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

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “Don’t worry. I explained everything to him.”

  “You mean the story you told me about him backhanding you was a lie?”

  “No. He did hit me, but … I may have provoked him.”

  “By telling him you wanted to be a writer.”

  “Well, that and also … I called him a few names.” His glance is an appeal. “I told you I was drunk that night.”

  “Damn it, Jeremy. You did make it clear to your father that I had a totally wrong impression of him, right?”

  “I told you I did.”

  He gives me a smile like everything’s just peachy now. I don’t return it. I look out my window like I’m just watching the scenery. He can’t possible think I should just let this go and move on. Everything I know about his past is spinning in my head. What else have I got wrong? What else has he lied about?

  “My father approves of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His change of tone makes me turn back to him. “They want to throw some public spectacle for us after the wedding.”

  “A second reception, your mother said, for your family and friends who won’t be at our wedding. I think that’s a lovely gesture.”

  He shoots me an icy look before turning back to the road.

  “And it appears to me that you’d have fewer problems with your father if you weren’t instantly on the defense. You just assume he—”

  “Assume?” He scoffs. “Do you know how he reacted when my mother told him about our engagement? He assumed you and your mother were only after the family money. His money.”

  Damn. I sit quietly reviewing my impression of Gordon. Wait. “Well, so what? Okay. He’s obsessed with money. I’ll give you that. But obviously he no longer suspects I’m a gold digger, or he would have told you to call off the wedding—not invited us to hold it here. That offer was extremely generous. If you didn’t have a chip on your shoulder, you’d see that.”

  He slows the car and stares at me for a moment, shaking his head as if I’m totally ignorant. His jaw clenches as he turns away and speeds up even faster than he was driving before.

  We don’t speak for the rest of the drive.

  Jeremy gets a text as we’re unloading the cars at Laura’s. “Ethan wants to know if we’ll meet him at the pub at five,” he says, looking straight at Laura.

  She glances at me before saying, “Fine with me, but he invited us all, right?”

  Uncle Bert whispers something to Mom.

  “We have other plans,” she says, blushing. “Dinner,” she adds.

  Hmm. I’m pretty sure Uncle Bert whispered more than a dinner invitation to her, so I’m not surprised when he kisses her on the cheek before getting back into his car. I look to see if Jeremy noticed, but he’s already started toward the door with a load of luggage. I follow him with the rest of ours.

  When Laura’s and Mom’s suitcases are sorted out on their floor, Jeremy and I carry the rest up to our room. “It’s stuffy in here,” he says and crosses the room to open a window.

  Detecting an apologetic tone in his voice, I push back all the questions that formed during our drive. I just want to unpack, do a load of laundry, and go to the pub. Maybe by the time we go to bed tonight, things will be back to normal between us.

  When I’ve finished emptying my suitcase, I realize Jeremy is still standing by the window, and that flips a switch to set my emotional alarm clanging. As if some poisonous vapor is floating in through the window, the atmosphere in the room changes. Slowly, Jeremy turns to look at me.

  Suddenly, I know what’s coming. I want to run from the room. I want to keep pretending.

  “We need to talk,” he says.

  I wait a second, but when he says nothing more, my anger flares. I refuse to be the victim. I face him squarely, chin held high. “I think we should call off the wedding.”

  He stands perfectly still, not even a blink. He heard me. He’s just pissed that I said it first. I’m about to call him on that when he drops so hard into the desk chair it almost tips over. Oh, thank you, God. He’s stunned. He’s devastated. He’s going to tell me I must be crazy to say such a thing.

  “All right,” he says quietly.

  What?

  All right?

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh, God, no.

  Everything I’ve suspected is true.

  “Right,” he says. He stands and reaches for the jacket he’d just taken off. “I’ll stay at Ethan’s tonight. We’ll … revise … everything tomorrow.”

