Love & Liability (A High Tea & Flip-Flops Novel Book 2)

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  Cover design by Studioelle

  For Robert, Michael, Joseph, and Daniel. My most rewarding creations ever.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  Also by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Want to know how pathetic my life is? I’m twenty-four years old and living with my fiancé—in my mother’s house. And what’s worse is that they’re both happy with this situation. You’re probably thinking Jeremy’s some Peter Pan type, but that’s not him at all. He was a lawyer in London and owned his own condo and stuff before he moved here to California to write romance novels. Seriously.

  So, here we are. And right now, Jeremy’s just chilling on the sofa beside me while we’re waiting for dinner. He and Mom are watching BBC World News, but my mind’s on something else. I’m trying to decide if I should change the purple underlayer of my hair to blue or dye the blonde top layer purple too.

  But as distracted as I am, my ears perk up at that little sigh my mom gives when she’s about to say something important.

  “You know, dear,” she says to Jeremy, “if your family lived here, Chelsea and I would have already gotten to know them.”

  Uh-oh, I have a bad feeling I know what she’s leading up to.

  “Yes … I suppose you would have.” He gives me a sideways glance.

  “But,” she says, “it’s not like London is on another planet.”

  “Geographically that’s true, but in some ways …” Because his British politeness has kicked in, he’s smiling at her, but he’s squeezing my hand. Hard.

  It won’t work, but I have to react to his plea for me to do something to divert her. “Mom, shouldn’t you check on dinner?”

  She frowns at me. “You go check it, Chelsea. I’m discussing something with Jeremy.”

  His crushing grip on my hand says he’s also figured out what she’s leading up to and he might strangle me if I leave him alone to fend off this conversation.

  “So.” Mom pauses, ready to move in for the kill. “I was thinking—”

  “Whatever it is smells delicious, Marie.”

  My pretty, blonde mother is usually unflappable, smiling through situations that frustrate or anger me. My dad called her his sweet petite. But right now her frown at both of us borders on a glare. How could Jeremy not have learned by now that he can’t derail her train of thought?

  “As I was trying to say, I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I think it’s past time you introduced us to your family. So I’d like for us to plan a trip to London.”

  The jolt of alarm that proposal gives him results in serious pain in my hand, and I elbow his ribs to make him let loose. There’s no way in hell Jeremy will agree to that trip.

  “That’s a good idea, Marie.” He flashes his irresistible grin. “I’ll speak to my parents about it.”

  “Wonderful.” She stands and smooths her perfectly styled hair and brushes at her spotless clothes as if she’d just wrestled that answer out of him—literally. “I’d better go check on dinner.”

  My mouth is still hanging open at Jeremy’s response, but as soon as she leaves the room, he’s on his feet and pulling me down the hall and into our bedroom.

  “I see no point in traveling to London,” he says when I shut the door behind us. “It’s certainly not an expense we can afford on top of the wedding.”

  “Mom knows that. If she suggested the trip, it’s because she’s offering to pay for it. She wants to go with us.”

  That shuts his mouth but only for a second. “Well, that’s impossible because we are not going.”

  “Well … maybe we should. I think it’s time.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since … oh, we both knew it was inevitable.”

  “But they—” His mouth snaps shut.

  “They what?” Ohmygod. “They don’t want to meet me?”

  “It’s not that.” He rubs his hands down his face. “They don’t know we’re engaged.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “And, obviously, you were fine with that.”

  “I never said that.”

  He gestures as if I’ve proven his point. “You never mentioned it at all. Did you ask if I’d told them or how they responded? No. And we both know why.”

  The look in his eyes dares me to disagree, but I can’t. Knowing who they’d already chosen for Jeremy to marry makes me pretty sure they won’t be all that thrilled with his choice.

  “Yeah. Okay. I avoided the subject. But I’ve been thinking about it lately. I have to be introduced to them. And don’t you think it’s going to be way more awkward for everyone if we meet for the first time at the wedding?”

  “Problem solved.” He looks away. “They won’t be at the wedding.”

  “Wait, what? They couldn’t have said they won’t come if they don’t even know—”

  “They won’t be invited.”

  “Like hell.”

  He crosses his arms. “I said they will not be invited. Discussion. Over.”

  “Hey, Mr. High Tea, send Jeremy back.”

  There goes his right eyebrow, arching halfway to his hairline. “Your attempt at wit is not in your favor, Flip-Flops.”

  “And your attempt at pretending you’re the boss in this relationship is hilarious.” (Oh yeah, he’s learned a lot about me in the last few months too.)

  He sighs and lets his arms drop to his sides. “Chelsea, please. Why would you want to meet people who have no interest in me and hence no interest in the woman I’m going to marry? The only family I care about is my sister. You may invite Laura to the wedding. And my uncle.”

