High Tea & Flip-Flops

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  *

  Jeremy didn’t call or text yesterday, so I didn’t bother him. I heard him typing through lunchtime, though, but then he emailed me only two new edited chapters to read. I read the first one last night before going out. I met Gabi, Matt, and a couple of our friends at a new brewpub. I had fun, and it was a nice way to end the weekend, but several times I zoned out, thinking about Jeremy.

  I started reading the second chapter this morning. What Jeremy should have been doing last night is rewriting this sex scene. I’m on my second cup of coffee, so it’s not that my brain isn’t functioning. This scene needs work. I look up at my ceiling and shake my head as though Jeremy can see me.

  I refill my cereal bowl and reread the scene while I eat. It’s no better the second time. This is not making me hot. The scene’s not horrible, but something’s missing. Oh no. What if Jeremy’s been lying to me? Maybe he didn’t write Wanting More or the first part of this book—or, at least, not by himself. Did someone help him with the steamy parts?

  Because I’ve let my feelings for Jeremy interfere, I’ve been sort of skipping over the lovemaking scenes when I give him feedback. I mean sex is sex, right? Girl parts, boy parts, doing it. It’s all the same whether you’re in England or here. Besides, the other scenes were great. But this one? No. No. No. I’m going to have to say something.

  While I shower and dress, I think about how to handle the problem. Then I text Jeremy to say I’m on my way up.

  It amuses him that since his dig at my flip-flops last week, I’ve worn a different pair of shoes each day, so wearing my tallest platform heels, I head upstairs. He doesn’t answer my knock. I try the door. Evidently, he unlocked it for me and went back to work. I go to the bedroom and take my usual seat by his desk. The only sign he gives to acknowledge my presence is a quick glance at my feet.

  I presume he’s moved past his argument with his dad, but I feel like I should say something. “How are you today?”

  He looks at me like he’s clueless why I’m asking. “I’m fine. Just let me finish this paragraph.”

  Several minutes later, he leans back in his chair and nods at the Kindle in my hand. “Have you already read the new chapters and written some notes?”

  “No notes yet. I just started on the second of the chapters. I’ve read one scene. Twice. The love scene.”

  “And?”

  “It’s … lacking.” I pause, hoping he’ll say he already knows that and is working on it, but he looks blank.

  After a moment, he prompts me. “What does it lack?”

  “Well, it’s just not your usual … it’s missing … hotness.” He says nothing. This is more awkward than I thought it would be. “Maybe you meant to come back to this scene and revise?”

  No response. Crap. He’s taking this personally, like I’m criticizing his sexual performance—not that I have any knowledge of that. I wish I’d never brought this up, but pointing out weak writing like this is what he pays me for, right?

  “Let’s be professional about this,” he says, finally. “Stand up.”

  “Stand?” I do it anyway.

  “Good. The shoes are perfect today.”

  “Perfect for what?”

  “I’m Logan’s height,” he says, “and your shoes make you Shelby’s height. Now, turn around.”

  Not sure what he’s up to, I stall. He takes me by the shoulders and turns me.

  “What are we doing?”

  His answer is to put his arms around me. “So, Logan begins his seduction of Shelby by—”

  “We’re acting out the scene?”

  “Yes.”

  Ohmygod. We’re acting out a sex scene! He pulls me tighter against him, and for a second I lose my train of thought.

  “Now,” he says, “I’ll do what Logan does to Shelby.”

  Oh. My. God. My knees are so weak, if he wasn’t holding me up, I’d surely be on the floor.

  Jeremy brushes my ear with his lips, sending a shiver through me, and then he continues with soft kisses down my neck. Oh, wow. He slides the straps of my tank top and bra aside and runs the tip of his tongue over the bare skin on my shoulder. My heart is pounding. I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

  “Do you like this?” he whispers.

  Oh, yes.

  He taps the Kindle I’m holding. “And Shelby says …”

  Crap. He’s just speaking dialogue from the scene. “Um, she says, ‘Your charm won’t work on me this time, Logan.’ And that’s a good start, Jeremy, but then the scene falls flat.”

