His fingers pause on the keys and he shifts his gaze in my direction. “Should I?”
“Yes. You could really rock one of those close-trimmed ones.”
He makes a face and sound that indicates a beard is something he might consider, and then he points to the legal pad in my hands. “Locations, please.”
While I’m working on the list, I pretend to gaze aimlessly while thinking, but I’m scoping out his bedroom. Like the rest of his apartment, its decor is contemporary and classy with no personal items—except the discarded clothing. It’s almost like no one lives here. Or anyone could.
“Jeremy, is all this furniture yours?”
“None of it is. I own the clothes, books, and electronics. Everything else in this flat is leased.”
“Everything? Even kitchen stuff?”
“Bed and bath linens too. Have you finished that list?”
“Working on it.” I write a couple more words. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Why stop now?”
“Ooh, snark bite.”
He actually laughs out loud.
“What’s with that leather book you carry around?”
“My research journal?”
“Is that what it is? I thought it was a poetry book. You know, to match your poet shirts.”
“My what?”
I point to the one he’s wearing.
“This is a highland shirt, my dear. Very comfortable. Does it offend you?”
“Nope. It’s sexy. Like your hair.” His lips part and he seems to be holding his breath. I think he’s going to take the bait. But then he blinks and turns back to the computer.
We exchange ideas for the series until noon. Then he turns off his monitor and says, “Fancy a curry?”
He moves to his bed where he sits to put on his boots.
“Why do you wear suede boots in the summer?”
“They’re comfortable. Am I breaking a law?”
“Ha. Ha. They just seem like overkill, or something.”
“Forgive me for not taking footwear advice from someone who doesn’t own shoes.”
“I have a closetful of shoes.”
“And yet ninety-eight percent of the time you wear rubber beach sandals.”
“Well, excuse me for not abiding by your dress code, Mr. High Tea.”
“You’re excused.”
“And FYI, they’re not all rubber.”
“A flat sole and two skinny strips of whatever does not a shoe make.” He goes to the dresser and picks up one of his leather ribbons, finger combs his hair, gathers it into a tail, and starts wrapping it.
“You don’t use an elastic band first?”
“Only when I need to look more respectable.”
“Like when you’re watching a softball game?”
“Ooh, snark bite.” Before he’s even knotted the ends of the strip, a lock of hair slips loose and falls against his cheek.
“How long have you had long hair?”
Until now, this was all just mutual teasing, but judging from the way he’s just frozen, I’ve asked one too many questions. He stares solemnly into the mirror for a moment before he answers.
“Since I discovered how much the length irritated my father.” He turns to me wearing a smile as fake as American cheese. “Shall we go?”
Way to bum the dude out, Chelsea.
*
Jeremy’s discovered a cool Indian restaurant I didn’t know existed. Since the hostess greeted him by name, I assume he’s a regular here, so I let him order for me. Plus, he can actually pronounce the words on the menu. Surprisingly soon, the server returns with warm naan and our drinks.
“Why do you eat all your meals out?” I ask him.
“I don’t get all my meals from restaurants.”
“Yeah, I glimpsed bread, cereal, and Nutella in your pantry. Don’t you ever cook?”
“Eggs occasionally. I heat soup.” He looks directly at me. “In other words, I don’t know how to cook.”
“I do. When we all lived together, I did most of the cooking. It’s one of my skills.”
“And by all you mean who?”
“Me, my mom, and Gabi.”
“Gabi wasn’t raised by her parents?”
“Yes, she was. I’m talking about when we were older. We’ve been friends since sixth grade, but her parents divorced when we were sixteen. Then a few months before we started college, her mom got remarried and moved out of town, so Gabi moved in with us.”
“I see.”
Two women have kept checking out Jeremy since we walked in. He seems oblivious, but I think they’re rude. He’s with me. They should keep their eyes to themselves. They’re at it again, so I lean toward him and “accidentally” slide my toes along his calf. Just that little contact sets my heart racing, but when he looks up at me, nothing in his eyes tells me he’s having the same reaction. Sigh.
I smile and say, “Sorry.” The trick is, I moved my mouth just right to make the word look like sexy to two certain someones across the room. Jeremy smiles back and offers me a taste of the naan he’s just spread with chutney. I glance at the women who both shoot me dirty looks. Eat your hearts out, ladies.
The server is back with our food. I only recognize the rice—well, one of the rice dishes. The other one is bright yellow with bits of things in it. I point to it.
“Lemon rice,” he says. “You’ll like it.”
I do. And most of the other dishes too. I’ll have to get him to write down the names so I know what to order next time. “Anyway. Gabi’s mom and my mom are good friends. And Gabi was happy that her mom got remarried, but her new husband’s business is in San Diego, so they live there.”
“You and Gabi are like sisters.”
“Yeah, and someday soon we’ll be business partners. We chose our college courses to prepare for that.” He gives me a questioning look. “We’re going to own a boutique like the one where Gabi works, which is why she took that job. For experience and research. We have it all planned out, but it’s sort of on hold because I’m still trying to get more experience.”
“You have a business degree?”
