“No, I just mean—well, I know you and Piper have never really gotten along well, and now you have to do all this social stuff together.”
“I’m an adult. I can handle doing things with her.”
“You sure?”
I steal the ball from his hands. “Positive,” I tell him, but the dirty little secret I keep to myself is that I’m looking forward to spending more time with Piper.
Because the other dirty little secret?
I had fun last night.
I haven’t had fun in ages. The flirting kind. That’s exactly what it was. The touches, the moments, the sexy little comments. I regret nothing. Not a word. In fact, when I returned home and it was just me and Netflix in my quiet home, since the kids were sound asleep, I replayed my favorite scenes.
Her hand on my shoulder at the bar.
The conversation when we let down our guard.
The bet.
And that moment at the end, when we tangoed around resistance. Is resisting me easy, like she said? Or is it getting tougher for her to wrangle the lust, the desire, the burgeoning—
What the hell?
There’s no debate over resistance. There isn’t a need for it. Piper and I aren’t one of those hate-to-love-you bickering sitcom couples who don’t realize they really dig each other.
Piper and I know the score.
There isn’t even a scoreboard for us.
We aren’t a thing. We aren’t going to be any kind of thing whatsoever.
My newfound lust for her is just getting ahead of itself.
That’s all last night was—a surprise bout of lust that’s over. Done. Finished.
With a determined laser focus, I take the ball down the court and deliver it through the net.
When I turn around, Charlie’s holding out his hands. “You won. And you showed me up. Man, that’s what I love about you, Zach. I can always count on you to be a cold, determined bastard on the court.” He strides over and claps my back.
“Happy to school you every time.”
“You’re reliable as fuck. With that, and with everything.”
Reliable.
That’s what I need to be as his best man. Reliable, dependable, and a good friend.
Charlie is my closest buddy. He’s been here for me through the darkest times. He’s helped with my kids. He’s helped with my sanity.
The last thing I want is to cause a problem while he’s heading into the most important moment of his life: marrying Jessica.
Pushing forward on something with Piper—a night, a flirtation, anything at all—would be stupidly risky.
My best man role is all about Charlie. And, Lord knows, if I give in to anything with Piper, we’ll be warring again the next day, but ten times worse.
It’s for the best that resistance is easy for her, because that’ll make it easier for me to stuff these feelings in a storage unit and throw away the key.
As we head off the court, Charlie says, “So, the first thing we want to do is throw an engagement party in London.”
I flash back to my daughter’s list for the summer. London was at the top of it. That’s what I need to focus on—my friends and my family. Making things happen for the people who are still here.
“I’ll be there with the monsters.”
And in the back of my mind, a little voice reminds me that Piper will be there too.
No shit, little voice.
Like I don’t fucking know.
That’s why when Piper messages me about another time for her and Lucy to play mini golf, I reply curtly, letting her know to go ahead and set it up with Lucy.
Her response is equally short: Okay.
As if last night didn’t happen.
That’s how it needs to be.
Whatever last night was—flirting, touching, teasing . . . just fucking feeling something for the first time in years—it can’t happen again.
There is too much at stake.
I need to turn around and retreat. To hoof it far away, like my feet are on fire.
Piper and I are better off as enemies.
Or, really, as frenemies.
When Lucy arranges a time with her, I do what I need to do. I call Miranda and make sure she handles the drop-off and the pickup.
I have to be a shark.
Because Taylor’s husband is the worst. He’s hitting below the belt, playing underhanded games, trying to mindfuck her. Which means I’ll have to take the gloves all the way off.
I put my head down and focus on work, rather than on this stupid sensation I get in my chest when I see Piper.
So I do my damnedest not to see Piper.
12
Piper
Confession: I’ve never been to London.
Well, okay, fine. I’ve been to London in my mind. In my fantasies. In my freaking dreams. And it’s not even because of the whole sucker-for-a-British-accent thing. That’s not my thing.
It’s because of Harry and William. Meghan and Kate. And Diana.
And because of jewels—glorious, gorgeous, bright, shiny jewels. After my mother introduced me to the pomp and tiara of a royal wedding, I was sold.
Sign me up.
Send me there.
I didn’t want to be a princess, though I wouldn't have kicked Harry out of bed for eating raw onions and liverwurst, I assure you.
My dreams were simpler: to gawk at the ceremony; gaze upon the crown jewels; see the castles, the moats; and imagine what it would have been like to live amid all of that.
When I meet Jessica for tea at her favorite shop on the Upper East Side the day after the dinner, she tells me she wants me to help her plan a little engagement celebration across the pond. I’m cool and calm, and I don’t let on it’s a dream come true.
After all, she’s a friend, but now she’s a client, and I don’t want her to think I can’t handle the sheer and absolute awesomeness of what she’s offering me.
I flash a professional smile. “I have plenty of contacts in London. Some of my best colleagues here have counterparts in England, and in the luxury hotels and hip restaurants there, so this will be a piece of cake. Or should I say, a piece of scone.”
“You should definitely say ‘a piece of scone.’” She winks, then holds up her Earl Grey for a clink.
