Mom glances at us and blushes hard. Looking like every ounce of her blood is pooled in her face, she pauses for only a second before stumbling past us with her hands held out like a blind woman making her way across an unfamiliar room.
I don’t move. I just look up at Jeremy. His eyes are closed. “Jeremy.”
“I know. I know,” he mutters. “Reason number … whatever.”
“Can we finish the cleanup now?”
He opens his eyes and gives me a hand up. “And then what?”
“Seriously?”
“I mean,” he says, furiously finger-combing his hair back into a tail, “we can’t just walk into the living room and watch TV with her like nothing happened.”
“She’ll never mention it.”
“Of course she won’t. That’s almost worse.”
“You could tell her you’ll start sleeping in our office.” When he looks like he’s actually considering that, I kick his foot. “That was a joke.”
“Right. Well, when we’re done here, I think I’ll go for a drive.”
Sigh. “I’ll go with you.”
“And allow your mother to watch Grey’s Anatomy without you?”
“Okay then, we’ll talk when you get back.”
He shuts the dishwasher and grabs a towel to start drying the pans. “Talk?”
“It’s been two days. We need to have another discussion about the London trip.”
His face is blank, but I know his mind isn’t. He’s trying to decide whether to argue or keep his mouth shut. I wash and rinse and wait. When I finish and pull the plug, he hands me the towel.
“I’ll be back,” he says.
By the time I’ve dried the last few items, he’s not back, so I turn off the light and head to our bedroom. He’s not there. He’s not in our office either. I go to the living room.
“Mom, have you seen Jeremy?”
“No, but I heard the front door close while I was on the phone. Didn’t you know he was going out?”
“Yeah. Sure. I just didn’t know when.” So that’s the game he’s playing.
She pats the sofa cushion next to her. “Come sit with me, sweetie. The show’s about to start.”
As the opening begins, I slip my phone out of my pocket and text him.
You can’t avoid me forever, dude.
He doesn’t respond.
CHAPTER 2
When Jeremy wakes and heads to the bathroom, I’m awake but lying in bed with my eyes closed. The thought of meeting his parents scares the hell out of me, but I have to do it. I have to. That’s the grown-up thing to do. Adults face what they fear, right? But how am I going to convince Jeremy to agree?
When he turns the shower on, I get out of bed. He doesn’t hear me slip into the bathroom because he’s singing. (That’s a talent I didn’t know he had until we moved in together.) I quickly brush my teeth. Then I strip and join him. He’s always ready for sex in the morning.
“Well, hello there,” he says.
“I just wanted to show you what you missed last night by”—I mime quotes—“driving around for hours.”
He looks me up and down, turning me around. “Hmm, looks like I was a stupid git to pass up a chance to do this.” He backs me against the shower wall and lifts me so my legs can circle his hips.
This is one of those instances when I’m happy about our height difference. And for his strong arms and legs. And for hot morning showers with a sexy man.
Oh. Oh. Ohhhhh.
The idea of talking to him about the London trip floats right out of my mind.
As usual after breakfast, Jeremy and I go to our office. We don’t have to leave the house to do that. This is a typical California ranch style: a four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath one-level house with attached garage. When we moved in with Mom, she tried to give us the master bedroom, but we refused—on my part because I hoped we’d be here less than a week before Jeremy decided we needed more privacy. The joke’s on me. We’ve lived here for six weeks already.
Anyway.
Jeremy and I took over the next largest bedroom. (Not my former room because my mom keeps that as a memento of my childhood or something.) We chose the smallest bedroom for our office because it looks out onto the rose garden. Jeremy requires a desk and a view when he writes. All I need is my laptop, and I’m good.
We have three romance novels published now, including the one Jeremy wrote alone as Penny James. Those are all selling well, and we have another ready to go. I came into this relationship with about forty bucks in the bank and a mayonnaise jar full of change, but Jeremy had a lot saved from when he practiced law. Add that to the equity he got from selling his Notting Hill place, plus our royalties and the fees we earn from occasional speaking engagements or freelance articles under our author pen name, and we’re doing okay financially.
Definitely well enough to afford an apartment. But I’ll be good and not mention that today.
We’ve been working for a while when Jeremy swivels his chair toward the bed where I’m sitting. “What did you think of the cover?”
“Oh. It’s finished?”
“He sent it to us last night.”
There’s a reproof in that comment. One of my jobs is to keep up with our business email, but I forgot to check it before I opened Instagram and sort of lost track of the time.
“Sorry, I’ll look at it now.” The cover for our next book looks great to me, but Jeremy’s picky. “I love it. Why don’t you?”
“You don’t think it focuses too much on his muscles?”
Silly man. “Eighty-four percent of our readers are women who will swoon over the guy, and the other sixteen percent will picture themselves as him.”
He frowns but a few seconds later says, “Approve it then.” He swivels back and starts typing.
Okay, time to get to work. I approve the cover. When the designer sends us the final files for print and digital, I can upload them with the interior files. It doesn’t seem to be a big deal to Jeremy, so he always lets me have the thrill of clicking those publish buttons. I’ve been the female half of Penny James for six months, and it’s the best job in the world. But even though, with each new book, Jeremy’s increased the number of scenes he leaves for me to write, I still can’t think of myself as a writer. I mean, I’m writing, yeah, but he’s the novelist.
