Never Have I Ever Page 7

  I’m not planning on wearing a tie tonight, but it’ll keep them busy for a few. She hops off the stool, grabs Henry’s hand, and hustles him to my room.

  When she’s out of earshot, I decide to have fun with my mom and sister. “You’re so right. And you know what? I’m so glad you’re both here.” I clasp a hand to my chest and affect a little squeal. “Because I wanted to let you know I’m finally ready to date again.” I flash the biggest smile. “So I thought, what better place to start than with the big group of people I’ve been connected to since college?”

  My sister’s breath catches. “Yay!”

  My mom beams. “Oh, sweetie, we’ve been hoping you’d be ready to get back out there.” She throws her arms around me. “I’m so happy for you, honey.”

  Wait. They believed that load of crap?

  My mom’s embrace tightens, ratcheting to full vise-grip level. Yup, the rumors are true. I am an asshole. Also, clearly I have no heart. But I do have a brain, and it’s yelling loudly at me to fix this mess I’ve made.

  I disentangle from her. “Mom, I was joking. I’m sorry.”

  She tilts her head like the dog at the Victrola. “You’re joking?” Her tone is the definition of despondent.

  “I’m just not interested in dating.”

  “But it’s been two years,” she says gently, running a hand down my arm like I need comfort.

  But I’m not. I’m fine. “I’m well aware of the time frame.”

  “Are you still . . .?” She lets her voice trail off as she pats her cheeks.

  I blink. “Am I what? Crying myself to sleep at night?”

  My sister whimpers. “Ohhh. Were you crying yourself to sleep?”

  I heave a sigh. “Emmy. Mom. I love you both. But I’m not crying myself to sleep. I’m not crying in the shower. I’m fine. When you check in with your grief books, feel free to take some solace in the fact that I’m in the acceptance stage. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to dinner with friends to scam on women.”

  My mother furrows her brow in a question. “Is that what they call it these days? Scamming?”

  “I think they just call it pick up women,” my sister says helpfully. Then she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Also, people mostly just swipe right and left. Do you want me to help you get on Tinder?”

  “You could try a matchmaker too. I’ve heard of a very successful one who helps men in your situation,” my mom puts in.

  My sister thrusts her phone at me, showing me Tinder. “I downloaded it just for you. Let me help.”

  Groaning, I shove my hands roughly through my hair. “I don’t want your help with Tinder. Or PlentyOfFish. Or a matchmaker. Especially one who helps ‘men in my situation.’” I stop to sketch air quotes. “Nor do I want to go out with Charlie’s sister’s friend, or Hannah’s mom. I’m not interested in any of those because I have my hands full with the law practice and the kids. Dating is the last thing on my mind, and if it were higher up, I assure you, I would not be scamming or picking up or swiping left, right, up, or down on someone in my group of friends from college, especially since tonight is about Charlie.”

  “But are you sure? So many singles are having loads of success.” My sister’s voice rises with the last vestiges of hope. She’s relentless. But that’s the highest compliment from one attorney to another.

  Exasperated, I slump against the counter. “Seriously, what is it about being a widower that makes everyone—literally everyone—want to set me up?”

  Emmy’s lips twitch in a grin. “Well, that’s exactly what makes everyone want to set you up. Being a widower.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “Let me get this straight. That’s why I’m the hot commodity in the meat market? Because I have a dead wife?”

  Emmy takes a step back. My mom grabs the edge of the counter. Was my bluntness too much? But what’s the point in tiptoeing around the obvious? “Let’s just call a spade a spade. You want to set me up because my wife is underground? Does that make any sense?”

  “Zach,” my mother chides. “Don’t talk that way.”

  “Why?”

  The answer comes in Henry’s low sniffle.

  He’s back, a purple tie in one hand.

  His whimper turns into a louder one, then it’s muffled as Lucy tugs him in for a hug. “It’s okay, little bub.”

  “I don’t want Mommy to be underground,” Henry says between tears.