“I’m already getting in the spirit. Drinking my English breakfast,” I say, holding my tea ever so properly.
“Do you think we should do an afternoon tea, maybe the day after the engagement party?”
I nearly squeal. But somehow I manage to keep my giddiness inside. I tap my chin thoughtfully. “Tea and cakes and petit fours. Gee, I wonder.”
She laughs. “I guess that’s a yes.”
“It’s a yes, but only if we can get one of those three-tiered cake stands that holds all the little cakes and biscuits and treats.”
Her eyes seem to sparkle. “I knew you’d be perfect for this, my Anglophile friend. And Zach is already helping Charlie plan manly stuff.”
Zach. The name makes me bristle. I’ve barely seen him since the dinner, though I’ve spent time with his daughter. Admittedly, I was a little disappointed that he didn’t sweep into my office a week ago, tell me that resisting me was damn near impossible, and then sweep out.
Just because, well, who doesn't want to be irresistible?
But he didn’t, and that’s for the best.
Because he’s completely resistible, and I’m wholly focused on my friend and my business.
It’s that simple. I have zero brain space to allocate to Zach Nolan’s whiplash flirt/no flirt behavior.
Jessica and I chat more about her vision: an engagement party in London, a celebratory fete here in New York, then perhaps a destination wedding somewhere exotic.
When we’re done, I tend to work then meet up with my sister in Central Park, since she’s in Manhattan for a meeting. We stroll through the Conservatory Garden, a spot teeming with flowers, as I update Paige on Jessica’s plans.
My s
ister squeals, maybe even double squeals, and the sound delights me. It’s so much better than the tears that rained down her face the last time I saw her. “Are you going to see the crown jewels and go to Buckingham Palace and see Windsor Castle, where my bestie Meghan was married?”
“But of course, love,” I say in my best British accent.
“I’d say you’re a lucky bitch, but I know luck doesn’t have a thing to do with it. It’s all hard work. Your hard work. Can I also just say, this is so much better than Sea World?”
I crack up as we wander past dazzling orange daylilies and rich purple irises. “Hey, that’s not fair to Flipper and friends. Dolphins are cool too.”
“I know, but London? Wedding stuff in London? C’mon. That’s what we dreamed of as kids.”
For two girls growing up in Florida, London was like another planet. We didn’t cross the Atlantic or the Pacific. We went to Busch Gardens and Sea World on vacations.
“We did drink a lot of royal Kool-Aid,” I say.
“But never princess Kool-Aid.” She offers a fist for knocking, and I knock back.
“Hell no. I’m still annoyed that Ariel didn’t just write Eric a note. That mermaid made poor choices.”
Paige nods, her blonde ponytail bobbing. “I know, right? Instead of just batting her eyelashes, she could have used a thingamabob or a dinglehopper or whatever to write him a letter or draw him a picture. Also, he sucks for falling for Ursula just because she had a pretty singing voice.”
“Eric sucks the most of all the princes,” I agree. My sister and I picked apart every fairy tale when we were kids. We dreamed of castles because we wanted to be princesses. We just didn’t want to live in a tiny two-bedroom apartment in Homestead, Florida.
But hello! We absolutely would have thought of writing a letter to Eric if our voices were banished.
“Also,” Paige says, “while we’re on the subject, why on earth didn’t Snow White stay with the seven dwarves?”
I shrug. “I always thought she’d have been better off in a reverse harem situation with the men who loved her and who she truly loved.”
“A different man for each mood,” Paige adds.
“And each day of the week.”
“Of course, who’s to say the princess shouldn’t marry another princess?” She nudges me.
“As long as true love conquers all.” I add an eye roll since I know my sister and Lisa are still ridiculously in love.
“What can I say? I found my princess and kept her.”
“Ugh. You’re such a show-off with your perfect marriage to a perfect woman. Also, did you have to snag the hottest babe ever?” I ask, since Lisa is a knockout.
“She is pretty awesome.” Paige pauses and adjusts her ponytail, her expression turning more serious. “And I followed your advice. I’ve been more open.”
“Good. Always follow my advice. I know best on literally everything.”
Paige squeezes my arm. “Want to see something amazing?”
“Is it a two-headed man? Because the answer is no.”
Laughing, she grabs her phone, swipes her finger across the screen, and shows me an alien. I mean, a baby. A beautiful baby in a 4D ultrasound. “Stacy had to get an ultrasound. Doesn’t the baby look great?”
“Why did she need an ultrasound?” My alarm starts ticking, tensing my shoulders. Is Stacy jerking them around again? I’ve read up on pregnancy, and ultrasounds aren’t common at this stage. “That’s not typical in the third trimester.”
“She thought she was having contractions. But it turned out to be heartburn.”
“God bless heartburn.”
“Exactly. They did one just to be sure, and the good news is there’s nothing to worry about. Plus, I got another baby pic, which I can’t complain about. The doctor said everything is on track and looking good.”
“That’s terrific.”
Then Paige’s smile fades. “Sorry though.”
“For what?”
