “Imagine the worst thing that ever happened to you. It was worse.”

  Nikki releases Chevron’s leash and they sit down and jump, respectively, onto the cushions next to me. “Better or worse than Bridget Jones going to the house party in the bunny costume?”

  “Worse: I was humiliated.”

  “Better or worse than when Ross said ‘we were on a break’?”

  “Worse.”

  “Better or worse than when Jon Snow died on Game of Thrones?”

  “Nothing could ever be worse than Jon Snow dying,” I hiss.

  “See? Then there’s hope.” She pats my knee. “Tell me what happened.”

  I do.

  “Ah, well.” Nikki sighs. “I’d still swap lives.”

  I make big eyes at her. “Why?”

  “At least you went out and met Christian Slade. I’m married to my job and in love with my sister’s boyfriend… So…”

  “What a pair!”