One Tequila, Two Tequila, Banned from Beverly Hills

For Business or pleasure? Welcome to The Casper Chronicles.

📩 Previously, on Plot Twisted:

• Is that a gun in your pocket? Or are we just two tequilas in and dating in South Florida?

There’s something about LA—the palms swaying against a bright blue sky, the beach framed by mountains, and streets filled with the predictable parade of long-tee broskis and athleisure girlies, all drowning in a tsunami of oat milk in the land of $18 smoothies.

The sun dips below the ocean on my ride back after a day packed with brand meetings. I’m beyond exhausted after 10-hour days of driving around LA, pitching brands like I’m on Shark Tank—except these sharks are beauty brand executives, over-toxed (hey-it’s LA), high on their own supply (don’t judge-it’s the setting spray!), and their sparkling beauty industry clout is their entire personality (careful, you almost dropped another name there).

B*tch, I’m from Florida, do you want your company to make a million dollars with our company or not? I’ve been here for three days, and I fear I’ve reached my limit of The Donna Show, my imaginary alter-ego character I slip into when I’m in “pitch mode”.

All I want is to rot in bed in my fluffy hotel robe. But there’s one problem: I’m F*CKING STARVING.

I’ve been surviving on what was basically a fig leaf salad and two too many matcha lattes, courtesy of a brand-hosted meeting featuring the loveliest Pilates Princess meets Marketing Assistant—who must’ve hated me at first sight to order us that “food” for lunch. I am this close to hangry.

All I can think about are tacos. Delicious, juicy shredded beef tacos, dripping in lime juice and spices on a freshly pressed tortilla. And a giant margarita to wash them down. Say what you want about LA, but their Mexican food is worth the hype.

My mouth is watering as I type “best Mexican food near me” into Google when...

Reminder: Dinner w/ Casper at 7:30

Oh, be so for real right now. Another meeting? A dinner meeting… tonight? Who set this up? Someone’s getting fired.

Exhaustion and hanger are winning, and I’m seriously pissed that I have to endure another business meeting when I’m supposed to be drowning myself in a well-deserved margarita.

Who even is this Casper person? Why am I meeting with him? And more importantly, where are we eating?

Location: Spago.

Ah, Spago. Pretentious, but delicious. I audibly sigh as I walk through my hotel lobby, gathering myself for the annoying night I know lies ahead.

Fine, I’ll unhappily trade birria for Beverly Hills. I begrudgingly make my way to my room to freshen up.

Cut to me, waiting at the bar. This Casper guy is very late. As it turns out, he’s some sort of an investment banker looking to expand his portfolio into the beauty space, and I don’t even know what he looks like. Mid-text to my team, venting about the audacity of his tardiness, I suddenly feel a presence behind me.

“Are you Donna?”

I look up and see a man in a suit—distinguished, a little disheveled, handsome in a way that sneaks up on you. You know what I mean. The kind of handsome that peeks through skin kissed by a little too much sun and a few gray hairs he’s clearly dyed himself… and missed a few spots. He’s casually wearing a $20,000 watch, but obviously dyes his own hair? Interesting.

As we walk to our table, I’m bracing for a painfully boring conversation about the future of beauty and Web3 (it’s 2018), all while mentally drafting the email to fire the poor soul who innocently scheduled this meeting—channeling my best “I regret to inform you” speech.

I’d honestly rather be at a taco stand by the beach, practicing my Spanish with strangers than here with a finance bro who probably has the personality of, well…a finance bro.

Casper’s barely settled into his seat when something in me snaps. Every professional cell in my body is replaced by IDGAF Donna cells.

Casper: sits down, normal and respectable

Server: hands us menus

Me: drops my menu—playfully, but maybe a little too forcefully—slaps hands on the table.

“Okay, where are the tequila shots?!”

Server: 😳

Casper: 😳

After a brief moment of shock, Casper bursts out laughing, tosses his menu aside, and says to the server, “Let’s start with a round of tequila shots!”

The server smirks. “Well, alright! This table’s going to be fun.”

I’m not entirely sure what came over me. But whatever it was, I’m having myself a time, and Casper is right there with me.

We dive in, stories spilling out.

I’m laying on my charm, sharing tales from my life that, while true, sound much cooler than they actually are.

