“That’s not true.”
“I’m just repeating what he said, Chels.”
“I know that. I meant it’s not true that I don’t work hard too.”
“Okay. Just forget I said anything.”
“Forget that my husband is putting on that snooty Mr. High Tea act again?”
“Stop freaking out. He didn’t mean it that way. Maybe he just meant writing romance is more fun.”
“Yeah, it’s fun because it’s so frigging easy to do.”
“Chelsea, don’t you dare confront Jeremy about what I told you. That will not help the situation.”
“Great. So now you know my husband better than I do?”
“I’m just saying …”
“Well, don’t. Just drive.”
By the time we sit down to eat, Gabi and I are laughing together. By unspoken agreement, we’re not going to discuss writing anymore today. Instead, we talk about our husbands because they’re so amazing, aggravating, amusing—take your pick.
After lunch, Gabi stopped at the drugstore before she took me home. I bought a box of Popsicles on a whim. She bought a pregnancy test and insisted I buy one too, just to be prepared. Now I’m standing in my bedroom sucking on lime-flavored ice and trying to decide if I should hide the test or just plop it on the shelf above the toilet. I mean, is it a good luck charm or a bad omen? Oh, forget that. If I start being superstitious about pregnancy, I’m doomed. This is just a plastic stick you pee on. When I hear Jeremy call my name, I drop the box into my makeup drawer and slam it shut.
He enters the bedroom stark naked. “It was hot out there on the ball field today. My clothes were so sweaty and disgusting, I stripped in the laundry room.” He takes a giant bite of my “ice lolly” as he calls it and continues on to the shower.
I watch him until the glass steams up, and then I go to our office. Though Gabi’s probably right that I shouldn’t question Jeremy about his opinion on romance writing, she’s dead wrong about my surfing champ. No way am I changing him to a woman. But I guess I could give him dark hair and locate him in San Diego.
I pull up my manuscript file, but then my fingers lay idle on the keyboard. Even though my first solo book has good reviews, I miss collaborating with Jeremy. It was fun bouncing ideas off each other. Even our arguments ended in good work—and sometimes a sex break. Who needs coffee?
I savor that memory until it’s smacked away by another—Jeremy told Matt that writing is easy-peasy for me. Which means that he’s forgotten how hard we worked writing the first Penny James series. So what that I get to write happily-ever-after endings? I still have to write the up and down emotional stuff leading to them. I still have to create well-rounded characters and a believable storyline. How dare he make light of that? Oh, but he’s writing serious literary fiction. He’s suffering for his art. Sweating blood and—
“How’s it going?” Jeremy asks from behind me.
“It’s only romance,” I snap. “It just writes itself.”
Jeremy backs up when I turn my chair. He looks blindsided, of course. Damn.
“I … interrupted something?” he says.
“A monologue in my head.”
“Do we need to make that a conversation?”
Now, here’s where I could be selfless and keep my thoughts to myself, but we’ve already established that I’m not so good at that. “Yes, we do. I don’t like your attitude that your writing is more important than mine is.”
He blinks. Then he pulls his chair across the room to face mine and sits. “Firstly, I don’t think any such thing. Secondly, where did you get the idea that I do?”
Get out of this one, big mouth. “Well … you …”
“Where did you get—”
“That’s what you meant when you told—” Crap. I bite my lip.
He leans back in his chair, eyes narrowed, and says nothing for what feels like an hour. Finally, he stands and wheels his chair back to his desk. For a moment, he stands there, his hands gripping the chair back as he gazes out the window. Then he looks at me. “I believe that conversation has been misinterpreted. Whether by Matt, by Gabi, or by you, I don’t know. And at this moment, I don’t think it matters.”
He sits, turns on his computer, and puts on his earphones. And that’s that. Now, we’re both mad. But Jeremy’s not going to talk about it. And I’ve put Matt and Gabi on his bad side too.
“Way to go, Chelsea.” I give myself a thumbs-down. Why does it seem like marriage is getting harder by the day?
