High Tea & Flip-Flops

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “… you’re worth every penny, Renata,” he says. “See you next week.”

  I close my door and watch through the peephole. Stuffing something into her tote bag, a woman comes down the stairs. I run to my patio door, where I can see her better as she crosses the parking lot to her car—a newer one than mine, by the way.

  It’s hard to tell from this distance, but she looks about my age, no more than a few years older. She’s shapely and wearing her hair in a long, thick braid down her back. I can’t tell for sure, but she certainly doesn’t look like the glamorous or arty kind I’d expect Jeremy to go for.

  Hmm. What did he mean by she’s “worth every penny”? She sold him something? No, that wouldn’t make her worth every penny. She must do something for him. And that’s hard to figure because I don’t even know what he does. But if he’s paying her, then it’s not likely she’s a detective working undercover with—

  Oh. My. God. Under cover.

  She’s a prostitute! He has prostitutes come to his apartment. No, wait. They don’t make house calls. That’s what call girls do. Oh wow. Wait until Gabi hears this. I grab my phone and start texting. My phone rings thirty seconds after I hit send.

  “You’re losing your mind sitting in that apartment, Chelsea.”

  “No, just listen. I heard him say, ‘You’re worth every penny, Renata.’ And then I saw her putting the money in her bag, and then—”

  “Where were you?”

  “In my apartment.”

  “Then how did you hear—”

  “I had the door open at that point. I was on my way up to his apartment, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “To ask him—” I catch myself just in time. “Never mind.” I can’t let her know how much time I spend thinking about Jeremy. “The point is, he paid this Renata for something—something she must do very well—and then she left.”

  “And you instantly assumed she’s a hooker.”

  “Well, no. I eliminated a few other possibilities. But I’ve never seen him with a woman, and he rarely leaves his apartment at night, so it’s not likely he’s dating. What would you think?”

  “Maybe she works for him?”

  “Doing what?”

  “How should I know, Chelsea? Did she look like a hooker … call girl … whatever?”

  “Well, I don’t know. What if those women dress like you want them to? You know, whatever turns you on.”

  “And how was she dressed?”

  Boy, Gabi has a way of taking all the fun out of things.

  “Chelsea?”

  I sigh. “In jeans and a tee. But they were skintight.”

  “Wow. Skinny jeans. That’s a dead giveaway.” When she stops laughing, she says, “I’m sorry, Chels. But I’d bet you fifty bucks Jeremy’s not paying for sex.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “On the other hand, if he does pay, flash your boobs and let him know you’re looking for work.”

  “Not a joke, Gabi.”

  “I know. Sorry. Your next job interview will be great. And now I’ve got less than five minutes of my break left, so tell me what you were on your way up to ask him.”

  “Oh, just to—” I tap a fingernail on my phone so she thinks I’ve got an incoming call. “Gabi? That’s my mom, and if I don’t answer she’ll think I’ve been murdered or something. Talk to you later.”

  Add Renata to the list of mysteries I have to solve.

  CHAPTER 7

  For fun, Gabi and I stand in front of the bleachers at Matt and Erik’s softball game and act as unofficial cheerleaders. It’s like a flashback to high school. We’re so into it, we get most of the spectators to join in on group cheers. I’m stoked until halfway through the game when Jeremy arrives. He’s scanning the bleachers for a place to sit, so I don’t think he’s seen me yet. I turn my back to him and elbow Gabi. “What’s he doing here?” When she doesn’t look to see who I’m talking about, I get the picture. “You invited him?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “When did you talk to him?”

  “Oh, he stopped by the boutique the other day.”

  “And …”

  “I mentioned the game, and he said he’d never been to one, and voilà.” She shoots her arms into the air and waves her hands around. “Woo-hoo!” She points to the ball field. “Pay attention, Chelsea! We just scored another run.”

