“There’s another Cambridge … in Massachusetts,” he says.
“Oh. Right. Where Harvard is.”
“Exactly. My father was an instructor there at the time.”
I sit up, fascinated. “So when did you move to England?”
He shrugs. “I was still an infant. My mother was homesick. My father followed after his teaching contract expired.”
“Have you lived here before … as an adult?”
“I’ve visited many times. Different places. And I stayed in New York City, with a friend, for a few weeks a couple of years ago.”
“Do you miss your house in Notting Hill?”
“Occasionally. I miss my car more.”
“It must be a nice one.”
“Yes.” He turns back to his keyboard, obviously hoping to quiet me, but I’m just getting to the meat of it.
“Do you miss your family?”
He stops typing, but he stares at the keyboard in silence for at least a full minute. When he answers, he measures each word. “I didn’t spend a lot of time with my parents.” He pauses. “But at least once a month, I met my sister for lunch or dinner.”
“What’s her name?”
“Laura.”
“Will she come to visit you here?”
“I don’t know. Possibly.”
“What about the daft prick?”
He turns to me with such a quizzical look it almost makes me laugh. “Who?”
“That’s what you called your brother. On Saturday night?”
He grins. “I was wasted.”
“Yeah, I know. I was there. So … your brother?”
“I called him a daft prick—you figure out our relationship.”
He turns back to the computer. I give him a minute before I pull out the big gun. “So, why does your father—”
“Let’s go to the pier for lunch,” he says, slamming the keyboard shelf back under the desk. He stands and walks toward me.
Damn. Cut off at the pass. “Hey, as long as we’re going to the beach, want to boogie board?”
He smiles and raps his knuckles on my forehead. “Your brain just whirls and whirls, doesn’t it?”
We’re walking out the door when I get a text from Gabi.
Matt just called. My copy of Jeremy’s book arrived. He wants to know why Penny James looks exactly like you.
“Uh-oh.”
“What?” he says
I show him the text. He reads it and then gets that faraway look that used to piss me off, but now I recognize as his wheels-turning mode.
“Two options,” he says. “Tell her to tell Matt you’re a friend of the author who wants to remain anonymous, which is true, or tell him you’re the author but want to remain anonymous.”
“Yeah. Like he would believe I’d want to be anonymous.”
I text Gabi the first option. “I don’t suppose that will ever happen again,” I tell Jeremy. “What are the odds that anyone else who knows me will buy your book?”
*
Today we’re working in my apartment. When I get up for a Coke, Jeremy follows me into the kitchen. Just as we’re entwined against the fridge and starting to undress, someone knocks once and then inserts a key in the door.
“My mom,” I groan.
Jeremy backs away so quickly, I nearly fall on the floor.
“The bathroom,” I whisper. He grabs his shirt and bolts. I toss my bra into the freezer and jerk my tee on. I step into the living room just in time. “Hi, Mom.”
She stops in the middle of the living room and plants her hands on her hips. The look she gives me is a weird mixture of amusement, confusion, and … pride? “You.”
“Me what?”
She slips her purse off her shoulder and then freezes when she notices the two laptops open on the coffee table. “You have company?”
“Um, yeah. Jeremy’s here.” I raise my voice. “He’s in the bathroom.” On cue, the toilet flushes.
“Does he know?” my mom whispers.
“Know what?”
She pulls a copy of Wanting More from her purse. Jeremy, who’s just walked into the room, manages to gasp and curse in the same breath. Gaping, I stare at the book in her hand.
My mom waves it at me. “Chelsea?”
“Yes?” I hope Jeremy’s thinking because my brain’s shouting, Leave me out of this.
“You have a book,” he says, evidently in shock too.
“A very special book,” she says, questioning me with a look and a tick of her head toward Jeremy.
“He knows, Mom.”
At that, she breaks out in a smile and steps forward to hug the life out of me. “And why didn’t I know? You’ve been a published author for months and never told me?” She turns to Jeremy. “Can you believe that?”
“Well …” he says vaguely and collapses on the sofa.
“I didn’t want to say anything in case the book failed,” I tell her. That makes sense, right?
“I can’t believe you kept such a big secret from me.” She hugs me again.
When my mom lets me go, I join Jeremy on the sofa. She settles between us, angled toward me.
“Did Gabi know this whole time?”
“No. I didn’t want anyone to know.” Over my mother’s shoulder, I see Jeremy mouthing something. He does it twice before I get it. “And don’t you tell anyone, Mom. Please don’t.”
“Well, sweetie, word’s going to get around. How do you think I found out? Ruth”—she turns to Jeremy, “that’s my neighbor,” and back to me—“recommended it to me on Tuesday. She said her sister raved about it, so I went straight to Amazon and ordered a copy. Imagine my shock when it arrived and I saw the author photo.”
“Mom, you can’t—”
“Of course, I went right over to Ruth’s and said I couldn’t believe she hadn’t told me my own daughter was the author. Well, she looked at me like I was crazy, so we compared the books and her copy has a different author photo—doesn’t look much like you, really—anyway she was floored when she found out Penny James is you.”