  “We’re inviting your whole family to the wedding, Jeremy. Even your brother.”

  “No. We. Are. Not.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “I beg your pardon,” he says. “Have I no say in this at all?”

  “No matter what problems you had with your family in the past, they have to be invited.”

  “Is that a law in your country?”

  “It’s custom, smart-ass. I bet it’s custom in England too. And since when is this not your country—at least by half?” (Jeremy’s parents are British citizens, but he was born in Massachusetts, so he has dual citizenship.)

  He gives me that squinty-eyed thing he does when I prove him wrong, so I give him my you-can’t-resist-me pout and back him up toward the bed.

  “Come on, tall, dark, and handsome. We can’t have the groom’s side empty of guests.”

  “Sides,” he mutters. And then he pulls me dow
n on the bed. Which is, of course, the exact minute my mom calls us to dinner. Jeremy flies off the bed, pulling me along with him. “We will resume that activity as soon as possible.”

  “Reason number seven hundred and fifty-six why we shouldn’t be living with my—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” And he’s out the door.

  Dinner is pot roast, Jeremy’s favorite. My mom treats him like a king. You’d think she was his mother, not mine. But I’m not really jealous because from what I understand Jeremy’s mother never treated him like that. And to be honest, he treats us both like queens, so it’s all good.

  When the royal family is all seated, I start the conversation to divert my mom from mentioning the London trip again. “Gabi is driving me crazy with the wedding planning.”

  My mother pats my hand. “Well, sweetie, you should be glad she’s doing that.”

  “Why?”

  She and Jeremy exchange a look.

  “You know how you are,” she says.

  “What do you mean how I am?”

  With another look, she passes the question to Jeremy.

  “Well …” He rearranges his napkin. “You …” He spaces the salt and pepper shakers one inch apart. (I could probably verify that with a ruler.) He gives me a hesitant smile. “Sometimes … you’re a bit lax with details.”

  “Seriously? You trust me with the details in our writing. You’ve even praised me for catching your continuity errors.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course, in our writing …” He looks to my mom for help, but she only shrugs and forks a chunk of potato into her mouth.

  “But?” I prompt.

  “But … in real life …”

  I grab a dinner roll and bounce it off his forehead. He and my mom sigh and slowly shake their heads. In tandem. That right there is reason number 757 why we shouldn’t be living here. I swear, the first time he pats my hand and calls me sweetie, I’ll punch him.

  “If I’m so bad at it, then you can take care of the wedding details.”

  “And deprive Gabi of the pleasure?”

  He’s right about that. Gabi planned her elaborate wedding for years and then scrapped the whole idea when she got pregnant. She tried to pretend the small ceremony in her mother’s house was perfect, and it was sweet and beautiful, but I’m her best friend; she couldn’t fool me. It wasn’t anything like she’d described to me—in never-ending detail—throughout our high school and college years. Except for the groom. She was totally happy that it was Matt standing beside her and saying, “I do.” He’s gorgeous and smart and hardworking and the exactly right guy for Gabi.

  Anyway.

  I feel I owe her the joy of planning my wedding. And to be honest, I know she’ll make the best decisions. It’s going to be a beach wedding—that’s about the extent of my planning ideas.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Gabi’s in her element. And I have other things to worry about.”

  Jeremy looks up from his plate. “Like what?”

  “Like what comes after the book we’re writing now. We’re starting a new series, right?”

  He chews for a moment. “If you say so.”

  “Me? They’re your books.”

  He frowns. “I don’t think of them as mine at all.”

  “Okay, they’re ours. But if we start a new series, we’ll have to have a new theme. What will it be?”

  “Romantic suspense might be nice,” my mom says.

  Jeremy grins at me. “There you go.”

  I blink. Twice. “You’ve never once mentioned us writing romantic suspense.”

  “Does it sell well, Marie?”

  My mother doesn’t blink. “Definitely.”

  Like she would know. She’s never studied the romance book market in her life. Not that she’s wrong.

  Jeremy’s resumed eating, so I direct my next question to his bent head. “Have you written any kind of suspense before?”

  He lifts his head but looks toward my mom. “This dinner is delicious … as always.”

  I huff. “Jeremy?”

  “What have you made us for dessert, Marie?”

  “Pecan pie.”

  His eyes light up. It’s one of his favorites. Of course.

  I snap my fingers. “Hel-lo.”

  The face he turns toward me is blank with innocence. “Yes, short, blonde, and gorgeous?”

  “We were talking about our next—”

  “Please”—Jeremy cuts another bite of roast—“let’s not discuss business over this excellent dinner.”

  “Since when do we not discuss business at dinner?”

  Both of them smile at me.

  Reason number …

  I push Jeremy’s shoulder.

  “What? What?”

  “You’re snoring.”

  He mumbles something and turns on his side.

