Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

Batman: “It’s obvious. Only a criminal would disguise himself as a licensed, bonded guard yet callously park in front of a fire hydrant.”

— Batman (1966–1968 TV series)

Desperate boredom called for desperate measures, and this new mantra of mine was how I’d found myself at a secret society marriage meetup on a Thursday night as a favor to a coworker, under an assumed name, wearing a wig, and having just been abandoned by the person who was supposed to escort me for the entire evening.

No problem. I can do this. I can pretend to be an auburn-haired, forty-year-old cultured heiress with impeccable manners and unsurpassed elegance.

Gathering several deep breaths from my spot overlooking the ballroom, I descended the stairs to the main floor, doing my best to feign an air of imperviousness. The glasses of champagne I’d downed earlier helped, bolstering my confidence. It’s not that I didn’t have confidence typically. I probably had too much confidence, which probably had more to do with never leaving my comfort zone.

That said, I used to have an abundance of any-time, any-place confidence. Not so much anymore. But that ended tonight!

I stepped down from the bottom stair. Though I felt out of my depth here, I was glad for the opportunity and would make an effort to milk this experience for all it was worth. Who knew when I’d have another chance to pretend to be someone else like this?

Eyeing a few clusters of well-dressed, artfully coiffed, white-teethed people, I debated how to approach. Or should I wait for them to approach me? Or . . . what?

I’d agreed to Chelsea’s request on a whim a mere two hours ago, which had given me zero time to talk myself out of this little adventure. Talking myself out of fun or weird or interesting things tended to be my modus operandi these days. Discomfort was so uncomfortable, and pajamas and murder shows were so delightfully cozy.

But look at me now! Taking the place of my doppelgänger coworker at this secret society party of rich and affluent people, people who apparently met up annually to find a suitable, marriageable partner. I didn’t blame them. Did there exist even one individual who actually enjoyed online dating? Or bars? Or blind dates? No such thing, bro.

Now all I needed to do was stick around for another few minutes, a half hour tops, and that’s it. I’d promised Chelsea an hour and an hour would be what she got. Never let it be said that I, Ava Archer, shirked her pretending-to-be-someone-else-at-a-marriage-meet-up-in-order-to-save-her-coworker-from-experiencing-tension-in-said-coworker’s-long-term-releationship-as-a-favor responsibilities.

At a loss as I hovered near the bottom of the staircase, I maintained my mask of cool self-assurance and decided to walk to the bar in the far corner. Once there, I would order a drink, nonalcoholic this time. If no one spoke to me or if nothing happened by the time I finished my drink, I would leave and my night would be over. No biggie. Tonight felt like a big win already simply because I’d stepped out of my comfort zone. Plus, free new shoes. Woot!

I’d made it maybe seven steps from the grand staircase before a guy with brown hair blocked my path. “I know who you are,” he said, a little grin tugging his mouth to one side. He had a British accent. It sounded like my dad’s. Very posh.

Successfully keeping the mild burst of anxiety from my features—again, thank you champagne—I worked to adopt the usual aloof-but-amused expression my coworker Chelsea Albrecht-Walton, aka the aforementioned heiress doppelgänger, wore during department meetings and asked, “Should I know who you are?”

His grin widened and he put his hand out, but not for a handshake. His fingers were facing up, like he wanted me to take them, like we’d be holding hands. I lifted an eyebrow and inspected this man. He wore a carnelian pin. This meant he was old money but not one of the founding members of the secret society.

Assuming he hadn’t been aging backward like Chelsea, I suspected he was in his mid-thirties. His hair was short and reasonably thick, but he didn’t have the hairline of someone in their twenties. No beard. His eyes were a pale, grayish blue. I estimated he was six foot or six foot one. With me in three-inch heels, we were exactly the same height.

Angling my chin, I lightly placed my fingers on top of his. He lifted my hand to his lips and placed a whisper of a kiss on my knuckles, then released me. “Your pictures don’t do you justice.”

Oh. He’s only seen Chelsea’s picture.

I was so relieved he’d never met Chelsea in person before, I didn’t catch my retort before it fled my mouth. “Should I hire a new photographer?”

He blinked like my response surprised him, then he abruptly threw his head back and laughed. Loudly.

I had to try very, very hard not to squint at him. My question was nowhere near as funny as he was making it out to be. Amusing maybe. Not funny.

“You’re very witty.”

“Indeed.” Like when I performed my impersonations of Chelsea at work—all sanctioned and done in front of her—I kept my teeth slightly closer together and barely moved my lips while I spoke. “And you are?”

“William Toussaint.” His gaze skated over me, giving me the impression he was waiting for me to recognize the name.

I did recognize his last name. The Toussaints were notable clients of my law firm’s London branch. I was fairly certain his mother or grandmother was a duchess or baroness or something like that. Look at me! Chatting it up with a baroness’s son. Or grandson. Or nephew. Point is, he was a relative of someone fancy.