  My heart slams to the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, as if I can will this away. I’ve made my son cry. I’m a terrible shark. I’m a snake.

  I cut across the kitchen, kneel, and wrap my arms around both of them. “Guys, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Henry sniffles more, louder, and wetter.

  “Forgive me,” I whisper, my throat tightening. “Please, forgive me.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy,” he says, swallowing his sadness, it seems.

  But soon, my shirt is covered in tears.

  And I don’t have to worry if I have a black heart. I know I do.

  * * *

  The great thing about being seven is you’re like a rubber band. Henry bounces back a few minutes later. He wipes away his tears, helps me pick out a new shirt, and insists on me going even when I tell him I can skip the dinner and watch that Mythbusters episode on how to make an airplane from duct tape.

  “It’s okay. I’m all better. Aunt Emmy and Grammy said they’re taking Lucy and me out for ice cream.”

  Ah, ice cream. God bless. It’s the universal salve. It makes nearly everything better.

  Before I know it, the four of them are pushing me out the door and telling me to have fun, even though fun is the last thing on my mind.

  Emmy follows me down the hall to the elevator, setting her hand over the panel. “Listen, don’t think twice about it,” she says, exonerating me before I even have to ask for absolution.

  I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Sorry.”

  She clasps a hand to her chest. “No, I’m sorry. I pushed you. We piled on you, Mom and me. You need to take things at your own pace. I was honestly just so stupidly excited that you were going out. I let it get the better of my judgment, and then I pushed you, and I’m not surprised it upset you.”

  I try to wave it away. “It’s fine. I get it. I mean, let’s be honest—I was a total catch before Anna. I’m still a total catch. It’s not a surprise that men, women, and matchmakers of all ages want to try to snag a piece of me.” I smack my ass for effect.

  She gags. “I think my lunch just came up. Wait. No. That’s breakfast. I’m so grossed out my oatmeal is threatening to make a return visit.”

  I laugh, and she laughs harder, and all is forgiven. She tugs me in for a quick hug, then straightens my purple tie. Henry wanted me to wear it. Given that I made him cry, it’s the least I could do.

  “Anyway, it just makes me happy that you’re doing better. And that means going out, whether you’re going out romantically or with friends.”

  I smile. “I’m definitely better. And tonight, I’m definitely going out with friends.”

  After I head downstairs and hail a cab, it hits me that I’m going to be thirty minutes early for dinner.

  I guess that gives me time to scam at the bar.

  Right. As if I want to do that. I’ll just grab a drink and catch up on work on my phone. I’ll answer emails, read files, and check in on cases.

  When I arrive at the restaurant, I tell the hostess I’m here for Charlie McGrath’s dinner. She flashes a red-glossed smile and tells me there are others from the party waiting at the bar.

  When I turn my gaze, I catch a glimpse of wavy brown hair and legs that go on for days. I catalog the rest: a leather skirt that hits mid-thigh, dark-gray suede heels, and toned arms on display in a short-sleeve black blouse.

  The brunette is chatting with a blonde.

  When Piper laughs, her lips curve up and her eyes twinkle. She hasn’t even noticed me.

  I stand and stare as a realization
lights up for me like a neon billboard flashing above a bar on a dark country road. You drive for miles and miles on winding, hairpin turns till you see it, and when you do, it’s bright and beckoning.

  Piper Radcliffe is the first woman I’ve been attracted to since Anna.

  And I’m pretty sure the attraction didn’t begin tonight.

  I’ve been noticing her for days.

  For weeks.

  For months.

  8

  Zach

  Charlie has chosen a bistro off Park Avenue, in the East Sixties. It looks like a farmhouse in the French countryside with long wooden tables, white linens, and wine, everywhere, wine. The bar is lit in the kind of light that suggests gas lamps are flickering, casting the space in a twilight glow. The kind that shows no imperfections. That makes everything look soft, inviting.

  Hell, maybe that’s why my world just went ass up.

  Perhaps the light is tricking me into thinking something, feeling something, when I’ve felt so little for so long.