The blood has drained from Jeremy’s face.
“And guess what? Her sister’s book club has chosen it for their next read! Isn’t that exciting?”
“Yeah … exciting. But you have to tell Ruth not to mention that she knows—”
“Don’t be silly, sweetie, they want you to come to their next meeting.”
I can’t be sure Jeremy’s still breathing.
“I … I don’t know, Mom.”
She turns to Jeremy and lays a hand on his knee. He jumps like she stabbed him, but his color comes back.
“Is this how you two met, Jeremy? Through some writer’s club or something?”
“Coincidence,” he says, not looking her in the eye.
“I don’t suppose this is the sort of book you read,” she says to him, “but if you do, I hope you won’t get the wrong idea about my daughter.”
“The wrong idea?” I say.
She turns back to me. “I’m not naive about your private life, sweetie, or about sex in general, certainly, but just know that I didn’t read these steamy scenes thinking they depict your personal experiences.”
Jeremy sputters and then clamps a hand over his mouth.
“It’s fiction, Mom.”
“Of course it is. And very entertaining.” She stands. “Well, I’m going to go, so you two can get back to work. When will your next book be out?”
I follow her toward the door. “Mom, wait. You don’t understand.” I flash Jeremy an appeal for help.
He stands. “Mrs. Cole, I wrote that book.”
My mother looks from him to me. “Oh,” she says, all her disappointment telegraphed in that one word.
“But Chelsea is helping me write the next books. And I assure you they’ll be the better for it.”
She turns back to him. “But why didn’t you use your name? And your photo?”
I guide her back to the sofa, and we all sit. Jeremy explains what
we’ve worked out. He manages to give her back some excitement, while still getting her to promise to keep our secret. He also tells her I’ll go to the book club meeting as Penny James.
“I can’t wait for the next book,” she says to him and pats his knee again. It’s obvious when the truth hits her: at the exact moment she realizes those steamy scenes she read were written by him, she snatches back her hand. Her cheeks flame. She stands and stumbles over my feet trying to put distance between herself and Jeremy. “I’ll talk to you later,” she says, rushing out the door.
Jeremy gives me a puzzled look.
“The sex scenes,” I explain.
*
Today is the day Penny James makes her first live appearance. I’m dressed in the same black skater dress I wore to that disastrous lunch with my mom and Gabi, but this time there’s a magenta streak in my hair to match my new heels. Jeremy approves.
We go through the questions and answers once more on the way there, and then I tell him to let me relax. “If I don’t, I’m going to forget everything.”
“You will not forget,” he says, scowling. “The cue cards I made you are excellent.”
“Yes, Mr. High Tea.”
“Forgive me. I’m tense.” He’s silent for a minute. “I don’t know how I’ll feel hearing you take credit for my work.”
“You could come clean.”
“Not an option. We’ve already seen how word gets around with these romance reader clubs. I reveal myself here today, and I’ll be exposed on the telly in London tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry you can’t take open credit. But everything someone says to me about the book they’re really saying to you.”
“I know.” He offers a weak smile. “And you’re much prettier than I am.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s going to win me points in a roomful of women. They’ll drool over you, though.”
“Is that why you talked me into leaving my hair down?”
“Of course.”
GPS directs us to the right building, but we have trouble finding a close parking spot, which only makes us both more anxious. As we’re approaching the meeting room, Carolyn rushes over to welcome us.
“Penny, I’m so glad to meet you,” she says. “You look adorable.” And then her eyes stray to Jeremy and really light up. “And who’s this?”
“Jeremy Windsor,” he says before I can introduce him. “Pleased to meet you.”
Carolyn beckons us to follow her.
“You could have warned me about the name change,” I whisper to him.
“Just thought of it,” he whispers back.
We step into the room and soon become the center of attention. Most of the women greet me and then turn their attention to Jeremy. And it’s not like he’s the only man in the room. There are two others, but neither of them is gorgeous. Both of them frown at Jeremy.
“Are you a writer too?” a woman asks him.
“Yes,” he says, “but not a romance writer, I’m afraid.”
Carolyn directs us to seats in the front row, which is great in case I need physical cues from Jeremy. We’ve already worked out that if I get stuck, he’s supposed to text me. He puts his arm across the back of my chair and squeezes my shoulder. When I look at him, he crosses his eyes to make me laugh.
Another woman, Rose, asks everyone to take a seat. She holds up Wanting More, and an appreciative murmur ripples through the room. She talks about the book for a minute. Then she introduces me as Penny James.
Don’t screw this up, Chelsea.
I start by explaining why I don’t have a British accent, blaming it on a typo. I pretty much stick to the script, but even when I ad lib, I pull it off. Jeremy doesn’t have to text me once. Then it’s time for questions. The first few are about self-publishing, and I answer without a problem. After that, comes a mixture of questions about writing and the book itself. I can easily discuss the book, but I watch Jeremy closely for signs that I’m getting the answers to the writing questions wrong. Only once does he frown and text me something he wants me to add.