We each stay at our desks. I don’t know how much work he’s getting done, but I keep typing a few words and then lapsing into self-analysis. Really, what is wrong with me that I can’t control my mouth? No, that’s not the real question. Why did I let Jeremy’s comment make me so angry? Is it because he’s right about writing romance? Is it because I’m jealous of his literary writing? I nearly jump out of my chair when Jeremy comes up behind me and squeezes my shoulders.
“I don’t want us to be angry.” He turns my chair to face him and pulls me up into a hug. “I miss working together.”
“Me too. Especially writing those love scenes that turned us on.”
“Oh yes.” He lifts my chin and touches my bottom lip with his thumb. “I miss you lying on my bed tempting me with those ‘fuck-me pumps’.”
“I can fix that.”
“Is that so?”
I pull out of his arms and back toward the door. “Meet me in our bedroom in five minutes.”
Jeremy and I spent most of the afternoon in bed. We’ll never finish writing our books if we make a habit of that—not that I’m complaining. Anyway, we were starving after all that activity, so we decided to go out to an early dinner. Now, we’re on the way home from the new Japanese restaurant we’d been meaning to try.
“Back to our dinner conversation,” I say. “You avoided my question about how your book’s coming along.”
“I’m not avoiding. It’s just difficult to say at this stage. You know how it is.”
I don’t, but I keep that to myself. I admit Jeremy’s right that writing romance comes easy to me. Oh sure, there are sticky parts that I have to work out, but I always do. I guess it’s pride that keeps him from admitting he’s got a problem. His first literary novel, Hostage, won’t be published until next year, but his publisher is thrilled with it, so I don’t know how he could be struggling with this one.
“Don’t be angry,” he says, “but I signed in to your Dropbox and read your finished chapters. Excellent work.”
“Thanks, but you didn’t have to sneak. Except for my journal, you’re welcome to read anything I write.” I sigh when he doesn’t make the same offer. I was hoping he’d take the hint because I’m dying to read what he’s written so far. “You think this book will do as well as the first in my series?” I’d like to say he smiles, but it sure looks more like a smirk. “Jeremy?”
“This book will probably be more successful.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your personal experience is evident.”
“Well yeah, I know about surfing.”
He shoots me a sidelong glance and a definite smirk. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Crap. Gabi was right. “It’s not about … anyone we know.”
“Right. Just someone exactly like him.”
“But—”
He grabs my hand and kisses it. “But I got the girl, right?” He winks at me.
“Right. And aren’t you lucky?”
“Indeed, I am.”
“I’ll need your input for my next book. It’s going to be about a tennis player.”
“Google.”
“Seriously? Why would I look up things you could tell me from your own experience?”
I don’t hear his answer. One second—literally, one second—I’m feeling fine and the next I’m vomiting out the car window. I couldn’t even open the door, because we’re driving in traffic.
“Bloody hell,” Jer
emy shouts. He maneuvers the car to the curb and stops.
I grab his water bottle, take a gulp, and spit out the window a couple of times. Uh-oh. Jeremy’s meticulous about keeping his car spotless. He’s going to freak when he sees the mess on the outside of the door. I sit back and wipe my mouth on a fast-food napkin from the console.
“Are you all right? Well, naturally, you’re not all right. But are you feeling better?”
I pause to assess. “Actually, I feel fine.”
“How is that possible?”
I shrug.
“Do you think it’s food poisoning?”
He’s asking because we ate the same dinner, and as I learned on our Paris wedding-gift trip, throwing up is one of the things Jeremy dreads most. He claims he feels like dying.
“If it was food poisoning I’d still be throwing up, but I feel completely normal. I guess it was just some freak thing.”
He glances at me, doubt clouding his face. A moment later he smacks the steering wheel. “Your drink. That’s what must have caused it.”
“And aren’t you lucky you ordered a different one?” I roll my eyes as I turn my face away. Let him think what he wants, but I don’t have food—or drink—poisoning.
“So you’re not about to be sick again?”
“I am not.”
“Right.” He puts the car in gear.
“Wait.” I swivel toward the window, hoping I can rinse off the door with the rest of the water.
