High Tea & Flip-Flops

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “Um, Jeremy? How important is that flash drive you gave me?”

  His left eye bulges in horror. “Extremely important. It held the only copy of the book.”

  “Oh, God. Why would you—”

  The uncovered side of his face creases in a grin. “I couldn’t resist. Actually, the drive is of no importance.”

  “Bastard,” I say, but I return his smile, relieved that, apparently, he doesn’t hate me for punching him.

  “Here.” He takes the package of peas away from his face and holds it out to me. “I believe the right half of my face is sufficiently frozen. And your hand is swelling.”

  “Thanks.” I drop onto the sofa and drape the cold bag across my knuckles. “I’m sorry for your eye. Blame it on the self-defense course my mother made me take before I moved in here.”

  “When in doubt, blame the mother.”

  “Okay. It’s just me. I’m a mess.”

  “You’re never boring, I’ll give you that.”

  He smiles at me again, and my girly parts warm up. I want to rip his clothes off and throw him to my freshly cleaned carpet.

  “Why were you anxious to prevent me leaving?”

  So I could rip—erase that thought, Chelsea. “I … um … the book. I finished it.”

  “Already?”

  “Actually, I’ve almost read it twice.” If you count reading the hot scenes several times. “It’s a good read. Really good.” No response. “It’s very British, isn’t it?” Still nothing. “Um, does it have a title?”

  “Wanting More.”

  “A play on Ethan’s name. Clever. So, who’s the author?”

  One corner of his mouth quirks. “Penny James.”

  “And she’s a friend of yours, you said?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Sometimes? Uh-oh. Did he want me not to like the book? No, that’s dumb. He’s paying me to read it. He reaches for my laptop on the coffee table, types something, and then frowns. “Do you not have Internet access?”

  “Um …”

  His expression indicates he understands without me spelling it out. “Do you mind if I connect through my network?”

  I shake my head. He connects, types again, and scoots closer to me, so I can see. He’s pulled up a product page on Amazon—the page for Wanting More. The book has a sizzling cover, sixty-one reviews, and a 4.6 star rating.

  “I don’t understand. Why would you ask for my opinion of a book that’s already published?” I click to view the author’s page. Her photo was taken at a distance with her face in profile and her windblown hair obscuring part of that. It could be a shot of a million different women. I read her bio. “This is her debut novel. Impressive.”

  “Thank you.”

  Huh? I look over at him and wince. His poor eye is inches away. Another apology is on my tongue when I notice his undamaged eye fixed on mine. I stop breathing. The warmth of his hand, so close to my fingers on the touchpad, rises to searing heat. If he moved his thigh six inches to the right, it would touch mine. We could be kissing any second now.

  Jeremy breaks eye contact. Clearing his throat, he moves two feet to his left and sets the laptop on the sofa cushion between us. “So, you found nothing to criticize about the book? Other than its Britishness?”

  And we’re back to business. I have to take a breath before I can answer. “Um, that wasn’t a criticism.”

  “So, it wasn’t too high tea for you?” Jeremy’s eyes, even the one now half-swollen shut, show a definite twinkle.

  Note to self: strangle blabbermouth Gabi.

  “No. Not too ‘high tea’. Just appropriately British … since it was set in London.”

  “Yes. But that’s the potential problem with the next novel.”

  “The next?”

  “I’ve set the story in California.”

  “You tell Penny James where to set her novels?”

  “I tell her every word to write.” His brows lift, questioning me.

  It takes me a minute. “You wrote this book?”

  “Penny James,” he says and holds his hand out flat. “PJ”—he flips his hand over—“JP” He raises a finger to his pursed lips. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wouldn’t want it to—” He starts over. “Because I’m writing a literary—” He snaps his mouth shut.

  “Yeah, Mr. Pearce, try finishing either of those sentences without sounding elitist. Or sexist. Or both.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “You’re right. Truthfully, I’m not ashamed to have written a romance novel—especially since it’s been well received. It could prove lucrative. But I made a business decision to use a pseudonym.”

