By eleven o’clock we’re starving, so we change out of our wetsuits and hit the pier for lunch. Later, when we join in a beach volleyball game, one of the guys recognizes Dusty but acts cool about it. After the game, we build a ridiculous sand castle and then go back to the pier to challenge each other in the arcade. Dinner and a ride on the Ferris wheel with the tourists complete an exhausting but fun day. It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed so much.
And still, Jeremy kept popping into my mind.
On the drive back, Dusty and I talk a little bit about music. But I’m tired and don’t really want to keep talking, so I ask him what it’s like to surf all around the world because I know he’ll run with that topic for the rest of the way to my apartment. When we get there, he pulls into a parking spot facing the building.
“I had a wonderful day, Dusty.”
“So did I. A day on the beach with a beautiful girl, what could be better?”
“Would you like to come in?”
Dusty laughs and points toward the building. “I think Sir Jeremy there might challenge me to a duel.”
Oh. My. God. Jeremy is visible in the growing twilight, sitting on his terrace, watching us. “Don’t pay attention to him. He doesn’t have anything to say about what I do.”
“You sure about that? This morning, he totally looked like a dude pissed that another dude was stealing his wave.”
“Oh, he looks like that all the time. We’re just friends.”
Dusty smiles and reaches for my hand. “Well, heads up—he doesn’t feel like you’re just friends. And you hope he doesn’t. So I don’t think you really want me to come in. But I’m going to walk you to your door, and I’m going to stop and kiss you on the way, just to mess with him.”
And he does. In full view of Jeremy, Dusty crushes me to him and gives me a kiss that would have melted me if we hadn’t both been silently laughing.
I thank Dusty again at my front door, close it, and walk straight to my patio door. I open it a few inches, and say, “Good night, Jeremy.”
The sound of him scrambling inside and slamming his door is so satisfying.
I wake up stinging from sunburn. My sun to sunscreen ratio was a fail yesterday. I lie in bed listening to Jeremy’s movements above me. It sounds like he’s pacing. I guess the revision isn’t going well. I usually help by being his sounding board, and I suppose that’s what he wanted me to do yesterday when I brushed him off.
By the time I’m showered and dressed, I’m also hungry. I don’t hear Jeremy pacing now, but I also don’t hear him typing. Should I assume he still wants my help? If I just show up at his door and he gets all rude and snarky, I’ll react badly and end up jobless for sure. My growling stomach solves the problem. I text him.
Going out to pick up a breakfast burrito. Want one?
I stare at my phone, waiting for his reply. It’s slow in coming, and I brace myself for a negative reaction.
Getting up now. Can you wait a few?
Yes.
Thank you.
Hmm. So he’s not angry. But why is he pretending he just woke up?
Twenty minutes later he answers his door, hair wet from the shower, holding the coffeemaker carafe in his hand. I take it from him—he makes terrible coffee—and carry it to the kitchen. He leans back against the counter while I start the coffee, but we don’t speak.
As soon as we’re seated at the table he says, “I’d like your input on—”
“Later. Let’s just eat.” On the way back from the restaurant, I’d decided to play it cool, like the last two days didn’t happen, but now that he’s doing exactly that, it’s ticking me off.
When we’re done eating, he tries again. “My editor suggests—”
“Don’t you think we have something more important to talk about, Jeremy?” I get up, refill our cups, and carry them back to the table. “Besides you being my employer, what exactly is our relationship?”
“You’re asking me? After your behavior the last two days—”
“My behavior? You stomped out of my apartment and then refused to speak to me for the next twenty-four hours.”
He stands so abruptly he knocks his chair backward. “I did no such thing.”
I’m damn sure not going to sit here while he looms over me. I jump to my feet too, but since he’s nearly a foot taller than me, I still have to look up at him. “Your communication amounted to two highly impersonal texts, Jeremy. You couldn’t even bother to speak to me on the phone. And then one demand delivered face-to-face.”
“That is an incredible interpretation of the facts! As I clearly explained, I needed to work alone.”
“Ha! You weren’t working all that time. You weren’t even home when I came back from dinner Monday night, and you were still gone when I went to bed.”
He glares at me as he folds back the sleeve of his shirt. A four-inch square bandage covers part of his inner forearm. “I tried to cook and burnt myself. While you were out on your date, I spent three hours at urgent care. God knows how they define urgent.”
I force down my instinct to hug him. “I’m sorry you’re injured. But that doesn’t change your actions before that.”
“I hardly see it matters. Your actions yesterday have made it clear our relationship is strictly business.”
“Okay then.”
“Precisely. Now, shall we get to work?”
I follow him to my chair beside his desk, and for the next half hour we talk about the troubling revision suggestion. I can tell he doesn’t want to make the change, but I also don’t know if the editor is right, so I just keep him talking, and eventually he works it out on his own. He’ll make a partial change because that’s all he’s comfortable with. I don’t tell him so, but I agree with his decision.
With his problem solved, I stand. “Is that all you needed me for?”