  I can’t get to sleep. I’ve been lying here freaking out. It probably doesn’t seem like it, after my dinner roll throwing, but I’m trying hard to master this adulting thing. It doesn’t help that Jeremy acts more than just three years older than me. I’m just afraid I’m never going to get the hang of being a real adult.

  I mean, right now Jeremy thinks it’s cute when I do stupid things like throwing bread at him. Or when I say something totally dumb or inappropriate—ohmygod, I swear sometimes my brain is not connected to my mouth. Just last month when Jeremy and I went out to dinner with Mom and one of her friends, who happens to be a priest, I totally freaked the man out. I can’t help groaning now as it all comes back to me.

  “I’m so happy you invited me out for dinner tonight, Marie,” Father Jacobs said. “I don’t get out as much as I used to since I retired.” He chuckled. “Not many people care to spend their evening with an old priest.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” my mom said. “I’ve always enjoyed your company.”

  She didn’t bother telling him he’s not old since he’s about ninety, which isn’t young no matter how you look at it.

  “When I called,” she said, “your housekeeper told me you were at war over a house repair. What was that about?”

  “My gutters.” For a moment, he closed his eyes and hung his head, shaking it slowly. “I hired someone to repair a section, but he said it would have to be replaced. I agreed to that and then left for a church meeting. When I came home, two hours later, I found out he’d torn down all the guttering and hauled it away. I ended up being charged for a whole new gutter system.”

  “That’s fucked up,” I said.

  To a priest.

  To an old priest.

  I wanted to die. Mom looked like someone had smacked her in the face. Jeremy was about to bust a gut from trying not to laugh. Father Jacobs paled, smiled weakly, and hailed our waiter with a shaky hand.

  He ordered another bottle of wine, which I’m pretty sure he drank the most of.

  Anyway.

  If I were a responsible adult, I wouldn’t do stuff like that, right?

  For now, Jeremy takes it in stride when I do and say those kinds of things. But sooner or later, they’ll start annoying him. They won’t be funny anymore. So I have to change. Being Chelsea Cole has become a liability. I have to learn to act like an adult before I become Chelsea Pearce.

  In four months.

  And what about after that? My mom’s already hinting about being a grandmother. How could she wish any child to have me for a mother? Oh, right, in her scenario we’d all be living with her forever, so she’d be taking care of the baby. Or at least making sure I didn’t psychologically scar it for life.

  But don’t forget that details thing Jeremy and Mom made clear I suck at. There’s a bazillion details to keep track of as a mother. What if I forgot to feed my baby? No, bad example—I’m pretty sure they let you know when they’re hungry. But I could forget other important things. I could forget I have a baby. What if the baby was sleeping, and I just totally spaced and left the house? I might be gone for hours.

  No. I’m not responsible enough to be a moth
er.

  I’m not responsible enough to be a wife.

  Sometimes I wonder if I’m even responsible enough to be a human.

  *

  Two days later, Jeremy and I are in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner. Until his lease ran out, we lived in his place at the Ocean View Luxury (not) Apartments. I wanted us to rent another apartment then, but Jeremy, in uncharacteristic frugality, voted to accept my mom’s offer of sharing her house—“just until your finances stabilize.” The problem is, as far as she’s concerned, our finances will never be stable.

  Anyway.

  Part of the deal we have with her is a division of chores. When she cooks, we clean up the kitchen, which usually means that Jeremy fills the dishwasher, and I hand-wash anything that won’t fit or can’t go in there. But tonight he’s got sex on his mind, so he keeps stopping to kiss me or feel me up.

  “Give it a rest, Jeremy, and get your job done.”

  He grimaces and lays a hand over his heart. “Thy rejection hurts.”

  “Yeah? Well, if we had our own—”

  He clears his throat in a warning sort of way, and when I turn to give him a dirty look, I see my mom crossing the kitchen. But she keeps moving and goes out the door to the garage. I presume she’s going to her home office. After my dad died, Mom walled in what used to be his workshop area of the garage and converted it. She claims it’s because the room has a door to the outside for her accounting business clients to use. I think it’s because she feels closer to my father there.

  “Looks like she’ll be busy with work for a while,” Jeremy says. Knowing exactly how sexy he looks to me with his shiny dark hair around his shoulders, he gazes deep into my eyes as he pulls the band off his ponytail and shakes his hair free.

  “Oh, you are so obvious.”

  “Am I?” He steps behind me and slides his hands up under the front of my shirt.

  “We are not doing anything here.”

  “Aren’t we?” he whispers, his breath hot in my ear as he cups my breasts.

  I turn to push him away, but he’s quicker. He has my jeans unzipped and pushed halfway down my thighs when he’s startled by the sound of the door from the garage opening. He jumps away from me so fast that I fall to my knees.