  I don’t feel like cheering anymore, but I can’t leave Gabi out here alone or just stand beside her like a goof, so I keep following her lead and smiling and cheering the team on. Jeremy’s sitting about halfway up and to our right. I avoid looking in that direction when we lead group cheers. Not that it matters anyway. I could probably be naked and he wouldn’t notice me. He stopped by Gabi’s boutique, and she invited him, so he’s only watching her. What else do they talk about during their little chats?

  Not that I care.

  Besides, Mr. High Tea’s here all alone, but I have Erik. I turn around and watch the game, yelling, “Yay, Erik!” every chance I get. He’s the best player on the team, so I get a lot of chances. He hits a double in one inning and a home run in the next. Then he makes a double play. After my enthusiastic cheer for that, Gabi gives me a look.

  “What?”

  She nods to the bleachers. “Erik’s date is here.”

  Did I hear her right?

  I scan the girls sitting there. The dark-haired one with legs a mile long and a DD cup is staring daggers at me. Yep, I heard right. I glare at Gabi. “I thought he was my date tonight.”

  “Well …” She wrinkles her perfectly sculpted nose. “When I invited you, I didn’t know Erik had started dating someone else. Not that you were actually dating him anyway, after you started giving him the brush-off.”

  “So you expect me to tag along with you, Matt, Erik, and his girlfriend tonight?”

  “No, those two aren’t going out with us.”

  “Then I get to be the third wheel with you and Matt?”

  She evades my eyes. “Not exactly.”

  Gabi launches into a conveniently timed cheer, and for a moment I’m swept along. Then I forget and look at Jeremy who’s looking at me, and suddenly her “not exactly” explains itself. I move one step closer to her.

  “You’re so dead,” I say through my big rah-rah smile.

  Twenty minutes later, Matt collides with the third baseman and twists his leg. It’s terrible, I know, but I’m a little relieved. By the time they help him back to the dugout, his knee is swollen to cantaloupe size. The coach packs ice around it, but he and Gabi are obviously headed for a visit to the emergency room, which means the surprise foursome she’s arranged with Jeremy is canceled. I’m off the hook.

  Gabi stays on the bench with Matt, so I forget the cheering and sit down. Five minutes later, the game is over. She runs toward me, but instead of stopping, she climbs the bleachers—to Jeremy. Who else?

  I’m standing there waiting to leave, when I realize I have a problem. Either I go to the emergency room with Matt and Gabi or I have to find someone to give me a ride home. I’m glancing around for someone I know when it hits me. No. She wouldn’t dare.

  Gabi runs back down and lands beside me. “Matt and I are headed to urgent care to have his knee checked, so Jeremy’s going to give you a ride home … or to wherever.”

  I can’t yell at her because he’s followed her and is standing two feet away from us. “I’m sure you have better things to do,” I tell him.

  “Not at all,” he says. “It will be my pleasure.”

  I turn away from him so only Gabi sees me glare at her. She leans close and whispers, “Talk to him.”

  “You’re totally so dead,” I whisper back.

  “Sorry about dinner,” Gabi tells Jeremy and starts backing toward the bench, where two guys are helping Matt to his feet.

  “I hope Matt’s injury is not serious,” Jeremy tells her.

  “Thanks. I’m sure he’ll be okay.” With one last smile at Jeremy she turns a
way, calling back over her shoulder, “I’ll hit you up tomorrow, Chelsea.”

  Jeremy and I watch Gabi and Matt’s entourage slowly head to the parking lot.

  “Well,” he says, finally. “Shall we go?”

  We start off toward his car. His height makes me feel small in a nice way. We walk in silence. I usually have no trouble talking to guys. Or strangers. Or anybody. What is it about him that makes me feel like such a dork? Maybe it’s because he’s sophisticated, which I’m not. But I’m also not the uncivilized air-head he probably thinks I am.

  Okay. So during this drive, I will be particularly pleasant, not my usual smartass self. And this encounter will not end with me embarrassing myself.

  Jeremy looks different tonight. His hair is pulled back tighter with just an elastic band. He’s not wearing his suede boots; he’s wearing expensive-looking boat shoes. And he’s traded his loose poet shirt for a tee under an unbuttoned chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, which happens to show off his chest and forearms nicely. Though, technically, he’s wearing casual clothes, he looks dressed up compared to me in my denim shorts and a hoodie.