He jumps to his feet. “Why? Do you have another date with that sun worshiper?”
“You know his name.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I say nothing.
“Is this Dusty chap an old friend of yours?”
“No, I met him two days ago. Are we through here?”
“Well … I … oh, did you make our hotel reservation in Carmel?”
“Yes, for the deluxe ocean-view suite. But I’ll change that.”
“Why?”
“I presume you’d rather have the two-bedroom suite now. Or two separate rooms.”
“Don’t you mean you’d prefer two—”
“No. I wouldn’t prefer.”
We’ve both inched forward until we’re standing practically nose to chest.
“Damn it, Jeremy, you’re the one who’s changed everything. Just because Gabi saw your—”
“This has nothing to do with Gabi. You’re the one that changed things by starting an affair with that beach bum.”
“An affair? We spent one day together. On a public beach.”
He lifts his chin and turns his face away like he’s so damn superior. “Well, you certainly seemed quite chummy by the time you came home.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Jeremy. He only kissed me like that to piss you off.”
His head snaps back in my direction. He looks at me through slitted eyes. “I detest game playing.”
“Then why are you playing one?”
He stands there opening and closing his mouth so many times he looks like a hungry goldfish. Then his eyes flash.
“You have completely misconstrued this entire situation,” he says. “You started that ridiculous friends-with-benefits game because you can’t be honest about what you want.”
“I can’t be—” Huh? My mind whirls. I step back. “What?”
“Why don’t you admit you’ve fallen in love with me, Chelsea?”
Now, I’m the goldfish. Is he just guessing and hoping I’ll deny it? Or does he really know how I feel? And if I admit it, won’t he be angry? But if he knew how I really feel, why did he agree to th
e casual sex thing?
Unless Dusty was right.
“Jeremy, are you in love with me?”
He pales but says nothing. The faraway look in his eyes tells me his mind is racing. As each second ticks by, the fear that I’ve put words in his mouth grows. Ohmygod. I’ve humiliated myself again. I turn away and head for the door. “We’re done here.”
Two hours later, Jeremy knocks on my door. I open it, but not all the way. I’m not ready to face him. “What do you want?”
“I seem to have misplaced some of my unmentionables,” he deadpans. “Could they have gotten mixed in with your laundry?”
Sigh. “I’m sure they didn’t.”
“Please, do take a look. I expect you’ll recognize them. They’re quite long with a button flap in the rear.”
I know he’s trying to make me smile, but I can’t. My humiliation is too fresh. “If I find them, I’ll let you know.” I close the door in his face.
An hour after that, I hear a knock and a man calls out, “Pizza delivery.”
It’s Jeremy again, disguising his voice.
“I didn’t order pizza.”
“But it’s pepperoni and mushroom.”
I open the door only long enough to grab the box. Perfect. Now I don’t have to fix something for lunch.
Jeremy’s trying to apologize, but he doesn’t understand I’m super embarrassed that I asked him if he loves me. I can’t forget the look on his face at that question. So when there’s another knock a couple of hours later, I almost don’t get up to answer it. But it’s not Jeremy. It’s a florist deliveryman. He hands me two vases: one with white roses and the other with red.
“Thank you.” I reach for my purse hanging on the hook by the door. “Let me get—”
“Wait,” he says, “there’s more.”
I set the vases on my desk and count the blooms, two dozen of each color. He brings me two more vases, one filled with yellow roses and the other with pink. “That’s all, right?”
He shakes his head. While I set the yellow and pink roses on the coffee table and get a tip ready, he goes back to the van. He returns with two more vases, one with peach and the other with lavender roses. He laughs. “Now, that’s all.”
“I should hope so.” I hold out the tip.
“No need,” he says, “that’s been taken care of. Generously.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I shut the door with my foot. Twelve dozen roses in all. Twelve. I have to get over my humiliation, don’t I? I move all the vases to the dining table so I can take a photo of them and text it to Gabi.
Seconds later she texts back.
Wow. He must have messed up BAD!!!
Not really, but I think I’m going to have to forgive him.
LOL You’d better. He just sent you a lifetime’s worth of roses.
Gotta go. Someone at the door again.
This time it is Jeremy. He’s holding out a two-pound box of See’s chocolates. “Your mother said pineapple, raspberry, and chocolate truffles are your favorites.”
“You called my mother?”
He shrugs. “Desperate measures.”
I take the box from him and give a teeny smile in return. This time I open the door wide, and he steps in and moves enough to the side so I can shut the door, but he goes no further.
“Do you like the roses?”
“I hate roses.” He looks so devastated I instantly feel terrible for trying to keep up the pretense I’m still angry. “Joking. They’re beautiful. Thank you. For the roses and the chocolate. And the pizza.”
He nods but still looks so miserable my heartbeat quickens. We’re making up, right? Guys don’t send you twelve dozen roses to pave the way for dumping you. Do they? Do they? Oh, God.
He rubs his face with both hands. Then he takes a deep breath, threads his fingers through his hair, and exhales hard. This is not good. Not good at all. Is my heart still beating?