“What are you— Fuck. Sick is splattered all over my car, isn’t it?”
“Not all over.”
“Don’t bother.” He pulls the car into the lane and hangs an illegal U-turn. “We have just enough time to make it to the car wash before they close.”
I set the bottle back in the cup holder. “You were joking about not helping me write the tennis stuff, right?”
“Yes, of course. I’d be honored to help.”
Two minutes and fifty nervous sidelong glances later, he pulls into the car wash, turns off the engine, and gingerly grabs the water bottle and napkin to toss in the trashcan. He’s out of the car before I can slip on my flip-flops and get my purse from the back seat. I walk into the lobby while he discusses wash packages with the attendant.
Since I’m off the hook about my Not-Dusty surfer hunk, I’m anxious to get home and write until bedtime.
The next afternoon, Jeremy and I are in our office working when I hear his voice in the distance, calling my name. Then someone shakes my shoulder.
My eyes fly open. My face is pressed against my laptop keyboard. What the heck?
“You fell asleep,” Jeremy says. “Are you sick?”
I wipe the drool from my mouth and sit up. “No. I don’t know what happened. I was working and …”
He feels my forehead. “Maybe you should go lie down.”
“No. I’m fine. Really.” I feel like an idiot, but I’m not sick.
He gives me a doubtful look before he returns to his desk.
I erase what my face typed during my surprise nap and get back to work. I’ve just gotten into the zone when our phones ring at the same time. It’s Gabi on mine, and I barely get out hello before she speaks.
“Come help us celebrate tonight.”
“You’re pregnant?” I turn to tell Jeremy, but he’s congratulating someone. “Did Matt just tell Jeremy?”
“Yes. So you’re coming out with us, right?”
“Of course. Where?”
“See you there,” Jeremy says.
“Never mind, Gabs. Jeremy already knows. We’ll see you later.” I hang up and look at Jeremy. I’d swear he looks a little puzzled.
“Matt’s excited,” he says.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t he be?”
“Well … yes, of course. He should be. Right.” He smiles weakly and turns back to his computer.
I swear, sometimes I have no clue what goes through that man’s head. Sometimes he thinks weird stuff just because he’s British, but surely couples who want children celebrate positive pregnancy tests in England too. I wonder if he knows Gabi and Matt plan on having four children? Speaking of …
“Jeremy, we’ve never talked about how many children we’ll have.”
He looks at me wide-eyed—alarmed if I’m being honest. “What? How many?”
“That’s not a weird question.”
“No.” He fakes a laugh. “No, of course not. We’ll have to discuss numbers.” He glances back at his screen. “Later?”
“Okay. We have time.” Not so long ago, I was the one reluctant to talk about parenthood, but now I envy Gabi. I hope I get pregnant soon because it would be fun to share the experience with my best friend. We’ve shared just about everything else through the years. And Jeremy can share all the pending fatherhood stuff with Matt. That will be perfect.
My brother Ryan and his wife, Megan, swear they have no desire to have children. And my brother Scott and his new husband are talking adoption, but they probably can’t become parents before me and Jeremy, so our baby will be a first grandchild for my mom. And for Jeremy’s parents too, unless Laura and Dusty have a surprise they haven’t revealed. As for Richard, well, I don’t see him becoming a parent anytime soon. So our little munchkin will be a first on both sides. How exciting is that?
Jeremy’s frowning over his keyboard in deep concentration now, so I force my brain to quit thinking of babies and switch to love making, the fictional kind, not the real. After a few minutes of sporadic typing, I get so wrapped up in work that I lose track of the time until Jeremy speaks.
“We have to meet Matt and Gabi in an hour.”
“Oh. I’d better get ready. Where are we meeting?”
“Mama Mia’s,” he snaps. “Where else?”
“Are you in a bad mood?”
“Sorry. Just distracted.” He flips the hair out of his eyes—in a very bad mood kind of gesture. “I think it’s about time I cut my hair. And, yes, I know you think my long hair is sexy, but it’s a constant irritation for me.”
