High Tea & Flip-Flops

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “If you don’t mind,” he says, “I’ll run upstairs and grab something special for us to drink.”

  “Yeah. That’s cool.”

  “And I have to make a quick phone call, but I promise I’ll be back in about three minutes.”

  “Still cool.”

  I take the food inside and set the table—won’t he be surprised? I can’t help wondering what his mate said to turn him solemn, but I won’t ask. I won’t. At least, I’ll try not to. He knocks exactly three minutes later.

  “Come in,” I call, but then I head toward the door anyway because he might not have a free hand. He does and manages to open the door just in time for me to run into it—nose first. I pinch my nose shut and run for the bathroom. Ohmygod! Not again. Is he freaking out? Please don’t let him grab his food and vanish.

  After the bleeding stops, I find Jeremy leaning back against the kitchen counter, drinking from a beer bottle with a label I don’t recognize. He opens another for me.

  “Should we invest in full-body armor to wear when we’re in the same vicinity?” he asks.

  “Ha. Ha.” I take a swig and then look at the label. “London Pride?”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Isn’t it just like the Boston ale I gave you?”

  “Boston,” he mutters dismissively.

  I smile. “Let’s eat.”

  We share the food. He makes me taste the crispy duck, and it turns out I like it.

  “Did you and Gabi do cheerleading at school?” he asks.

  “Middle and high school, yeah.”

  “At the game the other night, you seemed especially supportive of a player named Erik.”

  Crap. He noticed. “Yeah … well … he’s Matt’s cousin. Do you play any sports?”

  “I gave several a try during my school years.”

  “Such as?”

  “Cricket, tennis, rowing, and swimming were a few I enjoyed.”

  “Meaning those were the ones you didn’t suck at?”

  Predictably, his back stiffens and his right brow arches. “I didn’t suck at any sport.”

  “Really.”

  He slumps a bit. “Well, I didn’t have the optimum body type for football.”

  “Well, you keep your body type in good shape.” Damn, Chelsea, way to let him know you’ve checked out his bod. And it’s obvious he caught that because he pauses, with his fork halfway to his quirked mouth, before he responds.

  “I swim and do a bit of a workout at the gym.”

  “Is that where you go in the afternoons?” Geez, now he knows you spy on his every move. I don’t give him time to answer. “You have a lot of books.”

  A slight frown wrinkles his brow and then flees. “How could I be a writer if I didn’t read?”

  “Right. I usually read a few books a month, but my mom puts me to shame. She reads constantly, fiction and nonfiction about almost anything. Do you watch TV?”

  He gives me that incredulous look he does so well. “I see you’re a fan of lightning fast topic switches. And yes, I do watch some.”

  “Have you seen New Girl?”

  He smiles. “One of the few comedies I enjoy. I tend to view dramas.”

  “Me too, but I don’t know why. I mean, life is dramatic enough, isn’t it?”

  He nods. “Maybe we’re hoping to find the solutions to our problems? Not that I get many crimes to solve.”

  “Or mobsters to deal with.”

  “Or governments to run.”

  “Or zombies breaking down our doors.”

  He grins. “But I do get the occasional crazed woman in search of her knickers.”

  “And one time I got a snarky dude with too much pizza.”

  It feels great to laugh with him. When we’re done eating, he insists on helping me clean up.

  “Is leftover Chinese also a breakfast food?” he asks.

  “No, that’s a lunch leftover.”

  “Ah. There are rules for these things.”

  “More like guidelines.”

  “Splendid.” He puts the food in the fridge and when he turns around he’s holding two more bottles with labels I don’t recognize. “Now for our after-dinner treat.”

  “Beer for dessert? What, you’ve never heard of chocolate?”

  He holds out one bottle so I can read the label. “Double Chocolate Stout. Seriously?”

  “Was I right about the crispy duck? Hmm?”

  I reach for one of the bottles, but he shakes his head and pulls them close to his chest. “Glasses, please. These must be poured.”

