Never Have I Ever Page 2

  Dawn’s lips part. Praveen emits an impressed “Whoa.” Madison claps. Jessica shrieks. And Sasha beams, like I’ve delivered Ryan Gosling on a platter to her. “Oh my God, you are the same size. That’s amazing. And I know you’ll look incredible in lavender.”

  Yep. That’s part of that blend factor. That’s what everyone always says about me. I’m always about the size of the dress that somebody else can no longer wear. I always look good in every hideous color because, again, my face is merely pleasant.

  Sasha’s big blue eyes plead with me. “Please, Piper. Can you please be my final bridesmaid? I have to have the same number of bridesmaids as groomsmen.”

  I cast my gaze downward at abject Tania, her lovely updo already undone as Adrien’s assistant tuts and flutters, attempting to clean up a mess no one wants on the tiled floor of a Parisian-styled Upper East Side salon.

  Tania moans, dry heaving. Maybe there was moonshine in her cosmo.

  Adrien’s gray eyes make a quick appraisal of my brunette shoulder-length do. “Piper, I can have your hair done in a flash. Give me five minutes and I will make you a bridesmaid.”

  By 4:15, my hair is swept up on the sides.

  “It’s like it was meant to be,” Sasha says.

  That’s because I’m the everything fruit.

  I slip Adrien an extra Franklin as we go, and I slide into my new role as the replacement bridesmaid.

  Evidently it’s now one of the many à la carte services offered by this up-and-coming wedding planner.

  * * *

  Later that evening, my heart rate has slowed to normal, I’ve ticked most of the items off the wedding checklist, and I’ve nearly reached the end of a successful socialite event.

  Like a good understudy, I slipped into the role unnoticed by the audience, following the choreography to a T as I walked down the aisle, elbow linked with the fourth groomsman.

  All that’s left is the toast, the dance, and the cake.

  And the dance is going to be perfect here on this rooftop garden in Gramercy Park with twinkling lights flickering along the wrought-iron fence as a swing band plays love songs.

  Jessica pops over, squeezes my shoulder, and whispers, “You’re going to be a rock star wedding planner, girl.”

  “You’re going to be a rock star lit agent,” I tell her, and she already is, inking deals left and right for her clients, just as she’d told our friends she would when we plotted our futures over fro-yo and beer in the campus snack shop. “Also, thank you so much for the referral. This is golden.”

  She shakes her head, flicking some strands of silky black hair from her face. “No, thank you for being my wedding planner too.”

  I shoot her a curious look. I didn’t even think Jessica was dating anyone. “Are you holding out on me? Who’s Mr. Chen?”

  She laughs. “Who knows? I haven’t met him yet. I’m just planning ahead. Someday I’m going to hire you. Also, you’re a witch for looking so good in lavender. I look like a curtain, and you look like a Febreze commercial.”

  I arch a brow. “I’m not so sure Febreze is an improvement over window coverings.”

  “Febreze is fabulous.” She laughs, shakes her hips, then points to a groomsman, adding in a wink.

  “Go get him, witch,” I say.

  “I plan to get him and bed him.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much.”

  True to form, Jessica has the groomsman wrapped around her finger in minutes, chatting him up on the other side of the garden.

  A little later, a fork clinks against a glass, and the best man rises. Sasha gazes at him intently during the speech, watching as he toasts to the happy couple.

  I breathe deeply. I did this. Wedding number ten, and a bona fide success. As a Sam Cooke tune floats through the night air and the dancing begins, I head to the bar in the corner and ask for an iced tea.

  “Coming right up,” the bartender says.

  “And I’ll take a scotch, Ted.” I know that voice, and I angle toward the deep, raspy rumble. It belongs to one of those too good-looking men.

  You know the kind.

  Cheekbones carved by the gods.

  Eyes an unfair shade of blue.

  A jawline that could cut granite. Name? What’s his name? It’s been a few years since I saw him at the campus snack shop with the crew.

  He raps his knuckles on the bar. “Ted, what’s the over/under on this one working out?” Mr. Too Good-Looking asks the bartender.

