“I already guessed that from the way you hold a pen when you’re reading.”
“Do I?” He glances at his right hand. “I still miss it.”
“That’s not the kind of thing I meant anyway.”
“But that’s my point. I’ve not hidden anything of importance from you.”
“Then why aren’t we going to—”
He presses his fingers to my lips and heaves a huge sigh. “Though I’m certain little good can come of it, and you’ll likely be quite disappointed with my parents … we’ll go to London.”
I leap into his arms and wrap my legs around his waist while I kiss him long and hard. When I try to get down, he squeezes me tighter. “Let me down. I want to tell Mom.”
“She knows.”
“You told her before me?”
“Didn’t you hear me say I saw her on my way to our room?”
“Wait. So you’d already made up your mind to go?” He says nothing. “You let me go through all that … that angst and crying for nothing?”
There go the eyebrows.
“Are you forgetting that you distracted me with wedding questions and then went totally mental and started on about Alison?”
Well, okay. I did. “Doesn’t matter. Thank you for agreeing to go.” I give him another kiss and try to wiggle out of his grasp.
“Hold on,” he says. “I think I deserve make-up sex.”
“Deserve?” I smack his shoulder, but I’m only teasing. I’m all for making up.
Jeremy and I both missed dinner, so after we make up, we head to Arturo’s for street tacos. We drive through a brief shower, and I flash back to the first night we came here. He reaches across the console to take my hand. I wonder if he’s remembering the same night. It’s amazing how much my life has changed in seven months—well, his too. It’s hard to believe that this time last year we didn’t know each other existed.
“Oh, it just occurred to me,” he says. “Will you be able to get a passport before we’re meant to leave?”
I consider lying for a second, but my good side wins. “I already have one.”
He frowns at me. “You told me you didn’t.”
“Well, that was true then, but I applied for one after we got engaged.”
“I never had a chance of convincing you we didn’t need to go to London, did I?”
“Nope.”
“Is there anything else you’ve already decided for me?”
“Nothing we need to discuss right now.”
One arched brow.
“I’m joking. I know how sensitive you are about having decisions made for you.” (His father deciding Jeremy’s career as a lawyer is the source of that touchiness.) “I have to figure out what to pack. What will the weather there be like in March?”
“Colder than it ever is here.”
“Yikes.” I consider my clothing choices. Then I think about Jeremy’s clothes. In general, our ideas of appropriate attire are a few steps apart. I’ll borrow some of Gabi’s outfits. Her style is much closer to Jeremy’s. More sophisticated. More adult, my mother would say. Definitely more what his parents would expect. And she can’t wear them while she’s pregnant anyway.
“I know what you’re thinking, Chelsea. Just be yourself.”
When he reads my mind like that, it always freaks me out. “I’d like to impress your parents, if you don’t mind. And won’t I need a nicer outfit or two?”
“I suppose … for when we have to have dinner with them.”
“I’ll talk to Laura. You don’t know about women’s clothes.”
“I know you look sexy in anything.”
“And that’s how you want me to look when I meet your father?”
“Good God. I can’t imagine a more disturbing question.”
“Relax, High Tea. I’ll make you proud.”
He parks the car and comes around to open my door. He’s gallant that way, and I allow it because I know there’s not a sexist bone in his body—though sometimes you can’t tell by the things he says. When I get out of the car, he surprises me by grabbing me by the shoulders.
“I’m always proud of you. And I’m serious about you not putting on an act for my parents … or anyone.”
“You might want to rethink that, dude. I can remember a few times when you got your panties in a twist over something I did or said when I was being myself.” I can almost see his brain flipping through our past.
He nods. “Fair enough. Think before you speak. Or act.”
We order our tacos, and since the sky’s clear here, we decide to eat at one of the patio tables set up outside the taco stand. We don’t speak until we’ve each eaten half of our first taco.
“Do you remember the first time we ate these together?” Jeremy says.
“Of course.”
“Why did you run out on me that night?”
“I don’t remem—”
“Yes, you do,” he says. “You must.”
Sigh. “I was stupid.” He’s waiting for a better answer. “Okay. I thought you were using me to get to Gabi.”
He stops the taco halfway to his open mouth and stares at me for a moment before closing his eyes and shaking his head. “That’s not stupid. That’s astoundingly demented. Even if we ignore the fact that she and Matt were engaged at the time, I’d already met Gabi. I’d lunched with her, talked to her on the phone, so why would I need to go through you?”
“I was drunk?”
“As I recall, you drank half of one beer.”
I take a sip of my soda. “You’ve never really said why you don’t get along with your brother.”
He was about to take a bite but stops. “Seriously? I thought we’d agreed to stop the diversion tactics.”
“Yeah. So answer my question. Why don’t you get along with—”
“Hold on. Choose one: it’s too embarrassing or painful or ridiculous to discuss.”
“Huh?”
“Isn’t one of those the reason you changed the subject?”
My eyes roll before I can stop them. “Never mind.”
“So, which is it?”
Crap. Why can’t he let it go? “It’s embarrassing because it seems ridiculous, now, but it was painful at the time.”