  I’m mute. I can only watch him walk out the door and close it behind him. Shutting me out of his life. This can’t be happening. Oh God. This is happening. He’s not going to argue with me. He’s not going to tell me that, no matter what, he loves me, that I mean more to him than his bachelor life here in London. He said “all right.” It’s fine with him if we don’t get married, if he stays here, if he never sees me again. It’s all right. It’s great, in fact. He’s gone to Ethan’s with the news that the Handsome One is back, baby. Let the party begin.

  I can’t breathe. My vision blurs. Am I dying? I touch my face. It’s wet. I’m not dying. I’m only crying.

  Footsteps on the stairs. My heart leaps. The door opens.

  “Chelsea?”

  It’s Mom.

  I don’t remember moving, but here I am sitting on the edge of the bed with her. I can’t feel my body. I can’t tell if time is passing. Mom is talking, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. Someone else is in the room. Someone is holding my hand. And then someone is holding a glass to my lips, and I drink. Gin! I gasp and choke and cough and cough, and I’m still crying. But now I can hear. Mom’s voice. Laura’s voice.

  “What’s going on? Why did Jeremy leave? Talk to us. Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.”

  “The wedding’s off.” And now it’s really true because I’ve said it out loud.

  “That’s not possible,” Mom says.

  “Did my idiot brother say that?” Laura asks. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Mom shakes her head. “You must have misunderstood, sweetie.”

  “Yes. That’s it,” Laura says. “You misunderstood. Jeremy’s mad about you. He would never cancel the wedding.”

  They’re both trying to convince themselves as much as they are me.

  “No, I did. I said we should call it off.”

  They both jump to their feet and face me. Now, I’m the villain. An insane one, judging by the looks on their faces.

  My mom jerks my chin up to make me look her in the eye. “Why the hell would you do that, Chelsea?”

  Her cussing infuriates me. I grab a shirt from my opened suitcase and rub my face dry. “It doesn’t matter why. I said we should, and he said that’s fine with him. End of story.” Silly me. With my mom, there’s no end to the story until she says so.

  “What were you two arguing about before you said that?”

  Laura lays a hand on her arm. “I don’t think they were arguing, Marie. I think Chelsea expected Jeremy to call her bluff. Didn’t you?”

  I nod. “But that was stupid because I’ve known it was coming to this for a while.”

  My mom sinks down beside me again. “I don’t understand. I thought you two were happy. I know you were. You bought your wedding dress just ten days ago. What happened to change that?”

  I feel so heavy. I just want to lie down. I want to sleep and sleep and sleep. I look at Laura, sending a silent appeal. She gives me a tiny sad smile.

  “Marie,” she says, “I think Chelsea needs to be alone right now.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  When my mom turns to leave, Laura slips a prescription bottle from her pocket and sets it on the nightstand. “I thought you might like a Xanax to take the edge off,” she whispers, and then louder, “We’ll be downstairs when you want to talk.”

  Just before the door clicks closed behind them, Laura says something about killing Jeremy.

  I’m glad, now, that I didn’t take the Xanax. My mind has been churning, and I�
��ve figured out what I need to do. But first, I have to see if the coast is clear. My mom is supposed to have a date with Jeremy’s uncle tonight. She needs to go. Just because my life has turned to crap, it doesn’t mean she should miss out on her second chance at love. I climb off the bed and go into the bathroom. A few minutes later, with my hair combed and my makeup repaired, I head downstairs.

  My mom is alone in the kitchen. Her hands are curled around a full cup of tea that I’d bet has gone cold. The TV is on, and she’s staring in that direction, but I know she’s not watching it because it’s tuned to a British political discussion, and she doesn’t even pay much attention to American politics. She jumps when I speak.

  “Oh, Chelsea, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  She motions to the chair beside hers. I walk up to the table but don’t sit down. “Where’s Laura?”

  My mom freezes, her eyes huge. “Um … she had an errand to run.”

  Uh-huh, she’s out killing Jeremy. Good. “Why aren’t you getting ready to leave, Mom?”

  “Leave?”

  I fake a huge smile. “How could you forget you’re going to dinner with Uncle Bert?”