  That’s what I tell myself—that this sensation in my chest is temporary insanity—but when Piper turns around, catches my gaze, and shoots me a curious look, I know it’s not the light.

  Something else entirely is taking shape. Something that feels foreign. Because it’s been ages since I felt a spark.

  I feel a ton of them right now. That’s exactly what this is. Exactly what’s been brewing for the last several weeks.

  And precisely why it’d be a mistake to do a damn thing about it.

  Especially since she clearly still hates me, judging from her if you have to, you can join me wave.

  I head straight for her, doing my best to shove this bizarre attraction to the far corner of my head. Wait. Make that farther. Make that all the way out of my mind.

  Yes, it’s gone.

  “You’re early,” she remarks with a deliberate huff. “I guess you can hang out with us for a minute.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate the heartfelt invite.” I turn to her friend and extend a hand. “Zach Nolan.”

  The blonde shakes my hand. “Sloane Eliza—” She stops herself, laughing. “Sloane Goodman.”

  I arch a brow. “Recently married and adjusting to the new last name?”

  “Exactly. And it’s been three months, so you’d think I’d be accustomed to it now.”

  “Three months. That’s great. Congratulations.”

  Piper holds up a hand and slams it to my shoulder. That’s unexpected too. The contact. Has she touched me before? I don’t think she has, at least not like this, and not for longer than a second.

  She’s already passed the five-second mark and she’s still touching me. She’s not letting go. She curls her hand over my shoulder and squeezes. “Do not do it.”

  Her warning is stern, and her brown eyes are full of fire—the hellfire she’ll rain down on me if I do it.

  Sloane chuckles, casting a curious glance at her friend. “Do what?”

  Piper tips her forehead in my direction, still clasping my shoulder. “Zach, who, incidentally, is Zach Nolan, Esquire”—she drags out “Esquire” so it drips with the mockery that it deserves—“doubles as an oracle of doom when it comes to marriages.”

  Sloane’s smile turns upside down. “Keep your predictions far away from me.”

  I raise my hands in surrender. But not so high that Piper takes her hand off me. Nope, her hand is definitely still on my deltoid. “I promise I reserve this party trick to amuse Piper, since, well, it drives her crazy.”

  Sloane chuckles then lifts a brow in a knowing kind of way. “And do you pull her pigtails too, and dip them in ink?”

  “Of course,” I answer.

  Sloane turns to Piper. “And do you leave frogs in his lunch box?”

  Piper shoots her friend an are you crazy look. “What does that mean?”

  Sloane stares right back. “Figure it out.”

  “Fine. I will.” Piper crosses her arms, taking her hand off my shoulder.

  Well, that’s sad. My shoulder enjoyed that moment a hell of a lot.

  The women are silent, studying each other’s faces. I watch them intently as they seem to communicate a million things in one long stare. It’s impressive, really. The way their eyes lock, their brows rise and fall, their lips quirk. They’re having an entire conversation in facial expressions and laser eye holds. Women truly are more highly evolved.

  Piper holds up a finger. “Got it. But I disagree.”

  What does she disagree with?

  Sloane shrugs happily. “Disagree all you want, but I know the truth.”

  Tell me. I want to know.

  “There’s nothing to know,” Piper adds.

  Holy shit. I’m witnessing a mind-meld, a conversation conducted half out loud and half via brain waves.

  I jump in. “What did you guys just say?”

  “Girl talk,” Piper mutters.

  Sloane checks the time on her phone. “I should head out of here. Malone is performing in thirty. That’s Mr. Goodman to you,” she says to me.

  “Malone? You and your husband have rhyming names?”

  She lifts her chin. “We do. And I love him madly. Wildly, incandescently, insanely, intensely, immensely.”

  “So there,” Piper chimes in, then sticks her tongue out at me.

  Sloane laughs, shaking a finger at Piper. “Like I said, I know the truth.”

  Piper waves her off. “You may leave now.”