Likewise, he’s telling me about how he blew up his life five years ago to sail around the world, dodging pirates and hurricanes—tales that are probably even cooler than he’s letting on. Don’t get me wrong, I can tell he’s definitely trying to impress me—it’s giving “novel he’s dying to write”—but I’ll admit, he’s also very charming.

Okay, so he actually has a personality. He’s a lot more interesting than I gave him credit for. This is not your typical finance bro. The banter is effortless, and as he spins his adventurer’s lore, I start to notice just how handsome he actually is.

His questionable dye job aside, his eyes have that kind of sparkle you only read about in books—lighting up when they meet mine. There’s a true uniqueness to his face, even with his obviously attractive bone structure. His features are subtle but unexpectedly captivating, with just enough weathering to make him interesting.

He seemed to be the kind of man who was probably dangerously hot in his twenties, before a decade of deal-chasing dimmed his glow—and more-than-likely a first or second wife who dulled his boyish optimism when she walked away with half his fortune.

He’s sitting across from me in a suit—nothing try-hard, nothing flashy. The high-end tailoring, the subtle cufflinks from a luxury jeweler… none of it impresses me, but it’s notable because of the way he wears it. He wears his success like a second skin, effortless and understated. But from his relaxed posture, the down-to-earth tone of our conversation and jokes that any comedy writer would envy, I can tell he’d be just as or more comfortable in board shorts, in a dive bar, having this same chat barefoot by the beach. I can feel there’s more to him than meets the eye.

We’re laughing so much I don’t notice over an hour has passed, the tequila’s still flowing, and we haven’t even ordered food. Our server reappears with a gentle reminder to order—and maybe dial it down a notch because the other diners are starting to glare.

I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this much with another human being, and if I’m being honest, it’s six years later as I type this and that still holds true.

An older man who’s been dining nearby walks over, asking Casper how he got lucky enough to dine with such charming company.

I quip, “Oh, he works for me. He’s taking notes.”

“Lucky man.” The gentleman gives Casper a firm, congratulatory pat on the shoulder before making his exit.

We glance back at each other and laugh.

When our food finally arrives, we’re laughing uncontrollably. We were in our own world.

Eventually, the manager himself approaches. “I’m so sorry, but we’re going to have to ask you to leave. You’re laughing too much and it’s bothering the other guests.”

We’re surprised but stay calm and comply—albeit, thoroughly amused. It’s not the manager’s fault his patrons are snobs. But yes, we officially got kicked out of one of Beverly Hills’ most prestigious restaurants for having too much fun.

Oh, excuse us, Gaston! We didn’t realize fun was banned in Beverly Hills.

As we step outside, we’re giggling to ourselves about being kicked out. I pull out my phone to call an Uber, but he interrupts, “Actually, want to grab a drink at the rooftop bar at my hotel? It’s just a couple of blocks away.”

I should probably leave now. But I respond before I can stop myself, a moment too soon before the logical side of my brain catches up.

“Sure, I could do another drink.”

As we walk to his hotel, I feel hyper-aware of my own body, the closeness of him beside me, the way my hand keeps accidentally swinging toward his. There is a distinct magnetic force that I can physically feel a pull towards him.

Why do I suddenly feel like I want to hold this guy’s hand? I think to myself in a moment of confusion.

This thought is quickly followed by another much more practical thought.

Donna, whatever this is…you need to shut it down, right now.

But, I didn’t. And, neither did he.

We settle at the rooftop bar with our drinks, the LA skyline glittering in the distance, and as he tells a story, I’m listening intently while fighting the distraction of my intrigue.

“—and then I invested in this brand that was working on a deal with HSN…”

“Oh, really? I was a buyer there. When was that? I was working on a partnership with that brand when I worked there…”

“Yeah, it wasn’t long after I moved back to California with my daughter after my divorce.” His demeanor becomes a little more matter of fact.

“You’re a Dad?”

This is dangerous territory. You know how I am with my daddy issues.

“Well, you did tell a lot of dad jokes. I just thought you weren’t very funny. I kinda figured on the divorce.” I say with a smile.

We both burst out laughing. He gets me. I haven’t instantly connected with someone like this in a long time. Maybe, ever?

I take a deep breath and match his matter of fact tone.

“I’m a mom, too. Also, divorced.” I state.

“Also, lover of bad Dad jokes… and ugly shoes.” I teased to break the intensity with a comedic callback to our earlier conversation about his terrible taste in dress shoes—as he mostly lives in the sailor’s version of Manolo Blahniks: flip-flops.