  “Right. Because literary novel readers are superior to romance readers.”

  “Because romance readers are mainly women, and I believe they have more trust in female authors to tell the stories they want to read.”

  “Hmm.” Maybe he’s right about that. “So who’s the woman in the author photo?”

  “My sister.”

  I gesture toward the laptop. “And that bio …”

  “Fictional.”

  “Your family and friends know you’re Penny James, right?” He shakes his head. “Well, your sister, at least.” He shakes his head again. “But your agent, your publisher, they must know.”

  “I self-publish.”

  My heart jolts when it finally hits me. Jeremy wrote those blazing sex scenes. Oh. Frigging. Wow.

  “That amuses you?” he says.

  “What?”

  “You’re smiling.”

  Busted. This is all still sinking in, so I say nothing.

  “You would be a great help to me with the next book,” he says.

  “Me? How?”

  “I’d like to hire you as a consultant. To give me feedback, marking anything that doesn’t ring true for the characters and setting. Note anything errantly British.”

  “Yeah. I can do that.”

  “Excellent.”

  “When will you write it?”

  “I already have. But it’s only about seventy-five percent edited. I would give that to you now, but you’re such a fast reader—”

  “I’ll read slower. I mean, I’d have to if I’m taking notes. Right?” I want more hot scenes now!

  He stands. “Perhaps I could email you a few chapters tonight? I don’t believe I have another spare flash drive.”

  “Right. Sorry about that.” I drop the peas, pick up my phone, and text. His phone chimes. “Now you have my email address.”

  He types something on his phone and a text notification sounds on mine a few seconds later. “Now you have my network password.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yes, well … ” he moves toward the door. “I must be off. Errands to”—he’s caught his reflection in the mirror and leans closer, examining his eye—“or not …”

  I feel awful. “Could I run your errands for you?”

  “Thank you, but they’re nothing urgent. Mostly to get a few things from the grocer.”

  “Just give me the money and a list.”

  “It can wait. Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulls a check from his pocket, hands it to me, and opens the door. “Dinner, though … here’s a thought. Perhaps you’d like to share some takeaway this evening?”

  My mind screams, Are you frigging kidding me? Yes! My mouth says, “Sure.”

  “I’ll see you later then.”

  He’s almost reached the stairway when a crunch echoes through the breezeway and he stops, lifts his foot, and then bends down. He holds up the flash drive, now in two pieces. “Found it.”

  I hang my head and close the door.

  CHAPTER 11

  Since Jeremy’s supplying dinner tonight, I can put off the grocery shopping until tomorrow. I text Gabi.

  Thanks for telling J that I call him Mr. High Tea.

  Not me!

  Well he knows.

  LOL

  Not funny.r />
  Just leaving work. Hit you up when I get home.

  I grab my Kindle and start rereading Wanting More from the beginning. The book makes me even hotter now that I know Jeremy’s the author. I wish I could tell Gabi he wrote it.

  Later, when my phone rings, I’m daydreaming my own love scene starring me and Jeremy, but I snap out of it when I see who’s calling.

  “Hi, Gabs.”

  “So why do you think Jeremy knows about the high tea thing?”

  “We were talking about his book—his friend’s book, I mean, and he asked if it was too high tea for me.”

  “Hmm. Maybe that’s a phrase he uses?”

  “No, there was something about the way he said it.”

  “Well, he didn’t hear it from me.”

  Plastic crinkles in my ear. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to open these kale chips. Just a sec.” More racket. “So”—crunch—“you told him you liked the book? And did you tell him Ethan made you horny?”

  “Yes to the first. Don’t be ridiculous to the second.” She’s making me hungry. Dinnertime can’t get here fast enough—for more than one reason. “Anyway, guess what happened?”

  “Oh no. What did you do this time?”