He laughs. “Impressive.”
“Moving on.”
“No. I still don’t understand how in the midst of our first real conversation, which I thought was going quite well, you were sitting there thinking I was only interested in Gabi.”
“Our food’s getting cold.”
That shuts him up, and we finish our dinner without any more conversation.
“Right,” he says as soon as we’re back in the car. “You can respond now.”
“Geez. What does it matter now?”
He keeps his eyes on the road but motions with his hand for me to continue.
Sigh. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not at all. At the time, I thought it had to be something I said, but the next day, you assured me it wasn’t.”
“It was me, Jeremy.” He’s quiet for a moment, but just when I think he’s letting it go, he pulls to the curb and turns to me.
“Did you think you’d offended me in some way?”
He’s serious about this.
“No. The truth is, I told myself I was stupid for assuming you were interested in me.”
He laughs. A real belly laugh. Not exactly the sensitive reaction I’d hoped for.
“Thanks a lot. This is why I don’t tell you what—” He shuts me up with a kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I laughed because I spent the rest of that night thinking I’d been stupid for hoping you were interested in me.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m glad we got that straightened out.”
*
The last two weeks have been a blur. We launched our fourth book ten days ago, but we haven’t made much progress on the next one—well, I haven’t. Jeremy’s been typing
like mad, sometimes while looking at one of his journals, which I guess contains notes he made for our next book. (I’ve learned not to ask to read something before he’s ready for me to see it.)
Gabi helped me raid her closet. And I told her to revise the wedding location to my mom’s back yard—Jeremy and I will say our vows on the rose garden patio—so now Gabi can order the invitations. The smaller venue also means scaling back the guest list to only close friends and family, and it also solves the problem of which friends or family members to choose for bridesmaids and groomsmen. We’ll have only our best friends; Gabi will stand with me, and Ethan with Jeremy. Also that means there’s no need for a rehearsal dinner, but we’ve asked Luisa to cater the wedding dinner. No wedding dress decision yet, but I promised Gabi I’ll make up my mind as soon as we get back from London. And because I’m going to be one of her birth coaches, I made her promise not to have the baby while I’m gone.
This morning, I went to the salon to ditch the platinum and purple. I had my hair colored a natural blonde shade, and it’s styled more … adult. It’s totally boring, but I think it will go over better with Jeremy’s parents. My mom and Jeremy are eating lunch when I get home.
“What do you think?” I ask, though by the way they’re both staring at me the answer’s pretty obvious.
“It’s … nice,” Mom says. “I’d forgotten what you looked like with your natural color.”
“Thanks, Mom. Jeremy?”
“You look totally different.”
“I made you a sandwich,” she says. “It’s on the counter.”
Okay. So he doesn’t like my hair. But he’ll have to agree it looks more sophisticated. And it goes much better with the outfits Gabi loaned me. My mom keeps the lunchtime conversation going, apologetically asking if we might fit in a few touristy things during our trip. Jeremy, gracious as always, ensures her he and Laura will be happy to take us wherever we’d like to go.
After lunch, he excuses himself to go to our office, so I follow. We take our usual places, and he starts typing something almost immediately. I open my laptop to check our email and sales stats. But that’s all the intention I have of working today. I’m waiting for Jeremy to say what’s on his mind. About fifteen minutes later, he gets up and walks out of the room.
I open my laptop again and read through my packing list for the hundredth time. I just know I’ll forget something major. Jeremy prefers to pack his own things, and he never forgets anything, but I always end up with a full suitcase lacking a top or a pair of earrings or shoes I meant to bring—sometimes all three. I glance up when Jeremy comes in and then go back to my list. Five seconds later, just when he sets back down at his desk, it hits me.
“You shaved your beard!”
“Aren’t you the observant one.”
“Why?”
He swivels his chair toward me. “I thought it appropriate.”
“Huh?”
“I have an appointment to get my hair cut later this afternoon.”
“No.” I jump off the bed. “Don’t you dare.”
“It’s my hair.”
“But I love it long.”
For a moment, he only looks me in the eye. “But wouldn’t it impress my parents if I looked the way they expect me to?”
“Oh.”
“Precisely.”
I touch my hair. “Does it look that bad?”
“It doesn’t look bad at all. It just doesn’t look like you.”
“But it will look bet—” Oops, he probably won’t like the clothes I’ve packed either. “I don’t have time to change it back.”
The look he gives me says he knows that’s exactly why I waited until the day before we leave to do it. I go sit on his lap. I rub my fingers across his smooth jaw. His beard was the sexy designer-stubble kind, so it will grow back in a week.
“You’re still sexy,” I say.
“And?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you—”
“Bloody hell, Chelsea!” In a single motion, he sets me on my feet and stands. “That’s not what angered me. I hate that you’re not being yourself.”
“Of course I am.”
He couldn’t look more incredulous. “Thinking I expect you to ask my permission to change your hair is normal for our relationship?”
“You’re right. Okay, dude, so this is my new look. Deal with it.”
He rubs both hands down his face, but I think that’s mostly to hide his smile.