  He takes my Kindle, and reads on. “Hmm. You’re right.” He pulls my straps back in place and sits back down at his desk. “I’ll revise straight away.”

  “But … maybe we should work through the rest of it together.”

  He gives me those arched brows. “Surely you’re not suggesting we act out the whole scene.”

  Yes. Yes, I am. Mentally splashing cold water in my face, I shake my head furiously to show him I absolutely did not suggest in the slightest that we engage in sexual acts in the name of research.

  “Right, then,” he says. “I understand the problem with the scene now, so let me fix it, and I’ll send it to you later. But for now, don’t you need to get back to reading and note taking?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “See you for lunch. We’ll go to that restaurant you’ve been telling me about. Emelio’s?” He dismisses me with a smile and turns back to his computer.

  With the distinct feeling I’ve been cheated again, I return to my apartment.

  Jeremy shows up at my door looking completely different from when I left him a few hours ago. His hair is slicked back tighter than I’ve ever seen it before, and he’s wearing a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and dark wash jeans. I’m not sure why, but his appearance ticks me off.

  “Should I change?” I gesture to my cropped tee and faded, denim cutoffs. “You’re kind of dressed up.”

  “You look great. Let’s go.”

  We drive for a few minutes listening to the GPS guiding him turn by turn, and then he says, “You’re very quiet.”

  “You look different.” My stupid mouth. “Sorry. I’ll go back to being quiet now.”

  He laughs. “You’re so real.”

  “I’m real something, I guess.” I turn to the window, hoping he’ll stop talking or at least change the subject.

  He does neither. “You shouldn’t apologize for being yourself.”

  “I’m not, but there’s such a thing as politeness.”

  “You feel it was impolite to comment on my appearance?”

  I roll my eyes before I turn to him. “Don’t you? It’s none of my business how you dress. Or wear your hair. Plus, my comment wasn’t even a response to yours.” I look away again.

  “True, it was a non sequitur. But if you consider your assessment of my appearance as rude, then I would have to assume you were saying I look hideous.”

  He’s teasing, right? I look at his face. He’s serious. Sigh. “I never said or even implied you look hideous.”

  “Then were you saying my appearance this afternoon is an improvement?”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth. I said different, that’s all.”

  “Then you have nothing to apologize for.”

  “But I … whatever.” Scratch the idea we’ve progressed in our communication.

  Two minutes later he pulls the car into Emelio’s parking lot.

  By the time the server brings our complimentary chips and salsa, we’ve already discussed what we want, so he hands back the menus and orders fajitas for two and a pitcher of beer. I start eating the chips because I don’t trust my mouth for speaking.

  “So,” he says, “what don’t you like about my look?”

  Oh. My. God. “I didn’t say—” Sigh. “You look fine, okay? Can we change the subject now?”

  “Certainly. I bow to you.”

  Oh great. Now I have to think of something else to talk about. While I’m trying to come up with a new
topic, I scoop salsa with a chip and pop it in my mouth.

  “Your hair,” I say. “I’m just used to seeing it more … casual.”

  He nods. “But last week, you commented on me not using the elastic, so I assumed you were saying my hair usually looks messy.”

  “I like messy.”

  With one pull, his hair falls, shiny and gorgeous around his shoulders. “Better?”

  Ohmygod. I close my eyes for a moment, hoping to stop the heat I feel rising to my face. No such luck.

  “Whew! This salsa is hot.” I grab the happy hour ad card off the table and fan my face. “It’s your hair, Jeremy. Wear it however you like.” I mentally congratulate myself for sounding totally nonchalant, but I don’t dare look at him.

  “And my clothes?”

  “They’re nice.”

  “I’ll take that as a thumbs-down. I was trying to fit in.”

  “Fit in?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve seen Matt dressed like this.”

  “So, you’re still trying to impress Gabi?”

  “Gabi? No. What does—hold on. When was I ever trying to impress Gabi? She’s your friend, so I don’t want to offend her, of course, but—”

  “Just drop it, okay?”

  Jeremy opens his mouth to respond, but he’s cut off by the server arriving with our lunch. I dig in. He refills his glass.

