“Join me, wife,” Jeremy calls.
“Coming, husband.” I cross the patio and turn on the garden hose to wet my hair. After two weeks of pool swimming, I gave up trying to keep a color streak in my hair. With the chlorine exposure, it’s hard enough to keep the blonde shade fresh. Wetting it before swimming and washing it immediately after with a special salon shampoo is a necessity now—budget be damned.
But tonight, the shampooing will be delayed for a while because our late-night swims always end in sex, and when you do it right, that takes a while. (And when we have the time, we always do it right.)
“Meat before pudding,” he says when I slip into the pool.
“How many laps do I have to do, coach?”
“One more than you did last time.”
“You do know I have zero Olympic aspirations, right?”
“I do. I also know you sit at a desk all day.” He points to the far end of the pool. “Stop your whingeing and get on with it.”
I stick my tongue out at him before I push off.
So, we’ve been living here for a month, and everything is going as planned. And even though buying a house with a pool wasn’t part of my perfect-house-for-us requirements, watching Jeremy enjoy it so much makes me happy I decided to tweak that plan.
At first, we looked only at brand new houses, including one in the same sub-division where Gabi and Matt live. We could have afforded one like theirs, and living so close to our best friends would have been fun, but when they bought their house, Jeremy went on and on about the tiny lots and baby trees in that community. He didn’t say that to them, of course. But I knew he would prefer an older neighborhood, like where my mom lives, with its mature trees and big backyards, which only makes sense because he grew up on an estate in England surrounded by acres and acres of green lawn and pastures and fields and woods.
So, at Mom’s suggestion, we looked at a house near hers. And when we stepped out on the patio and Jeremy’s eyes lit up at the site of an in-ground pool, I gave up my plan for two stories, stainless steel appliances, and marble countertops. He tried to hide his desire, but if I’m good at anything, it’s reading my husband.
“How old is the pool?” I asked our real estate agent, Rachel.
She flipped through the listing. “Installed three years ago, and it’s solar heated.”
“Go check it out,” I told him.
“We want this house,” I said as soon as Rachel and I stepped back inside.
“But I thought—” She stopped herself and clicked into sales mode. “There’s certainly a lot of charm in a classic California ranch home like this. Let’s sit down and write up an offer.”
A few minutes later, Jeremy found us sitting at the dining table. “What’s this you’re doing?”
“Assuming the pool’s acceptable to you, we’re making an offer.”
He looked at Rachel and held up his index finger. “Pardon us for a moment.” I followed him back outside. “This is not the sort of house you want, Chelsea.”
“Yes, it is.”
“What about all the ‘brand new shiny’ we’ve been looking—”
“You’re right about the trees. And those lot sizes. Here we’d be getting a lot more house for our money—four bedrooms, which means we can make one into our office and still have room for guests. Plus, look at the size of the living room. It’s plenty big enough for your piano.”
His right eyebrow arched high.
“And I want you to have this pool. Really, really, I do.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “We can upgrade to brand new shiny stuff a little at a time.”
“You’re jumping into making an offer too quickly. We don’t even know the practical things like taxes and the condition of the roof and the heating and cooling system and … a dozen other things.”
“Okay, let’s go ask Rachel about them. And if it’s all good, we’ll make the offer.”
“Are you certain this—”
I end the discussion with a very certain kiss.
♥ ♥ ♥
It’s awesome to be a homeowner. During the six weeks since we moved in, I’ve spent my mornings writing and my afternoons painting or redecorating rooms in the house—always staying within our budget. The couple we bought this house from were senior citizens, and even though they’d updated the kitchen and bathrooms, their taste in paint colors was not mine. Room by room, I’ve been making the place ours in soft neutral shades with pops of color. Our biggest expense so far was having new flooring installed in the main part of the house and the hallway before we moved in. Bye-bye wall to wall carpeting. I don’t make any decorating decisions without Jeremy’s input, though. After seeing the beautiful job he did with his London condo, I’d be stupid not to use his expertise.