“Wow, Jeremy, could you sound any more astonished?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Watch it.”
He pauses for a moment. “I’m not surprised that you have a college degree,” he says cautiously, “only that you studied business.”
“And I wouldn’t be surprised that you have multiple degrees. A doctorate?”
“I studied law.”
“You have a law degree?”
“Look at that, we’re both full of surprises today.”
He takes a huge bite of his curry, which I interpret as a signal he doesn’t want me to question him further. I’m cool with that. I don’t want to talk about the degree I’m not using either.
“Ah, I see,” he says, a couple of minutes later. “The business degree is why your mother believes you’re my marketing consultant.”
I shrug and reach for another piece of naan. “Anyway. I don’t cook as much as I used to because it’s less fun doing it for just me, but I’d love to make a meal for you sometime. Anytime. Whatever you like.”
He pauses for a few seconds, but then he accepts my diversion. “I look forward to it.”
When we get back in the car to go home, Jeremy looks over at me and leans closer. I hold my breath. He lifts his hand toward my cheek. My heart beats double-time. His fingers touch my hair. I can’t wait any longer. I clamp my hand on the back of his neck, close the distance between us, and press my lips against his.
First thought: he’s a terrible kisser.
Second thought: he’s a terrible kisser because he wasn’t expecting to be kissed.
Please, God, take me now.
I let go of him and he snaps back upright in his seat. Both of us stare through the windshield. One … five … ten seconds of silence.
“I noticed a bit of rice stuck to your hair,” he
says.
“Thanks for getting it out.”
“You’re welcome.”
We spend the ten-minute drive home in silence. When we get there, I stop at my door. “If you don’t need me, I have some things I need to do this afternoon.”
“Yes, of course,” he says. “I’ll see you later then.”
Not once do our eyes meet during this exchange. I shut my door behind me and slump against it. Is there no end to the ways I can humiliate myself with him?
CHAPTER 14
Today, I’m supposed to be writing notes for Jeremy, but instead I’m lying on the sofa daydreaming about him. Nice thing about daydreams—I’m not stupid and impulsive in them. This dream—that there was no rice in my hair, and Jeremy really did kiss me passionately yesterday—is interrupted when a key slips into the lock on my door. I sit up just as Gabi walks in.
“Why aren’t you at work?” I ask.
“I took the day off.” She’s one big grin. “I’m about to burst with news.”
“Well, it’s obviously good news, so start talking, girl.”
She stops in the middle of the room, takes a deep breath, and looks me in the eye. “I’m pregnant.”
I’m silent for two seconds, and then I scream, and she screams with me. I jump to my feet and run to hug her. “I can’t believe you’re going to be a mother.”
“I know, right?”
Giggling, we reclaim our spots at either end of the sofa, facing each other.
“When did you find out?”
“Yesterday. I wanted to tell you right away, but …”
“Oh, Gabs. I’m sorry for calling you and babbling on and on about working with Jeremy and then hanging up before you had a chance to tell me your news. I totally killed your buzz, didn’t I?”
“Stop it. I’ve monopolized our conversations a thousand times.”
“So what did Matt say?”
“He’s thrilled. And he wants to get married right away.”
“But what about your big wedding plans?”
“Nah.” She flaps a hand as though the wedding she’s dreamed of for twelve years means nothing. “It’s better this way.”
I nod, but I can tell she’s trying to convince herself that’s true. “So when?”
“Around the end of March, I think.”
“That’s months from now. I thought you said right away.”
“Oh. I thought you were asking when the baby is due. I don’t know yet about the wedding, but you’ll still be my maid of honor or witness or whatever, right?”
“Like you have to ask.” I feel like a jerk. I should have asked about the baby’s due date. “Hey. Why aren’t we celebrating?” I stand up. “This announcement calls for wine.”
“Not for me, Chels.” She smiles and lays a hand across her still flat stomach.
Our eyes meet. Everything will be different now.
“Oh … right.” I sit back down. Gabi’s beginning a whole new life, and not only as a mother. She’ll be a wife too. I can’t even keep a boyfriend—or a job. I force myself to smile at her. “This will take some getting used to.”
“You’re telling me.” Her smile fades, and she grabs my hand. “What if I’m not a good mother?”
“Gabriella Elise Hudson! How dare you utter such nonsense? You’ll be fabulous.”
Her smile returns. “Matt says so too.”
“Your hardest job will be teaching your daughter not to be like her crazy Aunt Chelsea.”
“My daughter?”
“Well, of course. Isn’t that what you’ve always said you’d have first?”
She smiles, but her eyes are wet. “She’d be great if she turned out like you, Chels.”
Now we’re both crying. And hugging. And laughing. And then the immensity of it all silences us.
After Gabi leaves, I pick up Jeremy’s legal pad again. Since yesterday I’ve written three pages of notes on ways to give his books a distinctly California flavor. But I’m also listing things I wish I knew about him but haven’t thought of a way to find out—yet. Asking would be the easy way if he wasn’t so damn secretive. If I caught him in a weak moment, he might slip and tell me his middle name. Maybe.