  “Oh.” She looks around her. “My phone. I need to call him and cancel.”

  I spy her phone before she does and grab it. “Nope. You need to go, Mom. You are going.”

  “Not after … what’s happened.”

  I laugh. It’s a little shaky but convincing enough. “You know I can be a drama queen, Mom. Jeremy and I will work it out. So you can’t use that as an excuse to back out of tonight.”

  “I’m not backing out. Bert will understand. Now give me my phone.”

  “I think you’re getting cold feet.” I slip her phone in my jeans pocket.

  “I am not.”

  “Then prove it. Go upstairs and start getting ready. Now.”

  She actually stands and walks out of the room. That was easier than I expected. I wait until her footsteps sound in the hall above before I start creeping up the stairs. When her bedroom door shuts, I run up to our room, dial for a taxi, and gather what little I’d already unpacked from the country stay. It will be easier for Jeremy and I to “revise everything” when there’s five thousand miles between us. I have my suitcases inside the car waiting at the curb before I knock on my mom’s door.

  “Come in.”

  “Way to go, Mom. You look great.”

  She huffs. “I’m not even finished with my makeup.”

  “Okay, you will look great.” I flash another fake smile. “Anyway, I came up to give you back your phone and to tell you that I’m going over to Ethan’s to talk to Jeremy.”

  “Oh, Chelsea.” She lays down her mascara wand and grabs me in a hug. “That’s exactly what you should do. I know he’s sorry about your fight and just afraid to make the first move. Men are weak.”

  “Yeah, I know. So if we’re not back before you leave, have a wonderful time.” God, I feel like such a jerk for lying to her. I kiss her cheek and hand her the phone. I’m down the stairs, out the door, and into the taxi before the tears start again. I’m a horrible daughter to make her travel back to LA alone, but I can’t stay here four more days. I just can’t.

  A half hour later, as the driver is unloading my luggage to an airport cart, it occurs to me that changing my ticket to the next flight might not be so easy. I mean, when is the next flight? It’s nearly six now. Oh, wait. There’ll be a red-eye. I pay the driver and also tip the man standing beside the cart even though he didn’t do much but hold it steady for the taxi driver. Oh, who cares? I won’t need this British money after tonight anyway. I grab the cart—the trolley, as Jeremy would say—oh God. Don’t think about him now. I push my luggage into the terminal and look for the shortest line of passengers. Is there one specifically for changing your flight? I ask a passing flight attendant, and she points me in the right direction.

  Luckily, it’s not a long line. Soon, I step up to the sweet-looking mom type behind the counter. “I need to change my ticket to an earlier flight.”

  “Certainly, luv. May I see your photo ID, please?”

  I hand her my ticket along with my driver’s license. She looks at both and types something. “Your flight is scheduled for 8:20 a.m. I’m afraid that is the earliest flight to New York on that day.”

  “I want to change the day of my flight too.”

  “And what day would that be, miss?”

  “Today. Tonight.”

  She arches her brows and then smiles at me as if indulging a child. “All seats on our flights tonight are reserved.”

  “What about first class? Business class? I’ll pay whatever.”

  Her patronizing smile grows. “I’m sure you would, dear. But we have none available.”

  “What about cancellations. Are you telling me not one single person has canceled?”

  She turns her steely eyes back to the computer screen but doesn’t type anything. “Yes. I’m sorry, but all seats are taken. Would you like me to check tomorrow’s flights?”

  Crap. “Yes. Please.” If I have to spend the night in the airport, I will. Whatever. I can’t believe it when she shakes her head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I assure you, I’m not.”

  She’s lying to me. Never in the history of the world has there ever been an airport this huge, with this many flights, that had every single damn seat taken.

  “Standby.” That came out a little louder than I intended. I swear she looks down her nose at me. A considerable-size nose at that.

  “You needn’t shout, ma’am.”

  And you needn’t be such a pain in the ass. “You do have standby in this country, don’t you?”

  “We do. Would you like me to add your name to the standby list?”

  “Crap. There’s a list?”