  We break the silence at the same time. He says, “Too bad about Matt.” And I say, “Nice weather tonight.” And then we both say, “Yes, it is.”

  When we get to his car, he opens the door for me, which I have to admit is a nice gesture. While he’s walking around to the driver’s side I scope out his car. Very clean. There’s one book on the back seat, not his leather-bound fake out one, but it’s turned so I can’t see the title. When he starts the car, classical music comes on. Predictable. He jabs a button on the steering wheel to turn it off.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  I nod. Hmm. Is the real reason he hates me playing my music because it’s too loud or because he hates rock? “Is that what you usually listen to … classical?”

  “No. Only when I need to think.”

  “So you only need to think occasionally?” Crap. Can you believe those words came out of my mouth just minutes after I vowed not to be a smartass?

  He laughs. A genuine LOL. “I meant to say, I listen to it when I need to think about my work.”

  Now, that’s an opening I’ve been waiting for. I open my mouth to ask what kind of work he does, but his tongue is faster.

  “Where shall we go?”

  I blink.

  “To get something to eat,” he says. “That was the plan, was it not? Before Matt was injured?”

  “Yes, but …” He arches his brows expectantly, but there’s no way I’m going to finish what I started to say—that I thought I’d be going out with Erik instead of him. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Oh.”

  For a second, he pauses like he’s going to say something, but then he puts the car in gear and we head for home. He must be hungry. He almost sounded disappointed that I didn’t want to go out to eat. We drive for at least a mile without speaking. The silence is mucho awkward. I wish he’d turn the music back on, at least. Oh look. It’s starting to rain. What a miserable night.

  I can’t stand it. I have to say something. “So you’re a writer?”

  He frowns. “Pardon me?”

  “You mentioned thinking about your work.”

  “And from that you presumed I’m a writer?”

  “Well, no. Not just from that.”

  He gives me a sidelong glance. “From what then?”

  “I hear you typing a lot.”

  “You can hear my keyboard in your apartment?”

  “Sometimes. When we both have our windows open.”

  “Ah. I see.” He turns on the windshield wipers. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat? I have a sudden desire for Mexican.”

  “Real Mexican? Like street tacos?”

  He smiles. “Absolutely. I go to this little stand at—”

  “Sixth and Divisadero?”

  “Yes! Arturo’s.” He looks delighted that I know the place.

  “I guess I could eat a couple of tacos.”

  “We’ll take them back to my place,” he says. “Since it’s raining.”

  As much as I’d hoped to end this night before something bizarre happened, I’m not going to pass up the chance to see his apartment. That will put me one up on Gabi—unless they lied about just running into each other when I caught them together in front of our building.

  A few minutes later, he turns the corner onto Sixth, pulls to the curb, and kills the engine. “Be right back.”

  It’s raining harder now, and though he parked as close as he could to the stand, the shoulders of his shirt turn a deep blue before he ducks under the awning at the order window. He wipes his face with a napkin while he waits for our tacos. Then he pulls the elastic band off his ponytail and shakes out his hair. Ohmygod. He. Is. Gorgeous. I shut my eyes. Chelsea, don’t be stupid. The dude is not into you.

  When he gets back in the car, he hands me the bag and shrugs out of his chambray shirt. He wipes his face and hair with it before tossing it in the back seat. His tee is damp too and clings to his skin, revealing every muscle. If I look at him one second longer, I’ll be touching him—all over. To prevent that scenario, I grip the bag with both hands and turn my face to the passenger side window.

  It’s only a five-block drive from Arturo’s to our apartment complex, but the rain slows to a drizzle before we get there. Still, he gallantly lets me out at our walk and then circles around and pulls into his assigned parking spot. I can’t fault his manners tonight.