CHAPTER 6
It’s Friday evening, and we’ve landed and gone through customs and passport control at Heathrow Airport. I totally can’t believe this is finally happening. At first, I didn’t trust Jeremy’s explanation for the odd flight times his mother scheduled for us. We left LA at midnight and got to our hotel in New York early yesterday morning. We went to sleep in the afternoon so we could wake up in time for our flight to London. Jeremy’s mother was thoughtful enough to book an overnight stay in New York so we wouldn’t have to fly straight through from LA to London. (Ohmygod you wouldn’t believe the hotel she picked.)
Here in London, we’ll stay with Laura. I won’t be meeting their parents until Sunday. Jeremy made some lame comment about needing to acclimate first—like London’s on another planet or something, but I let that go because I love being with Laura. Besides, we have sixteen days here, so I’m sure we’ll visit with them a few times.
Our combined luggage is stacked on two carts—that’s “trolleys” to Jeremy. I’m pushing one as Mom and me follow him out to the line of waiting taxis. A driver opens the doors and shepherds her and me into the backseat. I can’t understand a word the driver is saying, but Jeremy doesn’t have that problem. Soon, the luggage is loaded, and we’re off.
While my mom interrogates Jeremy about a million different things, I’m trying to take in as much of the city as I can on the drive from the airport to Laura’s, which isn’t much from the freeway because it’s already dark. London is smaller than LA in area—I looked it up—but the traffic certainly seems as heavy. It’s a longer drive than I expected, twenty-five minutes so far, but we finally exit into a residential area. In the next short distance, we pass several little parks, and in between those are dense neighborhoods. From what I can see by streetlights, most of the houses are tall, skinny, and squished together—row houses—some brick, some stone, and on some of the streets, each house in the row is painted a different pastel color. They kind of remind me of San Francisco’s Victorian “painted ladies.” Wait. Duh. This is where everything Victorian originated. I have to keep reminding myself London is, like, ancient.
Jeremy laughs at something my mom said. He can try to deny it, but he’s excited to be in London again, and even if his mood darkens when we see his parents, at least he’ll be happy for the first forty-eight hours we’ll have alone with Laura.
I’m looking the opposite way when the taxi pulls to the curb, so I don’t get my first view of Laura’s house until I get out. “Hey, this looks like where you used to live.”
Jeremy gives me a puzzled look as he helps my mother from the car. Uh-oh. Back when I was sort of stalking him, I looked up his Notting Hill address on Google Maps street view, but that’s not one of the things I confessed to him. We’ve been in England for less than three hours, and already I’ve forgotten to think before I speak. While Jeremy’s paying the driver, he’s still looking a question at me.
“I meant it looks like I imagined your place looked.”
“This is where I used to live,” he says as he and the driver unload our luggage. “I sold it to Laura.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” (Isn’t it amazing how I can excuse my own lapses in confession but not his?) He doesn’t get a chance to answer my question because Laura’s door flies open.
“You’re here,” she cries as she runs out to hug us all. “I’m so excited you’re staying with me. We’ll have loads of fun.”
Laura gives my hair a curious glance but doesn’t comment. Like a magazine a
d come to life, she’s a beautiful blue-eyed blonde with perfect skin. And though I’ve learned she’s always up for some fun, she’s all poise and class on the outside. I’m all … well, clumsy and quirky—inside and out. So I’m sure she’s wondering why our hair color is now a pretty close match.
Everyone grabs a bag or two—three for Jeremy—and we parade inside.
In the entry, Laura lets go of the bag she wheeled in. “Ladies, come have a welcome drink with me. Jeremy, carry yours and Chelsea’s bags up top, and put Marie’s in the guest room.”
“Yes, missus. When I finish this chore, I’ll hurry back to the scullery and polish all the silver, I will.”
“Always the arse kisser, aren’t you, Jemmy?”
“Jemmy?” I say.
She smirks. He growls.
“I’ll help you,” my mom tells Jeremy.
“No need, Marie, but thank you.” He starts up the stairs with the first load.
Laura leads us into the living room. Wow. It’s gorgeous. Mostly taupe and white, with an incredible and elegantly aged oriental carpet in shades of blue and tan over bleached wood floors. A perfect combination of contemporary and traditional. It’s the kind of room you see in movies and interior design magazines.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she says. “Wine or something harder?”
“What do you usually drink, Laura?” my mom asks. “Not that I assume you drink every afternoon.”
“I do, always,” Laura says with a soft laugh. “Gin and tonic.”
“That will be fine for us too, won’t it, Chelsea?”
“What? Oh. Sure.” Not that I’ve ever tasted a gin and tonic, but I’m game. I drop into the nearest armchair, a gorgeous white leather one. My mom settles on the sofa, which I’d bet cost more than all her living room furniture combined. I’m taking in every inch of the room. This isn’t the bachelor “flat” I pictured when Jeremy told me he’d sold it.
It sounds like he’s on his second trip to the bedrooms. I can’t wait to see the rest of these rooms, but I’m feeling guilty about that excitement. If he hadn’t met me, he wouldn’t have had to give up this beautiful place.
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