  “Always, ma’am.”

  I could get frostbite from her smile now. “Yes, add me to your stupid list.”

  She types something. My name, I presume, but she’s acting like such a bitch, you never know.

  “There you go. Now I need to see your passport, Miss Cole.”

  Oh fucking no. My passport is back at Laura’s, in Jeremy’s messenger bag.

  “Miss Cole?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  Now she arches one brow and looks down her nose. “In that case, I can’t help you.”

  “Yeah, and you’re just fucking delighted about that, aren’t you?”

  I grab my ID and ticket and spin away from the counter, forgetting that my luggage cart is right behind me. There’s no stopping my forward momentum. I flip over the cart and land flat on my back, the breath knocked out of me. I can’t believe I’m sprawled on the floor, looking at the ceiling. When I can breathe, I start laughing. And crying. And sobbing. And full-on boohooing in the middle of the British Airways lobby of Heathrow Airport. What are the odds no one’s watching?

  I close my eyes and try to get myself under control. Two seconds later, I sense I have company and look up into the faces of two airport security guards.

  “Is there a problem, miss?”

  Ohmygod. British reserve is the funniest thing in the world. Is there a problem? I start laughing so hard I’m afraid I’ll pee myself.

  “Miss, are you hurt?”

  There’s an edge to Guard Number One’s voice now. I choke back my laugh to a giggle and shake my head.

  “Up you go, then.” They grab my arms and lift me to my feet.

  Guard Number Two leans in closer, sniffing. “Been having a tipple, eh?”

  “No.” Uh-oh, can he smell the gin? “Just one sip.”

  Guard Number Two presses his lips together with a hmm.

  Guard Number One says, “Drugs?”

  “No.” Uh-oh, Laura’s Xanax are in my purse. Ohmygod. I’m going to be busted. They’ll jail me for possession of prescription drugs without a prescription. Or whatever. And her name is on the bottle—Laura Pearce—daughter of Judge Gordon Pearce. I’m ruining the family nam
e. And I’m not even going to be part of the family anymore. Wait. Problem solved. I’ll just say I stole them.

  I look for my purse and see Guard Number Three, a woman, hanging it from my luggage cart. Then we’re all moving away from the counter and at least a thousand staring passengers. I consider the odds of my grabbing the cart and outrunning them, but two of the guards look pretty fit, and they’d gladly leave the other one in the dust to nab this obviously insane American woman. There’s no escape.

  They lead me into a small room with a table and chairs, bright lights, and no windows. Here’s where they’ll tear through every inch of my luggage. And strip-search me. Don’t forget that. That’s why they called for the female guard. And who called them anyway? The steely-eyed bitch. Yep. Should have seen that coming.

  Number Two leads me to a chair and orders me to sit. Number One sets a cup of water in front of me. And Number Three hands me a tissue. Oh, I get it. Two good cops and one bad one. Bring it on, Number Two. Let’s get this over with.

  Number Two takes the chair across from mine. He’s holding my license and glances at it. “Is there someone we could call for you, Miss Cole?”

  I’m suspicious because his tone is too kind. It must be a trick. “No. I just want to fly home.”

  “California must be lovely,” he says. “My wife’s always nattering on about going on holiday there.”

  So, I guess Number Two isn’t the bad cop after all. The other two guards remain standing, one on either side of me. I’m on edge waiting for the screws to turn. When Number One sneezes, I flinch.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Allergies.”

  I risk a glance up at Number Three. Is she the one supposed to break me? She smiles. Sweetly. I’m confused.

  “Forgive me for prying, Miss Cole,” says Two, “but it appears you may have suffered a bad experience.”

  I stare at him. I’m not saying any more than I have to.

  “With you wanting to cut short your trip, you see.”

  “Or possibly some emergency’s come up at home?” says Three.

  “Right,” says One. He lays a hand on my shoulder. “Is that it, luv? An emergency?”

  Are they serious? The door opens, and an airline employee hands Two a sheet of paper. He reads it and then looks at me.