  “You’re hard to figure out,” he says.

  I swallow my mouthful several chews too soon. “I’m hard to figure out? You’re the one who changes with the wind.”

  “Changing clothes does not change me.”

  “But you’re changing to be like someone else. Just be yourself. Isn’t that what you just told me on the way here?” He says nothing. I point my fork at him. “Eat your lunch.”

  We eat and drink in silence. After a while my blood sugar evens out and the beer mellows me.

  “I’m sorry for snapping at you, Jeremy.” I’m playing with my food, pushing bits of onion and bell pepper around my plate with the fork. When he doesn’t respond, I look up.

  “I don’t want to ruin the mood,” he says, “but I’d like to ask you a question.”

  I shrug.

  “Why are you so jealous of Gabi?”

  A protest leaps to my tongue, but what’s the use? “I already told you why.”

  “You think she’s perfect.” He shakes his head. “I don’t see her that way. She’s not smarter than you. Or prettier. Or nicer. Or—”

  “She has a career and a fiancé and soon she’ll have a baby.”

  “If you want them, someday you’ll have a husband and child … or a dozen children. As for the career, maybe you’ve been looking in the wrong direction. You have a remarkable instinct for developmental editing. Plus, from what you’ve mentioned, I suspect your marketing ability will elevate you to invaluable status … to me. Quit comparing yourself to Gabi and maybe you’ll be able to see you’re no longer that scared girl falling apart over a lost deli job.”

  Wow. Just wow.

  He huffs a laugh, but seems flustered and doesn’t quite meet my eye. “Forgive me. That was a bit heavy-handed for lunch conversation, wasn’t it?”

  “No. It was … thank you.”

  He nods. “So, shall we order this incredible flan you’ve been on about?”

  CHAPTER 16

  The last two days have been heaven and hell for me. I wish I had Jeremy’s ability to act like the sexual tension between us doesn’t exist. Ohmygod. What if he’s not acting? I’m so confused.

  Guys think about sex all the time, right? And he’s not gay—he made a point of telling me that. So why hasn’t he made a move on me? We’re certainly not lacking for opportunity. We’re here in his apartment together almost every day, discussing the book or at least eating a meal together.

  I know what Gabi would say, Jeremy knows that mixing work and pleasure is always a disaster. But Jeremy and I are friends too. It wouldn’t be just sex. Oh. That’s the problem. He doesn’t see me as a romantic or a sexual partner. I’m just his friend.

  I can’t quit thinking about that scene we started to act out. Nearly every single minute we’re together, I’m remembering how it felt to be in his arms. I mean—hello—his bed’s five feet away from his desk. Sometimes when he gets so deep into writing that I think he forgets I’m there, I actually lie on his bed and read. I know, I know. How obvious, right?

  Today is one of those obvious days. I even wore my red stilettos. But I haven’t read a word in twenty minutes because I’ve been trying to send him psychic messages. It isn’t working. Moving on to plan B.

  “Jeremy, this scene bothers me.”

  “Which scene?”

  “Logan and Shelby in the shower. It’s not realistic.” He couldn’t look more incredulous. I get to my feet and kick off my shoes—in his direction. Just in case he hadn’t noticed them. “Follow me.”

  I lead him into his bathroom and step into the tub. “Okay, so Shelby’s naked and wet and working up a lather with the shower scrub.” I’m acting this out, of course. “Then she’s standing in the shower spray, rinsing off.” I glance at him, and he gives me a cautionary nod. “Now she’s wetting her hair to shampoo it, so her eyes are closed, right?” A shrug from Jeremy.

  “And then Logan—naked, of course—steps in behind her.” I motion for him to do the same. He still looks doubtful, but he joins me—clothed, unfortunately. “So she turns around, like this, and they’re both naked and wet and they start kissing.”

  Now we’re standing with less than an inch of space between us, so when I rise on tiptoe to reach up and put my arms around his neck, I’m a little off balance and press against him. He grabs me by the waist to steady me. Our eyes lock. He swallows audibly. I hold my breath. He swallows audibly. Seconds pass. Then he breaks the mood by arching his right brow. Damn.