  “Of course they must.” I open the glasses cupboard and step back. He chooses two of the tallest and fills each slowly, stopping halfway on one and then the other before returning to finish the first.

  “Why do you do it that way?”

  “To develop a strong head.”

  “Yours or the beer’s?”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “How do we drink this, like standing at attention or are we allowed to sit on the sofa?”

  “Snarky little thing, aren’t you?”

  I smile proudly. “Yes. I. Am.”

  We sit on opposite ends of the sofa, but I curl my legs under me and turn to face him. “Does it really taste like chocolate?”

  “Not like Cadbury’s, no. Breathe the aroma.”

  On the second try, I get it. “Dark chocolate.” He nods and motions for me to drink. It’s not what I expected, but not bad. “I thought it would be sweet. It’s kind of coffee-ish. And it’s not very cold.”

  “It’s not supposed to be.”

  The second sip is better. The third is mellow. His glass is already half empty, and he seems relaxed, his head leaned back and legs stretched out. “Jeremy? I made you a promise I don’t know if I can keep.”

  “What promise is that?”

  “Not to tell anyone you’re writing romances.”

  He snaps his head in my direction. “Who did you tell?”

  “No one. But I almost slipped and told Gabi.”

  His good eye narrows to match the black one. “Can she keep a secret?”

  “Sure. It’s just that we tell each other everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Well, things like that. I mean I told her you paid me to read your friend’s book, and that you want me to read something you’re writing, but I didn’t tell her what.”

  “You can tell her the truth—and only her—on one condition.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me why you call me Mr. High Tea?”

  “I never—” I stop when he shoots me a don’t-lie look. “Who told you?”

  He sits up straight and rests his right ankle on his left knee, angling halfway toward me. “When I’m sitting on my terrace, and you and Gabi are in this room talking with your patio door open, I can’t help but hear you.”

  “Jeremy. That’s eavesdropping.”

  “That’s research. And it was quite handy when I needed to know what pizza toppings you like.”

  “Ha. I knew that wasn’t just a lucky guess. Well, that works both ways, you know. I’ve heard you talking on the phone.”

  I’d swear it’s alarm that flits across his face, but he sounds casual when he says, “Saying what?”

  “Well, once I heard you say something about murdering someone.”

  He looks puzzled for a moment, and then the sparkle in his eyes goes dark. His jaw clenches, and he looks away. I’ve hit a nerve. I wish I hadn’t told him what I’d heard. To play it off, I laugh and say, “I thought maybe you were working undercover, like FBI or CIA or whatever they call it in England.”

  He offers only a wan smile.

  “Joking. Actually, I figured you were talking about a story you were writing.”

  “Yes.” Another weak smile. “I expect I was.”

  Crap. We were getting along so well. I thought we might be on the verge of leaving our respective corners and meeting in the middle of the sofa. Me and my big mouth.

 
He glances at my still half-full glass. “Are you going to drink that?”

  I hand it to him. He takes a healthy slug.

  “Hey,” I say, “I didn’t answer your question.”

  “My question?”

  “Mr. High Tea?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, it’s just that you didn’t seem very friendly. And sometimes, at the mailbox or in the parking lot, I’d smile or say hello and you’d walk right past me without a word or a glance.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yeah. So I thought you were snooty, you know, a snob?”

  He gives a halfhearted laugh. “I apologize. Actually, I was a bit—” he pauses, meets my eye, and then looks away. “I’m often lost in thought, working out a sentence or some writing problem. Lost in my own world. I assure you, I didn’t intentionally snub you.”

  “I know that, now.” But what did he start to say—actually, I was a bit what? Something more than just lost in thought I’d bet. “Now, can I ask you a question?”

  “I can’t promise I’ll answer it.”

  “Why do you think you’re a black sheep?”

  He drains his glass and then stares at it in his hand. “I don’t. My family does.”

  “Okay then, why do they?”

  He sighs and leans forward to set the empty glass on the table, then freezes that way, one forearm resting on his knee, one hand still on the glass.