As an aside, technically I was the granddaughter of someone fancy on my dad’s side. He never talked about it, or wanted to talk about it, thus we kids never asked.

But the reminder that this Toussaint guy in front of me had a mother and grandmother somewhere spurred me to ask, “And how is your family?” Everyone had a family, and therefore it was a safe topic. “I trust they’re all in good health?”

“Oh, you know.” He sorta rolled his eyes, his cheerful pretense dropping. Abruptly, he looked quite put out. As put out as Lady Catherine de Bourgh from the Keira Knightley film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice.

Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?!

“Made the trip special for this,” he said, twisting at the waist and lifting his rocks glass, making a vague gesture indicating to the room at large. “I’m here with Henri Wickford, mind. Though I’ll be damned if I know where he went.” William sniffed once, his chest puffing out a bit, and I got the sense Henri Wickford was a name drop. “Not sure you know Henri, do you? I’m guessing you want an introduction.”

I stalled, glancing at my watch. Now that I was faced with meeting people and having conversations, I wasn’t sure I should. I wasn’t nervous anymore, but what if Chelsea ran into these people later? I should write a report for her describing who I met and what we talked about, bring her up to speed.

Ultimately, I evaded his question. “You tell me. I’m not staying much longer and haven’t much time.” Whoa. That sounded good. Disinterested. Nice.

“Oh, come off it.” William breathed out a snort. “Everyone wants to meet Henri.”

“How about this.” I lifted my empty champagne flute toward a passing waiter and placed it on his tray, now in entitled-heiress mode. “I’ll allow the introduction if you help me escape immediately afterward.” Ha! This was kind of fun.

“Pardon?” The word was ripe with skepticism.

“Don’t you think I’m more than capable of making an introduction on my own, if I’d wanted one?” I affixed a politely dismissive smile on my face and sidestepped around him, only to be brought up short by the placement of another person standing directly in my path.

Rocking backward, I looked up, prepared to say “Excuse me” and continue on my way, pleased with my performance and myself, and therefore ready to leave.

The words died on my tongue because the most coldly beautiful man I’d ever seen gazed down at me, his features like a Greek statue, carved marble, blond hair arranged in masculine ringlets—if you can imagine such a thing is possible, which I would’ve doubted if I hadn’t seen his hair firsthand—his eyes summer-sky blue and yet lacking any ounce of warmth.

I blinked up at him. He stared down at me, his cold expression reminding me that I wasn’t presently Ava Archer. I was Chelsea Albrecht-Walton. Unlike Ava, Chelsea was also a boss at being chilly when necessary.

Sighing in character, I said, “You’ve interrupted me on my way to the bar.”

His mouth opened at the same time I spoke, making me think I’d interrupted some planned statement from him.

Smiling tightly in a way I’d witnessed Chelsea do with junior attorneys who asked silly questions, I lifted my hand and motioned for him to move, flicking my wrist. “Please.”

His eyebrows ticked up a few millimeters, like he was surprised but kept his expressions on a tight leash. “Please what?” Was he American? Or British? I couldn’t tell.

“Please move.” I noted his pin was moonstone. Ugh. New money. How odious. Yeeeeah. I was fully in character now.

Oddly enough, his mouth tugged to one side at my dismissive gesture. He didn’t move, instead subtly tilting his head to the side, his cold eyes moving between mine. “Didn’t you want an introduction?”

“I don’t recall requesting one.” I stepped back, crossing my arms lightly over my middle. “What I do remember is needing a drink, and now you’re in my way.”

This pretty person continued looking at me like I was confused, and that confused him. But all he said was, “Is that so?”

“That is so.” On a whim, fueled by an Oscar-worthy performance thus far, I asked, “How will you make it up to me?”

He blinked, like this question also surprised and confused him.

I loved how in K-dramas heroes were always flirting with heroines by asking the question, “How will you make it up to me?” It was cute.

The blond angel seemed to think it was cute too. His gaze didn’t warm precisely, but he suddenly looked infinitely less bored. “Must I make it up to you?”

“Absolutely.”

“What do you suggest?” His voice lowered and so did his gaze, dropping to my chin or neck for a brief moment before returning to mine.

“If you need me to provide ideas, then you are simply incapable of making reparations.” I plucked my clutch from under my arm and prepared to haughtily walk around him.

He stepped in my path again. “Please,” he said “I have ideas. Many ideas.”

“Good for you.” For some reason, I was smiling. But it was definitely a reserved Chelsea smile and not a big old toothy Ava smile. I gave myself a mental fist bump for my character immersion. Truly, I should switch careers. I was an acting genius.

Extending his hand—not like William’s platform fingers earlier, but perpendicular to the ground like a regular handshake—he said, “I’m Henri Wickford.” However, like William, he watched me as though waiting for me to recognize his name.