  Shock snaps my gaze fully to him, wide-eyed then narrowing in disbelief. “Excuse me? Are you placing bets on my wedding?”

  He turns to me. Oh, God. I remember him now. Zach Nolan, the superhero look-alike from our group of friends, and the first to marry. He was the cockiest bastard in college, and based on his opening line to the bartender, it looks like he’s still operating at the same level of dickhead. I don’t know how he ever snagged a kind, smart woman like Anna to marry him. I swear, if I’d been the keeper of our circle in college, I would not have let him in. But alas, I was on the caboose end, and he was a few years older than Jessica and I were, so I had no say.

  Zach looks at me with suspicion. “Your wedding? You’re not in white, Miss Lavender.”

  I groan inside. Men who call women nicknames have another think coming. “Oh my God. You mean this isn’t white? That’s the last time I order a dress on the internet.”

  He’s stone. Unmovable. The bartender slides him a glass, and he takes a drink. My drink comes next and I grab it, clutching it tightly, maybe because I need something to hold on to.

  Zach lifts his chin. “So you’re feeling some sort of ownership of this wedding because you’re a bridesmaid? The fourth one, if memory serves?”

  “You remember in what order I walked down the aisle. That’s amazing.”

  “I remember all sorts of details about weddings.” He taps his temple.

  “Great. So do I, since I planned this one.” I straighten my shoulders, giving him my best take that. This man needs to think before he makes dickhead comments.

  But he’s unperturbed. His eyes are ice as he shrugs and knocks back more of the drink. “You should have planned better. It won’t last more than a year.”

  My jaw tics and a vein pulses in my neck. “Excuse me? What did you just say?”

  His brow narrows. “Was that confusing? Should I speak slower? I give it a year. Three hundred sixty-five days. Plus or minus a week.”

  I seethe, unsure of which condescending remark to tackle first. “Are you actually placing bets on how long the bride and groom will be together?”

  He stares at the stars, turns to the bartender, and says, “Hey, Ted, am I actually placing bets on how long the couple will stay together?”

  Ted chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m staying out of this one.”

  I huff and tell myself to walk away, but I’m not a walk away kind of gal. “Why do you need to place bets, Zach? Have you become a wedding soothsayer? Are you a nuptials fortune-teller now? Is business so rough you need to make extra cash off the I do’s?”

  I don’t even know what he does for a living, but likely it involves needling people. I bet he’s a telemarketer. A process server. A used car salesman.

  A small smile seems to tug at his lips. One that says impressed. “I don’t need to place bets. I like to place bets.”

  My blood burns, the simmer of anger rising to more of a boil. But he doesn’t deserve my emotion, or a single ounce of energy. “Okay, whatever,” I say, taking a thirsty gulp of my drink and turning my attention elsewhere. I can do this. I can walk away.

  For a beat, I watch the couple on the dance floor, having a blast as they cut a rug, boogying now to Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face.”

  Zach leans in closer. “C’mon, Piper. You’re telling me you don’t see it? You can’t see what’s happening out there?”

  My fists clench. Why must he still speak? I gesture to the dance floor. “I see a very happy couple. Everyone here sees a very happy couple.
The only thing I see that’s not happy is someone who wants to place wagers on weddings.”

  “Then allow me to show you.” He sets his nearly empty glass on the bar and points to the bride then the best man. “I see a bride who wants the best man. Did you see how she gazed at him during the speech? Like he was the one she wanted. As for the groom, I see a guy who doesn’t respect his bride. And I see a couple who wants everything but each other. I see a perfect wedding . . .” He cuts his gaze to me knowingly, and fine, pride does suffuse me because, hello, this is a glorious event and I created this moment. “And this seamless, flawless, gorgeous wedding,” he goes on, “is simply to cover up a perfect lie of a marriage. Who the hell kicks a friend out of the wedding party because she was hungover?”

  “How do you know that?” I ask, indignant.

  “Heard the groom talking. Seems he thought it was a crap move.”