Right now, I’m trying to be patient while he studies the installation directions for the new ceiling fan we bought for the guest room. I could do it myself, but I think learning to do these domestic things makes him feel good. Growing up rich, he never had the opportunity or need.
“Jeremy, what do you love most about our house?”
“That we can have sex whenever and wherever we want.” He looks up and shoots me a comical leer.
“Be serious.”
“You don’t want me to be happy about that?”
“Okay. Besides that.”
“The pool.”
See? I did good. He’s frowning as he picks up screws and compares them to the drawings on the instruction sheet, so I shut up.
My favorite room is our bedroom—and not just because of the sex. It’s the biggest bedroom I’ve ever had, and the walk-in closet is unbelievable. Seriously, I thought I had a lot of clothes and shoes until I put them in this closet. They barely fill one side of it. But that’s not the only reason I love our room. The coolest part is the huge skylight above the bed. I love to lie there anytime, day or night, and watch the sky. It’s sort of mystical. It’s also erotic. Every couple should have a skylight above their bed.
Of course, setting up an office was high priority because we need to work harder than ever at our writing now that we have a mortgage. We use bedroom number three as a guest room, and number four is cluttered with stuff at the moment, but someday it will be our nursery. I’ve been collecting ideas for nursery decor themes.
Anyway.
Back to our office. As he prefers, Jeremy’s desk sits by a window, with bookshelves all around it. Mine is across the room, sitting under my inspirational cork board covered with photos of hunks. Jeremy says it looks like a wall in a boy-crazy teen’s bedroom—Gabi and I both took offense at that, remembering our own high-school decorating styles. But he can’t complain about the writing those photos inspire. I’ve got decent royalties coming in from the first sports-themed romance that I wrote all by myself, thank you very much. Penny James is solely my pseudonym now. I’m halfway through writing the second in the series, and it’s going well. And I’m sure the novel Jeremy’s working so hard on will be great.
All is going according to plan in Casa Pearce.
CHAPTER 2
Jeremy and I have been working in our office for a couple of hours when it hits me—I want to be a mother. Which is a ridiculous thought since we ditched the birth control six weeks ago. The thing is, suddenly, I believe I can be a good mother. I mean, it’s not like I’m stupid. And Gabi trusts me to take care of her baby. So what am I worried about? I can do this. I want to do this. Having a baby will make my loving husband so happy.
In for a penny, in for a pound is a saying I’ve learned from Jeremy. (He says it to me when he suspects I’m not giving something my best effort.) So, if our goal is to get pregnant, I think we should work on that every chance we get.
I close my laptop and swivel my chair in his direction. It doesn’t take long for him to sense I’m looking at him.
“Do you need something?” he says.
“Just admiring the view.”
He glances at the windows.
“Not that vi
ew.” I cross the room and turn his chair so I can sit on his lap. “What better view could I have than you, tall, dark, and handsome.”
He nods toward my cork board. “I thought they were there for your viewing pleasure.”
“What? Those second-rate guys?” I give him a quick kiss. “Let’s take a break.”
He starts to say something, which I’m afraid is a protest that we should keep working, so I shut him up with a longer kiss, intense and deep.
When we come up for air, he’s frowning. “What sort of break did you have in mind, short, blond, and gorgeous?” The huskiness in his voice betrays his feigned innocence.
“I’ll show you in the bedroom.”
In one move, he lifts me in his arms, jumps to his feet, and carries me to our bed.
The first time I saw Jeremy, which was the fifteenth of June two years ago today, my only goal was to make him notice me—well, my ultimate goal was to get him into bed, but that’s not my point. Now my goal is to be him. Well, not actually, of course. I don’t want to be a man. I just want to be more like him. Except not in every way.
Stop. Clarify, Chelsea.
Okay. I’ve been thinking about changes I need to make before I become a mother. First priority is to become more thoughtful, less selfish. Jeremy shows me up in that regard every time. He treats me like a queen, but I try not to take advantage of that. Honestly. But I can’t help it if he feels responsible to be my knight, protecting me and fulfilling my wishes, can I?