  “Do you see the problem, Jeremy?”

  “Um, no,” he says, his gaze sliding away. He sets me back on my feet and steps out of the tub, nearly backing to the door. “You didn’t criticize the shower scene in the first book. So what’s the problem with this one?”

  “Shelby thinks Logan’s still out of town.”

  “He’s surprising her.”

  Is Jeremy really that dense or just shaken by my demonstration, which didn’t exactly end the way I’d hoped, believe me. “Let me put it this way, try sneaking up on me when I’m showering, and see how I react.”

  His face goes white. Then it reddens. Obviously, he’s not picturing me screaming and beating the hell out of him for scaring me. He’s only picturing me naked in the shower. Well, good. If I couldn’t seduce him, at least I put that mental picture in his head.

  After a moment, he regains his normal color. “Oh,” he says. “He’d frighten her.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll fix that.” He heads back to his computer.

  Great. Plan B—fail. Now I have to come up with another plan.

  *

  New day, new plan. For an intelligent guy—one who writes love stories, at that—Jeremy can’t take a hint worth a damn. I’m lying here on his bed again today, not even pretending to read. I’m just staring at him, but he doesn’t notice. He’s lost in his own world—Logan and Shelby’s world, actually. So, the next time he comes up for air, I’m launching plan C. Since my plans of subtle hints and acting out sex scenes were a bust, this one is hard core.

  Five minutes later, he sits back in his chair and stretches, and then, instead of reaching for the keyboard again, he swivels his chair toward me and smiles. “I sense there’s something on your mind.”

  Here we go.

  “Are you dating anyone?” I ask him.

  He narrows his eyes and smooths the beard on his chin. “No.”

  “Don’t you get lonely?”

  “I haven’t noticed that you go out much.” He plucks at his soul patch. “At all, actually.”

  “I’m tired of it. All that game playing takes so much effort.”

  He
looks amused. “What’s wrong with an honest relationship?”

  “Exactly, my point. So let’s hook up.”

  His eyes and mouth open wide for a second before he snaps his cool face back in place. “Hook up?”

  “Yeah, you know, let’s do the friends-with-benefits thing.”

  “That never works.”

  “Friends help each other out.”

  “Friends lend an ear, a hand, a tenner, a—”

  “Come on, Jeremy. Day after day we act out fictional sex and—”

  “Day after day? Until recently, you rarely even mentioned those scenes.”

  I growl at him. “Because they drive me wild. It’s torture. Did you take a vow of celibacy or something? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a woman, and I’m already in your bed.”

  “To be precise, you are lying on my bed, which, by the way, you have never asked my permission to do.”

  “Seriously?” I sit up. “Please, Mr. High Tea, may I lie on your bed?”

  “You may, Ms. Cole.” He swivels back to his keyboard.

  “Did you notice I’m wearing black stilettos today?”

  “I do believe I did … when you propped your feet on my desk earlier.” He keeps typing.

  “You know they’re called fuck-me pumps, right?”

  His mouth drops open and then snaps shut. He swallows. “I’ve heard the term.”

  “Want to see my knickers?” This time he keeps his face blank, but his fingers stop dead on the keyboard. “Ha! Give it up, dude. You want some.”

  “I admit you are a distraction, but—”

  “So let’s just do it already. I’m tired of having sex with you when you’re not there.”

  He turns his face toward the window. At first I think he’s just trying to cool his desire, but he stays turned away too long. Each second ticking by speeds up my heart.

  “Chelsea, I don’t …”

  Humiliation sets my feet flying before I hear another word. How could I have read him so wrong? I’m so stupid. I’ll never be able to face him again. Damn my big frigging mouth.

  I run down the stairs and through my apartment to throw myself on the bed. I pull the extra pillow over my head, and wait for the tears to come. But they don’t. I’m too wrecked.

  I lie there trying to remember my life before Jeremy moved in. That’s what I have to go back to now. Minus the deli job. Oh crap. I’ll be unemployed again. Wow. Losing two jobs in less than a month has to be some kind of record. Way to go, Chelsea.