  “Wait.” I point my thumb at Sloane then meet Piper’s gaze. “Did I ever tell you that rhyming names trumps everything? Any couple with rhyming names definitely will love each other forever and ever.”

  Sloane clasps a hand to her heart. “Aww. See? He’s not as bad as you say, Piper.”

  I chuckle. “My reputation precedes me.”

  Piper waves a hand dismissively in my direction. “Your reputation wafts off you.”

  I pretend to sniff my shoulder. “It’s a most excellent cologne.”

  Sloane laughs then leans in to give Piper a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun tonight, and don’t be such a good girl.”

  That piques my interest. Is Piper a good girl? In bed? I’ll just stuff that thought under the rug in my brain too.

  Piper shoos away Sloane. “Say hi to that handsome man. Tell him to sing, well, anything, since everything he sings makes you swoon.”

  “That is true.”

  Once she leaves, Piper gestures to her friend. “Her husband is a vet who moonlights as a lounge singer. Like she stood a chance. Plus, she runs an animal rescue, so it’s pretty much fate that brought them together.”

  I give her a steely stare. “Wait. Don’t tell me you believe in fate.”

  She raises a palm and slams it to my chest. Hello, hand. Nice to see you again.

  “Do not,” she warns.

  “Do not what?”

  “Do not ruin my buzz.”

  Ah, that explains her touchy side tonight. Just to be sure, though, I ask, “Are you drunk?”

  She scoffs, gesturing to her half-filled champagne glass and letting go of my chest. Damn. Maybe I can get her to the third-time’s-a-charm stage. “Please,” she says. “I’ve had half a drink. I’m buzzed on life, happiness, and the possibility of tonight. After all, it’s the big news night, and big news is usually good news. Also, why are you here early?”

  I toss the question back as I take the stool next to her. “Why are you here early?”

  She arches a brow. “Did I invite you to sit down?”

  I lean a little closer. “No. But I did it anyway.”

  She keeps her eyes locked to mine. “I’ll try again. Why are you here twenty minutes early?”

  I decide to cut through the bullshit. “I’m here early because all the women in my family kicked me out of my house.”

  “Why did they kick you out? Were you mean to them? Did you insult your sister’s hair, dress, clothes, or lifestyle choices? Did you tell your mom her new recipe for lasagna tastes like sand? Did you
inform Lucy there’s no such thing as Santa?”

  “Whoa. You do think I’m terrible. But I’ll have you know, Lucy is well aware of the lie of old St. Nick and has been for two years.”

  “And the other possibilities?”

  I scratch my chin. “Hmm. Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me I have nothing nice to say, ever? And yet I seem to recall recently telling you your haircut looked nice.” And since she’s been on a touching spree, I decide it’s my turn. I lift a hand and touch the ends of her hair.

  She freezes then swallows, glancing down at her heels.

  “Soft too,” I add.

  Her breath seems to catch.

  I let go.

  Because I don’t know where this moment goes next, or where I want it to go. Or even what the hell I’m doing. Am I flirting with her? Should I be doing that? And do I even know how to anymore?

  Piper gazes at the shelf of wine bottles behind the bar, like she’s orienting herself, then turns her attention back to me. “I kept meaning to ask if the pod people had taken you over that day when you complimented me. Had they?”

  Here goes nothing. “It’s possible. Or maybe I actually thought your hair looked pretty,” I say, upgrading from nice as I kick my doubt temporarily to the curb. I’ll see what happens with these strange new feelings.

  “I find that hard to believe.” But before I can ask why, she zooms back to the issue. “Why did they kick you out?”

  The bartender swings by and asks if I want beer or wine. I opt for a beer, and then answer Piper’s question. “They seem to think I need to do more than work and parent.”

  Piper’s brow knits, and her expression shifts from playful to serious. “Is that the case? Is that all you do?”

  I shrug. “Maybe. I read a lot though, and I also work out.”

  “Working out is important. You have to make sure you look good in a tie.”

  I narrow my eyes in confusion. “How does regular exercise make me look good in a tie? You’re going to need to spell that out.”