  He runs to the building, takes the taco bag from me, and I follow him up the stairs and through his door. When he flips on the lights, my jaw drops. His apartment is beautiful. I mean, not only stylishly decorated but also immaculate. No wonder he suggested eating at his place. I don’t want to imagine what he thought when he saw my messy apartment the other night. Of course he couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  “Your apartment’s very neat.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t take the credit. Will you excuse me for a minute? I’d like to get out of this wet shirt.”

  And I’d like to help you. “Sure.”

  He sets the bag on his dining table, which is covered only with place mats and a centerpiece of candles and polished stones in a glass trough, not a jumble of who-the-hell-knows-what like mine is. I’m groaning inside.

  While Jeremy’s in the bedroom, I scan what I can see from where I’m standing. No personal photos. Just art—paintings on the walls, and sculptures and stuff on the tables. And a lot of books on shelves across the room, but I don’t have time to make out any titles before he’s back. He’s wearing one of his poet shirts, and his hair is still unfettered. Sigh.

  “You have a lot of books,” I say.

  “I do, but those are only the ones I brought with me.”

  “My mother passes most of hers along to me.”

  He nods. “Would you like a beer? Or water? I have still or sparkling. Sorry, no cola.”

  “A beer would be great. Thanks.”

  While he’s in the kitchen, I snoop some more. He left the light on in the bedroom, so I’m trying to look down the hall while appearing not to be looking down the hall. I can see a corner of his bed, that’s all. He sets the beer bottles on the table. “Would you prefer a glass?”

  I shake my head and stifle another groan. I didn’t think to offer him a glass for his beer when he was at my place. He returns to the kitchen for two plates. China ones, not paper. Groan number three. It’s a relief when he grabs paper napkins, not monogrammed linen ones.

  He pulls out a chair and motions me to sit. I’m relieved again when he takes the chair to my left instead of across from me. With this seating arrangement, I won’t have to look into his eyes as much. For a few minutes we’re busy squeezing lime wedges and tucking escaped bits of meat and cheese and cabbage into the soft tortillas. Evidently, he’s as starved as I am because we each eat a whole taco before he speaks again.

  “The carpet.” He pulls his phone fro
m his pocket. “Can I have your number?”

  I give it to him while I take another look around his apartment. Now I understand why he’s so obsessed with that little spot on my carpet.

  “I didn’t answer your question,” he says.

  My mind is blank.

  “My work?” He takes a drink of his beer. “Yes, I write. And I’m sorry if my typing disturbs you.”

  “Oh no. It doesn’t disturb me. I’m sorry I disturbed you with my music.”

  He grimaces. “I apologize for harassing you about that. The sound does rise through the ductwork, but I was frustrated with … other things, and I overreacted.”

  His eyes are so beautiful. And intelligent. And hypnotic.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks.

  “Wrong?”

  “You seem distracted.”

  “Oh.” I pick up a taco and take a bite. What am I doing here? Why did he invite me here? That’s the real question. Is he just being a good sport because Gabi tricked him? Gabi. She’s the reason he asked me here. He wants to know more about her. Okay, buddy, so how’s this bit of news grab you? “Gabi and Matt are engaged.”

  He blinks. “Yes … I know.”

  Ha! He looked totally perplexed when he said that, so it’s obvious he didn’t know.

  “Gabi also told me”—he sips his beer—“that you two have known each other since primary school.”

  “Yeah. And now I guess you two are besties.”

  “Mates? Well, I’ve only talked to her twice. Before tonight, that is.”

  “Really? What about last week, when I saw you chatting together out there on the sidewalk?”

  “That was the first time. And then we talked for a while on Monday. Over lunch.”

  I can’t even breathe. Seriously? Gabi had lunch with Jeremy two days ago and never told me? That was the day he dressed in a suit. Fantastic. This is Greg Chambers all over again, isn’t it?

  Jeremy starts on his third taco, but I’ve lost my appetite. I push back my chair and stand.

  “Thanks for dinner, Jeremy.”

  He drops the taco back to his plate and jumps to his feet. “You’re leaving?”