And I’m not totally selfish. I do my best to take care of him too. For one thing, he burns a ton of calories with all his physical activities, so I try to feed him well. I begged the Pearce family cook, Mrs. Flynn, to share her recipes for all his favorites, and he says my preparation rivals hers. (My first attempt at surprising him with her special Christmas cookies was a total disaster, but he never mentions that.)
Right now, I’m checking the lamb stew I’m cooking for dinner. It’s not really a summer dish, but he mentioned it the other day, so I knew he wanted some. If we didn’t need to be careful about the electric bill, I’d turn up the air-conditioning until it was chilly enough in here that we could wear sweaters and pretend it was winter.
The door from the garage opens, and Jeremy enters the kitchen with one hand held behind his back.
“Back from your mysterious ‘quick errand’ already?” I say.
“Fancy a tea?”
“Sure. What are you hiding?”
He produces a pink box. “One of your favorites from Scrumptious.” He sets the box on the counter and picks up the kettle.
I replace the lid on the stew and move out of his way. My British upper-class husband has adapted to American working-class mealtimes, but he still likes a cup of tea and a snack in mid-afternoon. I open the bakery box and discover cupcakes. It makes me smile that he calls them fairy cakes.
“I wonder if we’ll confuse our child with our different words for things,” I say.
“Different words?”
“You know, like I say cupcakes, you say fairy cakes, and I say cookies, you say biscuits, and I say—”
“I get it.”
“It’s not exactly like we’ll have a bilingual child, but we will sort of.”
I get his version of an eye roll—an incredulous look with a slow head shake. “It must be quite a trip living in your head.”
“For your information, it is. You logical types never think outside your dreary little boxes.”
He laughs and gives me a little kiss as he passes on his way to set the table with proper cups and saucers. I put the cupcakes on a plate and carry them to the table. A few minutes later, he joins me with the teapot and fills our cups.
“You know,” I say, “all you’ve told me about your next book is that it’s set in Paris.”
He spoons sugar into his cup. “New York City, actually.”
“You changed it?”
“Works better.”
“How so?”
He picks up his napkin and wipes icing off his thumb—no finger licking for my proper Englishman—and then he pours a whole half-ounce more tea in his cup. (Needed topping off, I guess.) “Well, … I think it’s …” He makes some vague hand gesture. “It’s complicated.”
“Apparently so.”
We finish our tea break silently, but he’s so lost in his own thoughts, I don’t think he notices. I guess I’ll have to wait for the first draft to find out more. Unless I can figure out his Dropbox password.
♥ ♥ ♥
Gabi’s visiting today and forgot to bring Marco’s portable playpen, so we’re taking turns jumping up from the sofa to pull him away from some danger or near disaster. Marco Giuseppe Potenza is so adorable. He has the perfect blend of Gabi’s and Matt’s personalities and dark Italian features. He’s going to be a lady-killer, no doubt. He was a pretty content, easy baby, but he’s been a handful since he started walking. She plops him down on the floor and then sighs when he pops to his feet as soon as she sits. “Why don’t you go ahead and babyproof your house now?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I should have put—”
“Joking. I enjoy seeing your adults-live-here decor. You’ll be stripping it bare soon enough.”
“But you still love being a mother, right?”
“You know I do. Don’t tell me you’re back to doubting your mothering ability again.”
“No. Not really. But—”
“Stop. You’ve got too much of your mother in you to doubt you can do it. And you’re great with Marco. Both you and Jeremy are. Speaking of,”—she gestures at him—“your turn.”
I chase down a giggling Marco, who’s surprisingly fast for a 13-month-old. I scoop him up and cover his face with kisses. Suddenly, I picture me holding an infant version of Jeremy, and tears of longing well in my eyes, and though I blink them away quickly, Gabi notices.
“See? You’ll be a wonderful mother, Chels. So hurry up and get pregnant, and we can have our babies at the same time.”