  “According to my father, I am a traitor to my lineage. Noblesse oblige. In my family, the pursuit of only certain careers is commended. Writing fiction for the masses is not tolerated.”

  “Is that why you’re here, not in England?”

  “Yes.”

  God. Can this conversation get any gloomier?

  “You know what, Jeremy?”

  “What.”

  “Your family’s attitude sucks.”

  He’s still leaning forward, so I can’t see his face, but his back and shoulders start to shake. Ohmygod. Is he crying? I scoot closer, reaching my hand toward his shoulder. “Jeremy, I’m sor—”

  He falls back on the sofa, laughing audibly now. In fact, he’s totally lost it, tears running and everything. He grabs my hand and tries to say something, but he can’t stop laughing. Watching him makes me laugh too, even though I’m afraid he might be laughing at me. He lets go of my hand to clutch both arms around his stomach. Is it literally possible to bust a gut? Finally, he takes a deep breath and sighs.

  “God, that felt good.” He wipes his eyes, wincing when he touches the blackened one. “Thank you.”

  Sitting upright, he takes my hand again and, with an unmistakable look of tenderness, leans closer. Ohmygod. This is the moment. His lips pucker. He’s going to kiss me. Can you believe it? Finally. Jeremy is going to kiss me.

  He does. On the cheek.

  “I shall end this night on a high note,” he says and stands.

  I’m too disappointed to get up with him. “Thanks for dinner,” I say lamely.

  “You are most welcome. Lock this,” he says as he closes the door.

  I do as he ordered and then get ready for bed. As I lie here replaying the evening, and regretting that it didn’t end the way I’d hoped, I realize Jeremy’s mask slipped twice tonight, showing a sadness in him I hadn’t seen before. He’s still a puzzle.

  CHAPTER 12

  Okay. I admit it. I’m in love with Jeremy. Any minute now, I might start filling notebooks with Chelsea Pearce, Mrs. Chelsea Pearce, Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Pearce, Jeremy … hunh, I wonder what his middle name is? Stupid, right? I mean, he kissed me on the cheek last night. Like a friend. Like a kid sister.

  I should forget love; go back to lust. That’s a clear-cut objective. Get him into bed and fuck his brains out. But damn, he had to go all “family reject” on me. I’m such a sucker for the underdog.

  And besides, how can you not fall in love with a guy who kisses you just a few hours after you gave him a black eye?

  A face pops up on my phone as it rings. “Hello, Mom.”

  “What have you been up to, sweetie?”

  Alarms go off before I realize she can’t have any idea what I’ve been sitting here thinking. “Nothing much. But I made a little money.”

  “You have a job?”

  The relief in her voice is a jab to my conscience.

  “Well, sort of. A temporary thing. I’m doing some work for Jeremy.”

  “That handsome young Englishman?”

  “Yes. I’m giving him advice on a book he’s writing.”

  “His writing? Is it a business-related book?”

  Translation: Are you finally using that degree I’m still paying for?

  “No. He writes fiction. I’ll be consulting. Suggesting ways to help target his market.” Damn, I’m good.

  “Marketing? Oh, that’s wonderful, Chelsea. Let’s all go out for lunch to celebrate.”

  “All?”

  “I’ll invite Gabi. You invite Jeremy. He can drive you.”

  “Um, okay. But he’s probably busy. I’ll let you know.”

  I start to text Jeremy, but then call him instead. “Hey. Um, I’m meeting Gabi and my mom for lunch to celebrate my being … temporarily employed again. You wouldn’t want to go, would you?”

  “Thank you for the non-invite.”

  “It wasn’t—” Sigh. “Do you want to go or not?”

  “Yes, I do. The question is, do you want me to?”

  “Jeremy.”

  He laughs. “What time?”

  “We’re supposed to meet at noon in The Village.”