I didn’t recognize his name other than from William Toussaint’s earlier reference to it but accepted his handshake. “Chelsea Albrecht-Walton.”

“I know,” he said. Before I could react to that, he asked, “What are you drinking?”

“Nothing, thanks to you.” My response was rapid-fire. I was born to play this role! After tonight, I would take to the stage. I would conquer Broadway first, then Hollywood. It was my destiny!

Looking mock-mournful, Henri placed a hand over his heart. “Allow me to remedy the situation. William,” he said, calling to his friend. Or associate. Or whatever they were.

William appeared at Henri’s elbow. “Yes?”

“A manhattan for Chelsea.”

Ava wanted to frown, but Chelsea kept her features dispassionate. The Toussaint family was notoriously snobby and this Henri Wickford dude was treating their grandson like he was a waiter. Who is this guy?

“Absolutely,” William nodded, looking cheerful again. “Anything for you, Henri?”

“Nothing you can give me.” Henri said this without taking his eyes from mine.

I allowed myself to cock an eyebrow after William left to fetch my drink. Like he was a dog instead of the heir to an old money empire.

Henri must’ve been extremely competent at his job or insanely wealthy. A fascinating truth I’ve learned about life in my twenty-five years is that many (not all, but many) nonrelatives and nonfriends will put up with oddness and poor manners in the subjectively very physically attractive, the extremely competent, or the staggeringly wealthy. But if you’re none of the above, you better be lacking in all eccentricities or incredibly charismatic.

“Tell me, Chelsea. Your accent. Where are you from originally?” He took a half step closer.

“Chicago. And you?” I didn’t think anything of his question. Chelsea did have a strange accent. She’d given me good-natured pointers whenever I impersonated it and had praised my pronunciation of certain words, saying I sounded a lot like her grandmother had.

“Delaware.”

Hmm. What would Chelsea think about someone being from Delaware? I decided Chelsea would think Delaware was fine. “Are you in town just for tonight?” I asked, honestly curious. “Or did this event happily coincide with other plans?”

“If I had plans prior to now, I honestly can’t recall them.” He sounded dishonest and flirty.

“Maybe you’re suffering from short-term memory loss,” I said, and tried not to cringe because that sounded like something Ava would say, not Chelsea.

Thankfully, it made him grin. “Should I get myself checked out?”

“It’s not a bad idea.”

“Would you do it? If I asked?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“No. You just play one on TV, right?”

Did he just quote a movie?

No.

YES!

Also possible, this Henri person had quoted the original source, actor Chris Robinson’s Vicks Formula 44 cough syrup commercial from the 1980s.

Unable to help myself, I asked, “Big fan of General Hospital? Or do you have a cough?”

His eyes brightened, losing their frost for the first time. “You watch General Hospital?” He placed his hand on my elbow and leaned forward, his voice hushed.

“Reruns. I shipped Jason and Elizabeth. How about you?” I whisper-answered in his ear before I could think better of it. Later, I would blame the champagne and the heady feeling of finding someone who also liked to quote famous lines from TV, books, and movies. No one at work ever seemed to realize when I was quoting a movie, so I rarely did out loud, for obvious reasons.

A choking sort of laugh emerged from him. “Not Sonny and Carly?”

Now I laughed. “No way. Too much drama.”

“But isn’t that the point? Of a soap opera, I mean.” He leaned closer.

“What? No! I don’t think so at all.”

“What do you think?” Henri’s volume dropped further to a whisper, his gaze making a detour to my lips again.

“I think⁠—”

“Oh my God. Is that you? Celeste?!”

Automatically, my head turned toward the sound, and this was for two reasons. First, Celeste was my middle name and only one person in my life ever called me that with any frequency. Second, my subconscious recognized the voice that said it. And then I saw him.

The room narrowed, all sound falling away. I felt the color drain from my face but wasn’t aware of much else because Des was there. My Des. Dressed in a dark gray suit. Vivid blue tie. White shirt. Strolling toward me. My childhood and teenage-hood best friend. My person. My⁠—

No. Wait. It wasn’t my Des. It was adult Des. Very adult Des. I’d never seen adult Des.

Taller, wider shoulders, more substantial and angular features. But the eyes, they were the same as when we were fifteen, before he left me, before he cut me out of his life. Electric blue beneath dark auburn eyebrows. Hawkish and sharp.

Before I knew it, he’d wrapped me in a tight—very tight—hug, squeezing the breath out of me, his big hand coming to the back of my head and pressing my cheek firmly against his chest, over his heart.

What. The. Hell.

I’d barely processed anything by the time he released me. I sucked in air through my nose to replace the breath I’d lost from his harsh hug. My brain told me he smelled great.

Des’s hands still on my arms, he leaned back with a meanish-looking curve to his lips to say, “It’s been, what? Ten years? How are your parents? And what are you doing here? Is your mom still with the CIA? Also, what’s with this wig?”