I don’t even know how old he is. When he smiles, he looks younger than I first thought. There’s a chance he’d tell me his age. But middle names and birth dates are just superficial things.
Why is he living here? And for how long? Visas expire, don’t they? No wonder he’s renting everything, which must cost a ton, though I’m beginning to think money is no problem for him. He’s rich, that’s what I think.
“So,” I say, looking at the ceiling, “tell me, rich boy, why are you slumming so far from home?”
I jump a mile when my phone rings and Jeremy’s name pops up on the screen. No way. He couldn’t have heard that question. “Hello?”
“Is Chelsea Cole your full legal name?”
“I have a middle name. Why are you asking?”
“I’m drawing up a contract for your services.”
Crap. “Can’t you pay me under the table?”
“I could, but my accountant would hang me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to see you hung.” Ohmygod. I swear that was unintentional, but I can tell by the silence on the other end, he doesn’t think so. “Moving on. My middle name is Marie.”
“Yes. Well. When you have a spare minute, would you come upstairs and sign this?”
“I’ll bring my lawyer.”
“Oh. All right. But I think you’ll find—”
“Joking. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Yep, dude needs to loosen up.
While I check myself in the mirror, I’m thinking about that visa thing. How much time do I have to make an impression on Jeremy? I need to use every advantage of working with him.
When he opens his door, he’s on the phone. He motions me in, frowning at the Doc Martens I’m wearing. I start to sit on the sofa to wait, but then I see he has papers laid out on the dining table, so I take a seat there. I lay down my legal pad and pick up our official Contract of Employment —that’s how it’s titled. While I scan it, I listen to his conversation, of course.
“I don’t know, mate.” Pause. “You think that’s the key, eh?” Laugh. “Not a good idea.” Pause. “Yes, well, my assistant is here, so …” Pause. “Not bloody likely.” Pause. “Right.” He pockets his phone and walks to the table. “Sorry about that.”
“Friend?”
“Ethan. He’s my version of your Gabi.”
“You named your fictional hero after your friend? Cool.”
“Seemed fitting. It was his idea to write that book. As a lark, actually. He doesn’t know I published it, though.”
“Wow, you didn’t even tell your best friend?”
“You and my accountant are the only ones who know.” He walks into the kitchen and opens the little fridge on the counter.
“Is that a beer fridge?”
“Wine and beer, yes.”
“Fancy.”
“Practical. Nice boots, by the way.”
“As I recall, you indicated my flip-flops did not meet your employee dress code, so I thought I’d wear these.”
“Adorable.”
“Anyway. So you’re really into this secrecy thing with your writing, aren’t you?”
“The fewer people who know, the less chance I’ll be found out.” He opens two different bottles, which he pours into different style glasses and brings to the table. He sets the one with a pink head in front of me. “You’ll like it.”
“What is it? I smell raspberries.”
“That’s because it’s a framboise lambic.” I respond by lifting my brows. “Raspberry beer,” he explains.
“Eww.”
“Taste it.”
I do. It’s delicious. “Is this one of those trick drinks that tastes like soda and then knocks you on your ass?”
“It has less alcohol than that ale you usually drink. But if you want to be knocked on your
arse, drink mine.”
“No thanks. So what does Ethan think you’re doing here?”
“Oh. He knows I’m writing, he just doesn’t know what.”
“He thinks you’re only writing the literary novel.”
“Um, yes. The literary novel.”
I pick up the contract again. “I’m not sure I should trust a lawyer telling me to sign something.”
His brows shoot upward. “I’m not trying to cheat or deceive you.”
Eye roll. “And here I thought the British understood dry humor. You’d better drink more of your beer, dude.”
He does and then wipes the foam from his fledgling mustache. “That’s a standard employment agreement.”
“Chancing Press?”
He smiles. “That’s me. Taking a chance.”
“Research assistant,” I murmur, and then my eyes reach the wages section. Blink. Oh, for sure, Jeremy lied about the alcohol content of the lambic. I point to the numbers. “Does that say seven hundred dollars per week?”
“Yes. And I know that’s not a lot, but I’ll also pay your expenses. And if you should present me a valid marketing plan, we’ll revisit your job description and wages.”
“Cool.” Hell, I’m not complaining about the seven hundred. Even after deductions, that’s thirty percent more than I’ve been living on the last four years. Hello cable and HBO. Hello hair salon. I scan through the rest and sign the contract. I pick up my glass. “Here’s to being employed again.”
Jeremy smiles and clinks his glass against mine.
“Oh! That reminds me. Gabi’s pregnant!”
Confusion warps his face because, of course, he wasn’t following my train of thought.
“Sorry. The toast reminded me because I forgot she won’t be drinking until after the baby’s born, and I offered wine to celebrate her announcement.”
He nods. “So this is a good thing? The pregnancy.”
“Absolutely! They’re going to move up their wedding date, but they’re happy about it all.”
He nods again. “I shall ring her with my congratulations. Or is this a secret for now?”
“I wouldn’t have told you if it was a secret.”
“Of course not.”
“I have to pee.”
He blinks. “Oh … all right.”
When I come back to the table, Jeremy’s holding my legal pad.
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