“Word count?”
That’s Jeremy-speak for: Are you writing or wasting time?
“How do you expect me to write when you haven’t given me the lead-in scene?”
“Working on it.”
“You’ve been saying that for days as you sit there typing away. What are you doing? Starting over every morning?”
“You’re a natural at writing romance; I’m not. Just write one of your swoon-worthy sex scenes, and we’ll fit it in. Get to it.”
“And how can you expect me to write about rapturous love with you nagging me?”
He just smiles.
For a minute, I watch his fingers flying over the keyboard. Such long fingers. Such long, nimble fingers. Fingers that know just where to—okay, I’m inspired now.
Sometime later, I come up for air. Jeremy is still in his chair, but he’s watching me.
“Good scene?”
“Very.”
“Join me at the club?”
Sometimes, I worry that Jeremy will wake up one day and decide he gave up too much for me. He’s had trouble learning to live within our budget. We still took all the California trips we’d planned to research setting locales for our romance series, but we cut costs by staying in motels or B&Bs and eating cheap. That’s no big deal to me, but it took a while before Jeremy stopped apologizing that he couldn’t pay for the luxury hotels and five-star restaurants he was obviously used to. Going cheaply was no loss to me; I was just thrilled to go.
One of the expenses Jeremy refused to give up was his club membership. I knew from my surveillance last year, when he lived in the apartment above mine, that he went somewhere every a
fternoon, and then I found out it was his club. I thought he meant an ordinary fitness place. But no. He has a membership in the most exclusive country club in town.
Jeremy pointed out that he’d already paid the one-time—and “much dearer”—initiation costs. (When I asked him how “dear,” he told me I didn’t want to know.) And surprisingly, though it’s considerable on our current budget, the monthly fee is not out of this world, so I agreed not to waste the sign-up costs by canceling unless we absolutely have to. He uses the facilities almost daily, and really, I’m not complaining about the yummy shape it keeps him in.
Right now, I’m sweating on the treadmill next to Jeremy’s. “Do you have to run twice as fast and twice as far as me,” I ask him.
“I have longer legs than you.”
It takes me a second to realize that makes no sense, and when I look at him, he winks. “Ha. Ha.”
“Step up your game, Cole, or you’ll never make the team.”
He’s not even breathing hard. I’m just about to call it quits when Scarlett Johansson walks in. She takes the treadmill on Jeremy’s other side. Of course she does. Before she even starts to warm up, she sets her treadmill at an incline. Looks like she would have no trouble making his team. And doing it in designer style. Now I feel even more conspicuous than usual in my Target workout clothes.
“I saw they posted the schedule for the tennis tournament,” she says to Jeremy. “Are you going to enter?”
“Not this time,” he says.
What the hell? He knows her? They’ve talked before? And he kept that secret from me? This won’t do at all.
Think, Chelsea, think.
“Ow.” I hit the power button and then nearly fall hopping off the treadmill on one leg.
Jeremy whips his head in my direction. “What happened?”
“Oh, honey, I must have stepped down wrong and twisted something.” I’m examining my right foot as if it really hurts.
He steps off his treadmill.
“You should get an icepack on it right away,” Scarlett says.
I don’t move.
“They have them in the locker room,” she adds.
Yeah, like I’m going to leave Jeremy alone with her—well, not alone exactly. At least five other people are in the room. Still.
Jeremy wraps his arm around my waist “Yes, darling, let’s go see about that ice.”
He helps me limp out of the room but pulls me to a stop in the hallway. “You are so obvious,” he says, but he’s grinning.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re friends with frigging Scarlett Johansson?”
His brows rise. “Friends? I played tennis with her husband once.”
“Oh.”
“Ohhh.” He taps the tip of my nose. “I’m certain your foot is magically healed now, so shall we change for the pool? I’ll have to swim twice as many laps to make up for the short run.”
Every time I say I’ll come to the club with him, he asks if I’d like to play tennis, which is my fault because I sort of told him I knew how, but I don’t. I mean I know the rules. I just suck at actually playing, but maybe I should at least watch if he’s going to be playing with gorgeous celebrities.
I swim with him for a while. Well, not actually with him because he’s in the lap pool, but it’s right next to this one. At least swimming is something I excel at—I mean, not competitively or anything, like Jeremy did in school, but I’ve known how to swim since I was a baby. But I’ve done it mostly in the ocean while surfing, so by comparison, the pool is a bore. After twenty minutes or so, I’m done. I swim to the edge and look for Scarlett because if she’s here, I’ll have to limp when I get out of the pool. Oh. My. God. Is that Matthew McConaughey walking toward the parking lot? Dang. I really should come here more often.