“What?”
She grins. “I’ve got symptoms, so I’m going to CVS on the way home to buy a pregnancy test.” She stops me when I reach for my phone. “Don’t text Jeremy while he’s at practice with Matt. In fact, don’t mention it to Jeremy until I know for sure. No use getting Matt’s hopes up for nothing.”
“Speaking of practice, isn’t it funny how Jeremy and Matt pretend they’re not in competition on the team?”
“Hilarious. But it keeps our team winning.” Gabi grabs Marco before he can climb onto Jeremy’s piano bench. “Hey, little man, you going to be a softball champ like Daddy?” She lays a hand on her stomach.
“Morning sickness?”
“God, I hope not this soon. I think it’s just because I skipped breakfast. Let’s go out for lunch. My treat.”
“Let me change.”
Gabi follows me to the bedroom and shuts the door so Marco can’t get too far away. “So, does Jeremy know you’re writing about Dusty Haines?”
I pull off my comfy at-home shorts and take a pair of skinny jeans out of the closet. “I’m not writing about Dusty. Just a surfer.”
“Uh-huh. And he just happens to be a champion surfer who looks like Dusty and lives in Hawaii.”
My white tee is streaked with orange from Marco’s fish crackers, so I trade it for a hot pink tank. “There are a million blond surfers in Hawaii.”
“Yeah, but you only dated one of them.”
“And now I’m married, and Dusty’s living with Jeremy’s sister.”
“Which drives Jeremy crazy and—” She jumps up when Marco pulls the clothes hamper over and starts crying.
While she soothes him, I slip on my silver flip-flops and grab my purse, hoping she’ll drop the Dusty subject. It’s only natural that I’d write a romance about a surfer. I mean, that was a big part of my life all through high school and college, but Dusty’s been a sore spot with Jeremy ever since Dusty and I dated—three times, no sex—when I thought Jeremy had run off to Lond
on with his ex.
“Let’s go,” I say.
“And Jeremy’s not going to miss those coincidences in your book.”
How does she do that? In the fourteen years I’ve known Gabi, I think I’ve only distracted her from her train of thought once or twice. “Too bad. I’ve already written half the book.”
She holds Marco out to me. “Take him; I have to pee again.”
When she heads to the bathroom, I hurry into the living room and pack up Marco’s bag and grab Gabi’s keys. I’m standing by the front door, ready to go, when Gabi joins us. I give Marco back to her so she can start the process of securing him in his car seat while I lock the door.
As we’re backing out of the driveway she says, “I thought of a way to fix the Dusty thing. Just reverse the roles.”
I stare at her, waiting for her to laugh. She doesn’t. “You want me to make the surfing champ a woman?”
“Exactly. That would be easy, right?”
I close my eyes to hide that I’m rolling them. “You don’t have a clue.”
“Just trying to help you avoid more writing conflict.”
“Telling me to start over is not helpful.”
“Sorry. Where do you want—”
“Hold on. What do you mean ‘more writing conflict’? I didn’t know I had any.”
She huffs a sigh. “I can’t just drive aimlessly, Chels. We need to decide where we’re going to eat.”
“Seriously? You think you can just drop that bombshell and move on?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Just go to Wendy’s, McDonald’s, wherever. Now tell me what writing conflict I have.”
Gabi grabs the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead like a freaked-out driver’s ed student.
“Gabriella Elise Hudson Potenza, answer me this instant.”
Her mouth quirks in a half smile at my mother voice before it tightens in a grimace. “I slipped up. Matt made me promise not to say anything to you because he promised Jeremy not to tell me.”
I shoot her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.
“Yeah. That promise is meaningless with us, huh?” She glances back at Marco as though she’s about to say something she doesn’t want him to hear. “Jeremy said he should have stuck with writing romance because that was so much easier than writing … whatever it is he’s writing.”
Open & Honest (Sometimes) (A High Tea & Flip-Flops Novel Book 3) Page 2