The laughs fade as we take a brief intermission from our comedy show, dipping our toes into some real talk about being single parents, divorce, and life.

Then it happens—our eyes meet in the depths of that conversation, and neither of us looks away. His eyes, a mysterious shade of blue, still sparkle in the darkness surrounding us. I realize we’re locked in, like there’s no one else there.

Whoa, what was that…

I froze in place—I think he did too. Neither of us is breaking eye contact.

What I didn’t realize in that moment was that this would be the first of many eye gazes. There was his look, and then there was his look with me—the kind where he wasn’t just looking at me, but through me. The kind of look that flips your stomach and makes your knees feel just a little less steady.

I didn’t want to blink, afraid the moment might shatter. My breath grew shallow as I tried to pull enough air back into my lungs.

I smiled nervously through the fact that I had completely lost it. I begin immediately panicking internally for something to say.

What is wrong with me? Say something! ANYTHING!! Why isn’t he saying something?

At this point, we are sitting next to each other and about 6 inches apart from making a huge mistake. I need to say something…

Come on, girl, literally any words at all.

“Your eyes are so…”

WHAT?! NO! ARE YOU CRAZY?

I search my brain frantically for a word that doesn’t sound like a total, embarrassing admission. But all that comes out is:

“…blue.”

We both start giggling like high schoolers who are nervously laughing in front of their crush.

“You’re observant,” he teases, fully aware that wasn’t what I wanted to say.

As the panic settles down into comic relief, something in my brain clicked.

“Wait…I'm sorry. Casper? Did you say you were working a deal with HSN after you moved back to California?" He nods, giving me this inquisitive look like I’m about to crack open the final clue in some unsolved mystery.

“That means you were working with them in 2017? I had this bizarre call back then with some idiot who had no clue what he was doing—didn’t know the brand, didn’t understand how HSN worked—and tried to convince me to buy 40,000 units for their first digital order.”

He drops his head, shaking it with a laugh.

“Yeah… that was me. I was the idiot.”

Cue the colossal embarrassment, but I cannot deny the irony.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I thought it was some interim CFO pretending he knew how to run a beauty brand. I thought maybe you had worked with him, or fired him?”

We cannot stop laughing.

“Almost spot on. Small world, huh?” he says, still chuckling as he shakes his head.

“Not even the world is big enough to outrun destiny” I reply, a hint of surrender in my voice.

The laughter softens, and in that quiet, we both seem to realize that tonight was unexpected for both of us—but we also knew it would have to end here.

“We’re wrapping up for the night, so we’ll need to close out your tab,” the bartender announces, appearing unexpectedly.

Oh, so it really has to end. Right this second.

I catch a flicker of disappointment cross his face. Interesting. He does not have a poker face. Not exactly common for an investment banker.

“Well, I guess it is past midnight,” I say with an air of acceptance that this is over.

“Wow, really? It feels like we just sat down for dinner an hour ago.” He seems genuinely surprised.

“Time flies when you’re getting kicked out of Spago for having too much fun,” I grin.

He laughs, shakes his head, and gently guides me to the elevator.

I thank him for dinner as he presses the button for his floor and the lobby. There’s a comfortable silence, thick with unspoken thoughts, until the doors slide open to his floor. He steps out, and I stay put. I can’t risk any more “your eyes are so blue” mishaps—I need to keep my sh*t together.

But then, he pauses. Turns back to look at me. I see it in his eyes—that hesitation. He doesn’t want this to end here. And, if I’m being honest, neither do I.

Don’t do it, Casper. Go to your room. Don’t you dare invite me off this elevator right now. I’m telepathically communicating the words in my head, hoping my body language is transmitting the message loud and clear.

The doors begin to close. Perfect, I think. Crisis averted.

But just before they shut, he turns, his voice steady but tinged with something hopeful. “Goodnight. I’ll see you soon.”

I’ve only known this man for five hours, but I believed him when he said it. And, in that exact moment, I realized—I wanted him to mean it.

I smiled as the doors closed, his face lingering in my mind, etched into the night.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “I’ll see you soon.”

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📩 ICYMI: Catch up on the latest ‘episodes’ of Plot Twisted:

• I'll take the rose-colored glasses. How a single prick taught me to let go.

• Welcome to the Jungle. This sh*t is bananas.

• She got dumps like a truck. Baggage claim: A one-woman show with daddy issues, trust issues, and an existential crisis carry-on.

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