I slip on my sunglasses and settle down to lounge by the pool while Jeremy finishes his workout. He also plays golf here, but I told the truth about not playing that. Then he found out my mom does, so now they’re both bugging me to learn. Jeremy points out the driving range every time we come here. I swear the next time he brings it up, I’m going to make a deal with him—I’ll learn to play golf if he learns to surf. With his weird aversion to sand, that should end the discussion. Oh, wait. Maybe I should ask who he plays golf with.
As it often does when I’m not distracted, my thoughts turn to writing. Romantic suspense, huh? I had another idea in mind: sports-themed romances. With my surfing knowledge, and Jeremy’s sports experience, I thought we could come up with several ideas for a series. I’ve already had fun outlining the first two novels. But it’s Jeremy’s call. Still … maybe I’ll show him my ideas.
My eyes fly open when cold drops hit my stomach. Jeremy’s standing over me dripping water.
“You ready to leave?” he says. “Or would you like to try out the driving range first?”
I run my nails down his thigh. “I’d rather go home and play in our bed.”
He grins and pulls me to my feet.
I know. I know. But hey, when I’m this close to a handsome, nearly naked man, can you blame me?
Jeremy has the most gorgeous eyes, sometimes blue, sometimes green, and always sexy … well, except when he’s angry, but that’s not often. Right now, his eyes are heating up my girly parts. I swear, just that look gets me halfway to orgasm. (No wonder women gobble up his romances.)
He lies down beside me, propping his head on one hand, and traces a finger from my bottom lip to my navel. Slowly. Oh, so deliciously slow. When he leans closer to kiss me, his hair falls forward, a dark curtain, hiding our faces.
“You were the most beautiful woman at the pool.”
I wasn’t.
“All the men were looking at you.”
They weren’t.
“Do you know how happy I am that you’re all mine?”
“Will you show me?”
“Oh, yes.” He kisses my throat.
“Yes.” He licks my nipples.
“Yes.” He slips fingers inside me. Those long, nimble fingers.
Oh, yes. Yes. Yes.
For a moment, he’s hot and hard against my thigh, and then he slides down, pulling me to the foot of the bed, pulling me to him. Kneeling on the floor, he slips his hands under my ass and lifts slightly, bringing me to his mouth as if I’m a delicious pastry he means to devour. And he does.
For hours, it seems, we are lost in a place both inside and out, filled with moans and cries and husky-voiced whispers. And finally, when he withdraws from me, leaving a bit of himself behind, his hot, herbal life essence, a kind of treasure just for me, I’m thankful that monogamy makes condoms no longer necessary.
“I love you,” I say for the thousandth time.
“You are my life.” His voice is already thick with impending sleep.
Jeremy has the most perfect profile. Actually, he has the most perfect face at any angle, but I love lying beside him and watching him sleep. I want to talk to him now, though, so I slide my finger down the slope of his nose. He always wakes with a jerk and looks around as though he can never remember where he fell asleep. I think that’s funny, but if he ever looks over at me and seems surprised, the dude’s in trouble.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he says.
“Hello, handsome. I need your help with something.”
He grins. “Good God, you’re insatiable.”
I smack his chest. “Not that. I want your input on the wedding.”
“Right. Well … I’m all for it.”
Ten seconds later, he’s halfway to sleep again.
“Jeremy.”
His eyes fly open. He turns on his side toward me, his serious face in place. “Ask away.”
“You’ve never told me what kind of wedding you imagined you’d have.”
He taps the tip of my nose. “I can’t say I ever gave it any thought.”
“None?”
“To be honest …” He presses his lips together and looks away for a second. “I guess I assumed my betrothed woul
d make all the decisions and just tell me when and where to show up.”
“So if I want to invite five hundred guests, you’re okay with that?”
His eyes widen. “Do you?”
“No. What if I want to marry at midnight with everyone wearing black.”
“I’ll tell your mother.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious about that.”
“You’re not any help.” I get up and start getting dressed.
He sits up. “As long as it’s you standing before me saying, ‘I do,’ that’s all I care about. Truly.”
“Check and check. What kind of wedding will your family expect?”
His eyes narrow. “My sister and uncle won’t care a whit. They’ll just be happy for us.”
He knows I’m inviting his parents and brother, so why does he pretend I’m not? But I’m sure any wedding we can afford won’t impress them. Not a “whit.”
“And I thought you’d left all this planning up to Gabi.”
Sigh. “I have to give her some direction. What do you want to wear—and if you say clothes, I’ll give you another black eye.”
“I’ve always suspected that wasn’t an accident,” he says. “You and your kinky ways of drawing me into your lair.”
“Ha. Ha.” He knows damn well that was accidental. He’d paid me to read his first book, and I was anxious to give him my feedback. So when I heard him leave his apartment, I rushed to catch him coming down the stairs, but when I jerked open the door, he was standing there, getting ready to knock, and it startled me, so I punched him automatically out of self-defense. That could happen to anyone. “So, what’s your answer?”
“Well, I was thinking a nude wedding would be quite nice, but I expect that’s out of the question.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“Right. So it’s still a beach wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Casual, then.”
“No, they set it up like a regular wedding, with an aisle and a gazebo or something where we’ll stand for the ceremony.”
Love & Liability (A High Tea & Flip-Flops Novel Book 2) Page 2