  I end the call knowing I’m going to regret passing along my mom’s invitation to Jeremy. The two of them spending an hour together can’t possibly end well. I shouldn’t have exaggerated my job description. But really, when you think about it, I didn’t lie to her. I could help Jeremy with marketing. I just need to do a little research on the romance novel market specifically.

  I open my laptop and glance at the ceiling. Thank you, sir, for the free Internet. I’ll have to come at this research from the other end too, by reading a ton of romances. I hope my library card’s still valid.

  I’m making a list of best-selling romance novels when Gabi interrupts me with a text saying she’ll see me in thirty minutes. I run to the bedroom to get ready. Crap. Gabi’s going to ask about the contract again, and Jeremy and I didn’t discuss anything about the book last night—which reminds me …

  I text him.

  You forgot to send me your book.

  He takes two minutes to reply.

  It’s not finished. Be ready to go in ten minutes.

  Ten minutes? Not likely.

  Running a couple minutes late. Come on in if I don’t answer the door.

  I dash to unlock my door and then back to the bedroom to ditch the shorts and tank top for the super cute black skater dress I found when I cleaned my closet. After I’m dressed and accessorized, I apply makeup. I’m trying to do something creative with my hair when I hear the front door open and close.

  “I’ll be ready in a minute,” I call out. My hair is hopelessly wavy today. I finger comb and shake and scrunch it and finally accept my hair is what it is.

  Jeremy’s standing by the front door, looking hot in his black skinny jeans, white silk tee, and a lightweight gray blazer with the sleeves rolled. On his feet—can you believe it?—are red Chuck Taylors. So frigging cool. His messed up eye adds an element of bad boy to the effect. I totally forgive my mom for inviting him to have lunch with us.

  “You look nice,” he says.

  “So do you. Love the shoes.” I grab my purse and automatically start to slip on flip-flops. “Oops, wrong shoes.” I run back to my closet. I was going to wear red heels, but I don’t want Jeremy to think I’m trying to make us look matchy-matchy. I strap on my fuchsia wedge sandals instead.

  Jeremy’s now standing beside the open door, frowning at his watch, obviously out of patience.

  “Sorry.”

  “Clearly, proper footwear
is far more important than punctuality,” he intones, stone-faced.

  I open my mouth to tell him to chill, but then he grins and slips on his Ray-Bans.

  As we’re driving along, listening to the radio, it occurs to me there’s a very good reason why this lunch might be a disaster.

  “Jeremy, I have to tell you something.”

  He turns off the radio. I pause so long he glances over at me twice before he frowns and motions for me to continue.

  I take a deep breath. “My mother thinks you’re gay.”

  It’s a good thing he’s just stopped at a red light because his eyes nearly pop out of his head. His mouth opens too, but he doesn’t say anything until the driver behind us honks to tell us the light has turned green.

  “Please, explain how your mother came to that conclusion,” he says, driving forward.

  Uh-oh. His voice was way too controlled. And the way he phrased that question sounded like he knows very well how.

  “I might have told her.”

  “You might have?”

  “Okay. I did. But it was for your own good.” Has his face always twitched like that?

  “You do know I’m not gay.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, for God’s sake, explain why you would tell your mother I am.” Voice control gone, face twitching like mad.

  “My mother likes to play matchmaker, and she thinks you’re”—I mime quotes—“a catch. She would have come up with all sorts of plans to get us together.”

  “Such as inviting me to lunch?”

  “Hmm.” He’s got a point. “Maybe I didn’t fool her?”

  “Whether you had the right to ‘fool’ your mother concerning my sexual preference is a topic for another conversation. What you’ll do now, Chelsea, is tell her the truth. Agreed?”

  “Okay. But—”

  “Tell her.”

  We drive the last few blocks in silence, but then, as we’re walking toward the restaurant, he stops walking and grabs my arm. “Does Gabi also think I’m gay?”

  “No, of course not.” Behind him, Gabi is crossing the street, angling toward us.

  “Of course not?” he says. “How can you dare use the phrase? It appears you’re apt to bend the truth whenever it suits your purpose.”