  “And what should she have done with a barfing bridesmaid, since you know so much about doomed weddings?”

  “Give her some ginger ale and crackers and have her do her job.”

  “That’s all anyone is trying to do, his or her job. So what the hell is yours? Irritate the wedding planner?”

  Dipping his hand into the inside pocket of his tailored suit jacket, he hands me a card.

  I take it, annoyed, but I don’t look at it. “Business cards? Do we still do those?”

  He chuckles. “You never liked me, did you?”

  “You’re just now figuring this out?”

  “No. I’m just confirming it.”

  “Why do you care? You’re married.”

  “Happily,” he adds.

  “So yours is the one marriage no one gets to judge or place bets on?”

  He squares his shoulders. “Mine will last. I’m not worried.”

  A shocked laugh bursts from deep within me. “You better mark your words.”

  A shrug is his only answer. “I’m just saying, Mrs. Nolan didn’t long for the best man. I didn’t ignore her at our wedding. And she didn’t give a rat’s ass if the bridesmaid was upchucking.”

  “If you’re so happy, why are you standing here and judging everyone else?”

  “It’s what I do.”

  Intrigued, I flip over his card. “You’re a divorce attorney. Why am I not surprised?” Everything about Zach Nolan makes perfect sense. “That’s why you’re here. You’re like an ambulance chaser.”

  He gestures to the setting, as if to say I called it right. “And you put the bodies on the stretcher.”

  Red billows from the corner of my eyes. Fumes roll off me.

  Must disengage.

  I pretend I’m on a miniature golf course, focusing on nailing the par. I’m cool, calm, and dead-focused. No time for distractions. I tap the purple ball and watch it go.

  I draw a deep breath, plaster on my best society smile, and extend a hand. “Good to see you again, Zach. I hope you never need the services of someone like yourself.”

  “I won’t,” he says, cocky through and through. He checks his watch. “And on that note, I need to go. The wife’s due any day.”

  “Wish Anna luck from me,” I say, because his wife is a sweetheart.

  “Will do.”

  He leaves, and I couldn’t be happier a year later that Sasha and her hubby are still together.

  Even if they’re hanging on by a thread.

  1

  Zach

  Present day

  A gruff voice right outside the door shouts, “Delivery!”

  I glance around the front room of the office. Where the hell is Edward?

  The bearded guy in the brown uniform steps into the doorway, hauling a big box.

  “Thanks. You can just leave it here,” I say, gesturing to Edward’s empty desk. Where the hell is he? Would it kill him to actually work, say, at his damn desk?

  Evidently.

  He prefers working anyplace else, as far as I can tell. I only popped out of my office hoping it was the Thai food delivery man.

  But there’s no spicy beef salad in this gigantic box. The guy thrusts a tablet at me, asking for a signature. I sign, thank him, and say goodbye.

  I survey the box. I’ve no clue what this is or who sent it. Our deliveries are of the paper variety, not the boxed kind, and not from . . .

  Wait. The side of the box says it’s from Lucky Rice? What the hell? I peer at the sticker from the manufacturer. Twenty containers of . . .

  Are you kidding me?

  I check the delivery address and groan. “Edward? Are you hiding under your desk again?”

  The office is empty.

  “I’ll do it myself. Don’t worry. That’s why I hired you. So I could do everything myself while you get your hipster drinks. Also, no one needs that much tea.”

  Talking to an empty desk is unsatisfying. It’s just me talking into the void.

  I grab the box, carry it over to the door at the end of the second-floor hallway of the brownstone in Gramercy Park that’s the nine-to-five home of several small businesses. The sign on the ajar door reads "Wedding Designs by Piper" in calligraphy font, and I rap on it.

  “I have one of your boxes again.”

  A voice calls out from a back office. “Ooh! I hope it’s a sample from Vera’s new spring line.”

  Piper pops out of her office wearing—what the hell is that?

  I arch a brow. “Is it Halloween?”

  She shoots me a withering glare. She’s most excellent at withering glares. “No. It’s May. There’s this thing called a calendar. You look at it and it tells you the dates. I know it’s hard to figure out sometimes, but there are people who can help you, Zach.”