“Chelsea … I’m sorry—”
“But?”
He frowns. “There’s no but.”
No but? Okay. That’s good. We are making up then. And we’ll kiss and hug and have make-up sex, surrounded by roses, with chocolate for after.
“I’m sorry that I … I acted like—”
“An idiot?”
“Yes. A jealous one.”
“And I’m sorry I kissed Dusty.” Jeremy doesn’t move toward me now like I expected. Is he waiting for me to close the distance between us?
“It was only that one kiss?” he asks.
“Yes. And nothing more.” Let’s move on, Jeremy.
“He saw you in your red bikini.”
Seriously?
“That’s because we went to the beach. Anyway, most of the time it was covered by my wetsuit or my clothes.”
He nods. “What if he asks to see you again?”
“I’ll say no.” By now, Dusty’s gone back to Hawaii, but that’s not what Jeremy wants to hear. I’m not sure what more he does want to hear, though, because he still hasn’t moved closer to me. Okay, I guess it’s up to me. I take the first step. His arms shoot out straight, and he grabs my shoulders to keep me from coming closer. What the hell?
“I thought I’d lost you,” he says.
“Yeah, and that would be tragic, since I’m invaluable for my editing and marketing ideas.” I was trying to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t smile. My breath comes in tiny, cold puffs. My eyes search his for some clue as to what’s happening. This is not normal. Are we making up or not?
“I love you, Chelsea.”
Suddenly, he looks far away, at the end of a dark tunnel. What did he say? He shakes me, and his face zooms in. His frightened face. He’s saying my name. He’s asking if I’m all right. Air rushes into my lungs, and I can finally speak.
“What did you say?”
“You looked faint. I asked if you were all right.”
“Before that. Did you say you love me?”
“Yes. And do you—”
“Yes, yes, yes.” This time, he doesn’t hold me back, and I leap into his arms.
“Chelsea?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“I’m sorry I’m not a beach activities kind of guy. But I might enjoy walks on the beach.”
Well, that’s a start.
CHAPTER 20
Production at Chancing Press is moving right along. Jeremy finished revisions on the first California romance just as the cover design was completed—it’s fabulous. So he uploaded the files, and we ordered some review copies, which I mailed out this morning. And, even more exciting, he’s halfway through writing the first draft of the second book in the California series. At this rate he’ll have three books published by the end of the year, maybe with a fourth ready to go early next year.
The best thing of all is the high I’m getting from using my brain again. I think Jeremy’s right that I’m pretty good at knowing if a scene works and how to fix what doesn’t. Book marketing is different from the marketing I’ll be doing when Gabi and I go into business, but I love the challenge of learning something new. I know I can help Jeremy’s books get the sales they deserve. Maybe then his father will see what a talented son he has.
In the twenty-five days since we first made love, Jeremy and I have relaxed about our work situation. Most days we’re back to working here in his bedroom.
Jeremy rolls back his chair and stretches. I’ve learned to wait for a sign that it’s all right to speak. When he winks at me, I know he’s pulled himself out of his writing zone and back into the real world. But before I can open my mouth, he stands, scoops me out of my chair, and carries me to his bed.
“Exercise break,” he says.
“Sex counts as exercise?”
“Depends on how creative we get.”
The devilish gleam in his eye makes me laugh. When the writing goes well, Jeremy is in a good mood. And when he’s having a sucky day at the keyboard, it’s best to be quiet and stay out of his way.
“Just finished writing a l
ove scene?” I ask.
“No.” His voice is muffled against my breast. “We’re researching for one.”
“Yay for research.”
*
Three days later, I’m walking back from the mailboxes when a taxi pulls up to our building. So it’s less obvious I’m stalling to see who’s arrived, I retrace my steps, pretending I forgot something. A woman gets out of the taxi—the proper way. You know, turning sideways with knees together and then stepping out. She’s tall, beautiful, and dressed even classier than Gabi does for work, and I’d bet the shoes this woman is wearing are Louboutins. She stares at the building and then at the paper in her hand, shakes her head, and leans back in the car to say something to the driver.
I’m too far away to hear the words, so I leave the mailboxes and walk back toward my apartment, which puts the woman directly in my path. When I’m about ten feet from her, she closes the taxi door and watches it drive away. Frowning, she turns and looks at the building again.
“Excuse me,” she says in a British accent. “The driver assured me this is the correct address, but surely not.”
She holds the square of paper out to me. It bears the letterhead of the most expensive hotel in town. Written on it is the building address but no apartment number.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but he brought you to the right place.” This must be Jeremy’s sister, surprising him with a visit. “Whose apartment are you looking for?”
“My fiancé’s,” she says in a distracted way, obviously still hoping someone’s made a mistake.
Having instantly subtracted the sister and added the correct two plus two, my heart rate doubles, but my brain is trying to deny the sum. Not Jeremy. Please, not my Jeremy.
She glances at me warily. “Do you live in this building?”
I nod.
“Then you might know him. Jeremy Pearce?”
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