“For the ultrasound. I was hoping to ask you . . .”
I drape my arm around her. “I told you, it’s fine. I’ve got it handled.” The birth mom doesn’t have anything beyond basic insurance, so Paige—ergo, moi—is covering the above-and-beyond costs.
And it’s all for the best.
“How did Lisa react when you told her about the last request?” I ask.
“She threw her arms around me and said I had the best sister ever.”
I shimmy my shoulders. “You really do.”
She bats her eyes. “Great. So you’ll bring me back one of Kate’s hats?”
“You want me to go to England and pilfer one of Kate’s hats?”
She raises her chin, going full Brit. “No, I want you to nick it.”
As we walk around the fountain, debating baby names, I tell myself it’s a damn good thing I didn’t let Jessica talk me out of accepting money for her wedding. These ultrasounds aren’t paying for themselves.
It’s an even better thing that I intend to deliver an absolutely awesome engagement party for my friend.
That’s why on my to-do list, I have a note to deploy one of my secret weapons.
* * *
My friend Jason moonlights in the wedding business, and he hails from Old Blighty, so I meet him at his favorite pub later that week.
We help each whenever we’re able, since we’re not competitors. As an “undercover groomsman,” he serves an entirely different niche than I do. A narrower one, but it works for him as his side gig. And he’s excellent at it, organizing stag parties like a pro and standing next to the groom when the occasion calls for it. For those weddings, his job is simple and incredibly hard: be 100 percent believable as a friend of the groom, even though he’s not.
After we order two pints, I swivel around on my stool, facing his hazel-eyed gaze. “Debrief time,” I tell him.
He rubs his hands together. “Excellent. Shall I give you all the clandestine details on my last gig? Like when the bride nixed the original best man because of a row he’d had with the maid of honor over whether either of them wanted to see the other naked again?”
My interest is thoroughly piqued. “I must know everything.”
He shares all the scandalous details, and I ooh, ahh, and recoil at the appropriate times.
“Bless you for sharing a juicy story,” I tell him, bowing my head.
“Always happy to oblige in that regard. But enough about randy best men. What can I do for you?”
I take a deep breath and dive into the heart of why I wanted to meet with him. “I’ve been talking to my contacts in London, checking on any new hotels or eateries that have popped up recently. But I wanted to know if you heard any buzz the last time you were back home, or from your friends there.” He’s lived in Manhattan for a while, but he makes his way back to London every now and then. “And, of course, let me know if there are any spots to blackball.”
“You want the blackball list? That’s a mile long.”
“One mile? Are you going soft? I’d have thought twenty miles.”
“Soft? Me? Never. I’m always hard. Always ready.”
I hold up my palm. “I don’t want to hear about your tensile strength. We’ve already established you’re not allowed to hit on me.”
It’s our running joke, since the two of us have never been attracted to each other, even though Jason, with his dark hair and amber eyes, is a looker. We've only ever been colleagues, so it’s easy to rib each other.
“But it’s so hard to resist you.” He’s teasing, but I feel a wistful pang. Because there is someone I wish were truly having a hard time resisting me.
But that’s foolish. I don’t have time to be a fool. “I know, I know. But didn’t you say you had your sights set on someone? Your best friend’s sister or something? Has she succumbed to your charms?”
“Not yet. And he would likely kill me. But I’m not opposed to a challenge.”
“Or being murdered, it seems.”
“
I’m willing to die trying for this one.”
“She must be special.”
“She drives me insane.”
“Sometimes those are the ones we want most,” I say.
The bartender brings us our drinks, and we set to work catching up on the savviest concierges in Kensington and the best eateries. I make list after fabulous list.
“This is amazing. Where did you amass all this fresh intel?” I ask.
“From my master spy network. Or possibly because I did a virtual consult with a groom in the homeland recently. Wrote him a best man speech, and he shared details on all these new places. Now what about you? Have you had any more bride-mergencies?”
I smile. “Every now and then, a maid of honor goes rogue or a bridesmaid goes full Godzilla. I’d say once or twice a year, I step in, in one capacity or another. I’ve played nearly every part in a wedding. Thanks to the internet, I’m an ordained minister, so I’ve done everything now except play the bride or the groom.”
He shudders. “That last one’s a role I’ll never play either.”
“But I thought you were smitten with your best friend’s sister?”
“Sure, smitten works. But that doesn’t mean you’ll ever see me walking down the aisle.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be happy being single for the rest of your life.”
“And you too, pot to kettle.”
I shrug. “I’m not opposed to marriage. I just haven’t met that someone.”
He hums then takes a drink, staring off in the distance. “But I bet everyone still assumes you ought to be successfully betrothed, right?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” I groan. “Everyone expects wedding planners to be happily married, or thinks we’ve never suffered a single unsuccessful relationship.”
He takes a drink. “But isn’t that true of you, Piper? Your love life is a fairy tale.”
I nearly spit out my drink. “It’s the furthest thing.”
He arches a brow. “And is there anyone on the horizon who could make it a nearer thing?”
An image of Zach flashes before my eyes.
Never Have I Ever Page 10