  I roll my eyes. “Why are you wearing that thing? You look like a Peep.”

  “Many people enjoy Peeps, so thank you very much.” She curtsies in her cloud of yellow.

  I wave at her with my free hand. “I can’t stand Peeps.”

  “Shocking. Utterly shocking.”

  “Seriously, is someone actually going to wear that to a wedding? It’s like it’s made of baby chick fluff.”

  She sighs, picking at the cloud of skirt material. “One of my brides is considering it for the bridal party. She sent it to me and asked for my opinion. I tried it on to get the full effect.”

  “And you’re going to tell her the effect is that of a life-size Easter bonnet walking down the aisle?”

  “No. I’m going to tell her it’s lovely, but not quite right. Because there’s this thing called tact. I like to use it when I have conversations with, for instance, people. Now what can I help you with?”

  “Your rice cakes are here.” I set the box on the coffee table in her reception area, next to a set of mini-golf clubs and a container of purple golf balls. More weird wedding favors probably. I scratch my head. “I have to say, I’ve fielded a lot of deliveries for you since Steven gave us a deal on this office space. You’ve had shipments of purple, orange, and polka-dot dresses; of Jordan almonds, which, incidentally, no one on the entire planet likes; of pickles, which are the oddest wedding favor I’ve ever heard of. Oh, and the Lord of the Rings ears for that bride who wanted everyone to dress as if they were from Middle Earth. But rice cakes? Are these decorations? Appetizers? Favors? Variations on a wedding cake? If so, then this is clearly the end times for the entire institution of marriage.”

  Piper sighs as she grabs her keys to slice open the box. “Weddings aren’t doomed. Marriage isn’t doomed. I just have a bride who’s requiring her wedding party to go on a diet. They can only drink water and eat rice cakes. Those who aren’t successful need to wear pashmina shawls to cover up their fat arms.”

  I blink in surprise. I’m speechless.

  Piper holds up her keys as if in surrender. “Those were the bride’s words, not mine. I don’t care about fat arms. Or chubby bridesmaids. Or porky best men.”

  I rein in a sliver of a grin. “Good to know you’re not a sizeist.”

  “Unfortunately, this bride is.”
<
br />   I rub my palms together. “All right, I can’t resist. This is too easy. I have to go all in on this one not lasting longer than—”

  She cuts me off. “Don’t. Don’t go there. I’m doing everything I can to stop her.”

  I park my hands on my hips. “C’mon. Even you have to admit this has zero—”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. Do not spew your negative energy on my bride.”

  “She started it. That’s like one of those bridal requests that goes viral. Like that one where the bride wanted everyone to wear orange suede pants and green turtlenecks or something.”

  Piper scoffs, but there’s a laugh tucked into it. “‘She started it’? Seriously? Go back to your lair, Grim Reaper.”

  “Enjoy the rice cakes.” I make a gagging sound.

  “I’d say enjoy the spicy beef salad, only it was delivered here an hour ago when I was out, and when I returned at the same time your assistant popped by—in a fit of mortification that he might have to serve up bad news to his ogre of a boss—he was so devastated to learn that it was cold that he put on his running shoes and took off to the Thai place to get you another one.”

  I snap my fingers. “That’s where he is.”

  “Oh wait. You thought he was off ignoring you and getting his Earl Grey latte?”

  “No,” I say, denying, denying, denying. Of course I thought he was getting an Earl Grey latte. He inhales that wretched beverage.

  “And he was actually serving his master.”

  “Hey, he wanted the job.”

  “And you’ve successfully terrorized him.”

  “That’s what lawyers do.”

  “Good luck with your spicy beef salad. I hope it’s burn-your-tongue-off hot.”

  I turn around. “Good luck with the rice cake–zilla. I give it a month.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, after I finish the spicy beef salad, tell Edward to get an Earl Grey latte on me as a thanks for his problem-solving, and finish reviewing some documents, the sitter brings my daughter by the office.