Yeah right, he’s not in a bad mood at all. Some frustration with his book, I guess. I keep my mouth shut, but I sure hope he’s not serious about the haircut.
My parents discovered Mama Mia’s Italian restaurant when I was just a kid, and after Gabi and I became inseparable friends, they started bringing her with us. Luisa, the gregarious owner, is like a family member to all of us and knows practically everything about our lives. And despite his snippy remark earlier, Jeremy loves Luisa and her comfy homestyle place.
Matt and Gabi are already seated when we get there, and because it’s packed, we go straight to their table, bypassing whoever’s hostessing.
“Busy tonight,” I say. “I don’t see Luisa.”
“I don’t think she’s here,” Gabi says.
“I’ll rather miss her affectionate mauling,” Jeremy says.
I interpret that remark to mean that for some reason he’s missing his mother. Not that his proper British mother would ever maul anyone, affectionately or otherwise. But I can definitely sympathize with missing your mom. I take his hand and, though he looks surprised, he kisses it and smiles at me. A weak smile, but still. What’s going on in his head tonight?
One of Luisa’s granddaughters brings us menus. “It’s our celebration,” Gabi says, “so order what you want.”
“No. We’re treating you tonight,” Jeremy says. I make a mental note to cook some cheaper meals this week.
We order wine and an appetizer, and then the conversation turns to babies, of course. “So you’re hoping for a sister for Marco?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” Gabi says.
“I’ll be happy with either,” Matt adds.
Gabi wrinkles her nose at him. “We both will. But I still hope it’s a girl.”
I kind of hope it’s a girl too. Whenever I’m in Target, I wander through the little girl’s clothes. There are so many cute outfits. “Will you find out which you’re having from the ultrasound this time?”
“I didn’t like not knowing until the birth last time,” Matt says. He looks at Jeremy. “Won’t you want to know the sex before?”
Jeremy just stares at Matt until I nudge him under the table. “What? Oh. Which? I … I haven’t thought about that yet.”
“Well, I’d better get at least one girl out of the four,” Gabi says.
Jeremy bolts upright in his chair. “Four!”
Matt laughs. “Don’t have a stroke, man. No one says you and Chelsea have to keep even with us.”
“Right.” Jeremy grins, but that only makes him look insane because his eyes are still bugged out.”
When our server returns, Jeremy goes straight for the wine, and after we give her our entree orders, he tells her to bring another bottle. Looks like I’m going to have to squeeze more out of our grocery budget than I thought.
Matt turns the conversation to sports, so I’m mostly silent while we eat and drink. Apparently, it’s Gabi’s pregnancy that’s freaking out Jeremy tonight, but I don’t know why it should. He should know better than to think I want four kids when I’m not totally sure I can handle one.
Oh crap.
He’s comparing me to Gabi and realizing I’m not mother material. Now he’s depressed because he’s married the wrong person. And I don’t blame him. Just look at Gabi; she’s beautiful, intelligent, fun to be with, and a perfect mother. I look at my lasagna with regret. The only thing I have going for me now is that Jeremy finds me irresistibly sexy, so this is no time to stop counting calories.
Gabi’s not drinking, of course, and Matt’s pacing himself, so when Jeremy orders a third bottle of wine, it’s clear he’s hell-bent on getting drunk. I push my glass away so I can drive us home. I need to find as many ways as I can to make myself indispensable to him.
CHAPTER 3
Obviously, with Jeremy wasted, we didn’t have sex last night, so I’m going to seduce him when we take our lunch break. I made sure he noticed that I’m wearing a cropped tank and my low-slung jean shorts, which is how I used to dress when we first met, but I’m married now, so I don’t wear stuff like that out of the house anymore. I mean, I already have a gorgeous, loving man, so why would I want to attract the attention of other men? Although, maybe I should ask Jeremy about that. Maybe he’d get turned on to see other men looking at me—but knowing I’m all his, of course. Or maybe not. After two years, how could there still be things I don’t know about him?
Open & Honest (Sometimes) (A High Tea & Flip-Flops Novel Book 3) Page 3