Then one of the men asks about the next book, and I’m excited to talk about the California series for a few minutes. I wind things up and thank them for inviting me. Rose and I are about to change places when one of the older women, wearing a mischievous grin, stands up.
“Penny,” she says, “we’re all wondering about the hunky guy you brought with you. Is he the inspiration for your red-hot love scenes?”
Laughter ripples through the room along with several women’s voices encouraging me to answer. I keep smiling through my panic. Why didn’t we rehearse this question? I glance at Jeremy, who’s giving me nothing but a warning look. And without meaning to, I burst out laughing. I get that under control, but then I open my mouth.
“Well, ladies, what can I say? My fiancé is very inspirational.”
Ohmygod. I did not just call him my fiancé. The stunned look on Jeremy’s colorless face says I most definitely did.
Before the laughter dies away, I take my seat beside him and grab his hand because I’m afraid he’s about to get up and walk out. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He says nothing at all.
Rose makes a few announcements and then directs us to move to the next room, where the group will meet for coffee and book signing. As we rise and walk out, I keep a death grip on Jeremy’s hand. Because Dorothy is right behind us, he has to play along with my pretense nothing’s wrong. She motions to a table, where copies of Jeremy’s book await my Penny James signature. He tenses.
Some of the women have brought their own copies with them, most with his sister’s photo on the author page. Each time I sign a book, I feel a little sick. This should be Jeremy’s honor, but he’s smiling and joking with the women who brought us coffee and cookies as if he’s not even paying attention to what I’m doing. After the two men get their books signed, he stands and engages them in conversation off to the side. When I glance over the next time, all three men are laughing.
Dare I hope Jeremy’s forgotten my screwup?
Afterward, we walk out to the parking lot with several women and one of the men, so Jeremy and I aren’t alone until we get in the car.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I say.
He starts the car and backs out.
“They really liked the idea of the series,” I add.
We drive for a few minutes. His jaw is clenched, and he has a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
“Say something, Jeremy.”
He whips the car into a McDonald’s parking lot, but doesn’t kill the engine. I’ve seen Jeremy annoyed plenty of times, but I’ve never seen him furious. Should I be afraid? I place my right hand on the door handle, ready in case I have to make a quick exit.
“Your fiancé?” he shouts, startling me. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“It just slipped out.”
He scoffs. “Slipped out.”
“I apologized.”
“Well then …”
His sarcasm makes me mad. “It’s not the end of the world, Jeremy. I don’t know why you’re flipping out.”
He backs up and tears out of the parking lot. We don’t speak again during the forty-minute drive home. And when we get there, he goes straight upstairs without a word.
When Gabi texts to ask how it went, I’m still crying.
CHAPTER 18
It’s nearly midnight when Jeremy calls me. I’m not sleeping, though I’ve been lying in bed for hours.
“May I see you?” he asks.
“Why? So you can yell at me some more?”
“I apologize for that.”
“Well then …”
“I deserve that. May I come down and try to explain? Please? I have champagne.”
“Are you going to break the bottle over my head?”
“Not unless you’ve transformed into a ship since I last saw you.”
“Nope. I’m just me.”
“Perfect.”
> I end the call and run to unlock the door then to the bathroom to see how gruesome I look after hours of crying and a Ben & Jerry’s binge. He appears at the bathroom door before I can change out of the ratty tank top and boxers I was going to sleep in.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hi.”
We stare at each other awkwardly for a very long minute.
“Forgive me,” he says, finally. “I behaved atrociously.”
“Yes, you did. But I think I understand why.”
A wan smile softens his face. “No, you don’t. But after we talk, maybe you will.”
I follow him to the kitchen and get out my only two champagne flutes while he opens the bottle. He pours and hands me a glass then clinks his against mine. “To Chelsea, who gave a smashing performance as Penny.”
“Except for—” He presses his fingers against my lips.
“Perhaps, in the future, you could think awhile longer before you speak. A second or two, at least?” He takes his hand away from my mouth and picks up the bottle. “Come,” he says heading toward my bedroom.
Hey, wait a minute. He sets the bottle on the nightstand and arranges the pillows against the headboard. Oh. Okay. We’re really going to talk. We climb on the bed and sit side by side.
“You were a hit today,” he says. “You sounded professional, but approachable. I overheard more than one person describe you as cute or charming, and Carolyn immediately dubbed you adorable, but you also made it clear you’re bright and capable. So, I concede that you do know something about marketing.”
I slap his arm.
“Don’t spill the champagne, love.”
“So I did good until I—”
“Dubbed me your fiancé, yes. But I was already jealous, and in part my anger was an excuse to vent that.”
“And the other part?”
He sighs. Then he empties his glass, refills it, and tops mine off. “I’m sensitive, overly sensitive I suppose, to people telling me who I am or should be.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know. My reaction was not based on logic.”
“It has something to do with your father.”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “Yes.”
The only sound is a gulp as he finishes off his champagne. When he sets his glass on the nightstand, he switches off the lamp, leaving us with only the glow from the security lights outside. He says nothing for a few more seconds. Then he sighs and begins.
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