  “Hey! Don’t always assume I screwed up.”

  “Sorry. Hold on.” I listen to water running and then the click, click, click of the igniter on her stove burner before she picks up her phone again. “Sorry, I had to put the water on for the pasta. So this encounter with Jeremy didn’t end in blood or spilled beer or—”

  “Well, actually …”

  “Ohmygod, Chelsea, not again. Tell me.”

  “I think I gave him a black eye.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah, but it was an accident. I opened my front door, and he was standing there, and my fist just kind of socked him. Automatic reflex.”

  “Since when do you punch everyone who knocks on your door?”

  “He didn’t knock. I mean, he was getting ready to knock, and I was rushing to catch him before he left and … you had to be there.” But I was there, and I still can’t believe I did that.

  “His eye is black for real?”

  “It was getting there by the time he left. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I have a job.”

  “Woo-hoo. Where?”

  “With Jeremy.”

  Silence. Then more chip crunching. Followed by more silence.

  “Gabi?”

  “Just a sec.” This time I get to listen while she explains to Matt what she’s making for dinner. “I’m back. So what exactly is Jeremy hiring you to do?”

  “Consult.”

  “Consult on what?”

  “Well—” Crap. I can’t tell her about the romance writing. Jeremy’s just going to have to modify his tell-no-one restriction to exclude Gabi. “Well …”

  “You said that.”

  “Yeah. Um … California! Because I’m a, you know, California native, and he has some questions about California things.”

  “For something he’s writing.”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Fiction, right? So what’s the book about?”

  “Well, he didn’t really say. Just that it’s set in California, and he wants to make sure he gets the details right.” Surely I’m allowed to tell her that much.

  “But that won’t take much of your time, so you’re still looking for a real job, right?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Funny.”

  “Seriously, though, I think this is going to be a major project. He said something about a series.” I bite my lip. It’s getting too easy to lie to Gabi.

  “So what’s your consultancy fee?”

  She would ask that. “We didn’t discuss a fee. But we’re having dinner together. I’ll ask him then.”

  She blasts my ear with an exaggerated sigh.

  “Didn’t you learn anything in our business classes? You don’t ask, Chelsea.”

  See? This is why Gabi’s successful and I’m not. “Right. I’ll have to think about the fee.”

  “Use that degree, girl. Make the terms clear. Draw up a contract for him to sign.”

  “I will.”

  “Okay, gotta go fix dinner.”

  “Later.”

  I know Gabi’s right. This is business. But I can’t see myself presenting Jeremy with a contract tonight. I mean, really, how much consulting will I do? Besides, since the book he paid me to read was already published, I’m sure the five hundred dollars was meant to cover my reading and giving feedback on his next book. Plus, I’ll get to spend time with Jeremy. Worth it, right?

  But what about that high tea thing? Maybe I can think of a subtle way to ask him during dinner.

  From my observation, Jeremy usually eats dinner around six, so I’m ready and waiting by five forty-five. Apparently, because of his eye, he stayed in and worked all afternoon. I heard him typing on and off. He’s probably trying to finish more editing before he sends me the file.

  I’ve been thinking about the lie I told Gabi. A lot of romance authors do write series. I wonder if he knows that. I’m going to suggest it. And really, how much of California has he seen? If he set each book in the series in a different California locale, he’d benefit from checking them out personally. I could expand my position into travel guide. Hmm. Personal assistant?

  At five minutes after six, Jeremy shows up. When I open the door, he ducks and raises his arms in a protective stance.

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “One can’t be too careful in your presence.” He laughs and drops his arms, revealing his face.

  “Oh, wow.” My hand looks a thousand percent better than his right eye.

  “Oh wow, indeed.”

  “Again, I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugs. “Accidents happen.”

  “Right. Well, ready to eat?”

  “Yes, but not in public, obviously.”

  “I have menus.” I motion him inside, and he follows me to the kitchen. “Pizza? Chinese? Barbecue?”

  “Takeaway,” he says, when I hand him the menus.

  “Carryout. Don’t use takeaway in your California novel. See? I’m helping you already.”

  “I believe that qualifies dinner as a business expense.” He shuffles through the menus, and then hands them back to me. “The choice is yours.”

  “Sushi?”

  “Except that one.”

  “Chinese then. What do you like?” I give him Pearl City’s menu.

  He scans the menu and hands it back. “Moo shu pork and hot and sour soup.”

  “I think I’ll get kung pao shrimp and pot stickers.”

  “Wait. Crispy duck instead of the moo shu.”

  I start dialing.

  “Spring rolls,” he says.

  “Hello. I’d like to place an order for carryout. One kung pao shrimp, pot stickers, crispy duck—”

  “Add vegetable … something,” Jeremy whispers.

  Vegetable something? I point to the sesame broccoli with black mushrooms. He nods. Then he grabs the menu. Assuming he’s changing his order again, I hand him my phone and walk away to wait by the door.

  A few minutes later, he hands back my phone. “I had a little trouble with his accent.”

  “I’m sure he had no trouble with yours.”

  Surprise lights even his half-mast eye. “Oh. Right. I suppose that could have been part of the problem.”

  I open the door and hold out my hand. “Keys, please. I should drive because you only have one good eye.”

  “I think not.”

  “Sexist.”

  He gives me one of his sidelong don’t-be-ridiculous glances. “I believe you’re confusing chivalry with sexism. I can see perfectly well. I’ll drive, and you can pick up our order.”

  A minute later, he demonstrates his chivalry by opening the car door for me. This time, when he gets behind the wheel, he turns off the sound system before he puts the key in the ignition.
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  “What? You don’t want me to hear your erotica audio book?” Ohmygod. Can you believe I said that? I wish I could melt through the floorboard.

  He freezes with his hand on the key, and it’s dead silent for what seems like an eon. I risk a glance at him. He’s clamped his left palm over the bottom half of his face, which I’m pretty sure is to hide a grin. A second later he turns the sound back on. A voice with a British accent fills the car with the stock market report.

  “I’d wager erotic is not the usual description for the BBC World Service,” he says. “But you may find otherwise. Be my guest.”

  “I’ll pass.” I turn off the radio. Except for the GPS issuing driving instructions, we ride in silence for a few blocks. “So, you have a sister.”

  “And a brother.”

  “I have two brothers. Both older by several years. Where do you fit in?”

  “I’m the eldest. And the black sheep, as they say.”

  “Really?” Now that’s a story I have to get out of him. Wait. “Do you have a criminal record?”

  He glances at me, his good eye wide with disbelief. “I’m not that much of a black sheep.”

  “More like salt and pepper?”

  He’s back to watching the road, but he grins. After a few seconds of silence, GPS cheerfully informs him his destination is ahead on the right.

  “I pegged you as an only child,” he says, “but I suppose your brothers being much older explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  He pulls up to the restaurant and hands me money to pay for the food. I open the door but don’t get out. “Explains what, Jeremy?”

  “Your charm, of course.”

  I give him my most uncharming glare. “We’re not done with this conversation.”

  He shoos me from the car.

  When I come out of the restaurant, Jeremy’s on the phone. Not wanting to be rude by interrupting a private conversation, I pretend I forgot something and go back inside. I stall for a minute or two, but when I come back out he’s still talking. Finally, he sees me standing there and motions me to get in.

  “Listen, mate, it’s dinnertime here and my food just arrived.” Pause. “Yes. I’ll ring you a bit later.”

  He looks glum, and after he pockets his phone and starts the car, he turns the radio on and tunes in an alt rock station loud enough to signal that he doesn’t want to talk. So I don’t, and neither does he until we pull into the apartment parking lot. I hope he’s not about to ask if we can just sort our orders and eat together another time.