I’ll just move into my old room at my mom’s. I’ll get a job at some fast-food place. I’ll get fat and old, and then I’ll die. And maybe, just maybe, somewhere along the line I’ll forget Jeremy and how I threw myself at him and how he said “no thanks” and—who am I kidding? I’m never ever going to forget this day.
I’m still lost in my pity party when Jeremy lifts the pillow from my face.
“You didn’t lock your door,” he says, his voice soft and raspy at the same time. He lies down beside me.
I can’t look at him. “I’m sorry I suggested—”
“I’m not.”
My eyes fly open. He’s not? Oh, please don’t let me be misinterpreting again.
He rolls to his side, facing me. So close. He smiles. “I’m in awe of your courage to live life on your terms.”
Just as we did two nights ago, we gaze into each other’s eyes, and after a very long minute he touches my bottom lip. But today I’m feeling a natural high. Anticipation is giving me a buzz, making the air around us hum. The flutter in my belly increases to a level I’m sure he must feel. I breathe in his scent of lime and some dark spice. Until now, I’ve experienced this oddly intoxicating smell only as a ghost of his presence.
He’s here. He’s here with me.
He kisses me sweetly, tenderly, once … twice, lighting a fuse. He pulls back, gazing into my eyes again. Slowly, his fingertips follow the curve of my cheek, circle my ear, and trail down the back of my neck. His featherlight touch inflames my skin.
This is really happening.
I barely breathe as his fingers slide lower, tracing my spine, arching my body toward his. Every nerve in my body screams his presence. Slipping his hand under my shirt, he draws a moan from deep inside me.
“Kiss me,” I whisper, and he obeys. I suck his tongue into my mouth, and he echoes my moan. I want him now. I want him to delay. I want never to forget how it feels to be this close to him.
He rolls to his back, lifting me on top of him. I sit up, straddling him, and pull off my top. His hands explore the curves of my body, but his eyes never leave mine. His gaze intensifies every sensation, makes our connection deeper than I’ve experienced before with any man. I writhe against him, our clothing a frustration between us. I remove my bra. He pulls me closer to his mouth, sucking and biting my nipples until the ache inside me is unbearable.
“Please.”
“Wait,” he says, rolling over and laying me on my back.
I pull at his shirt, and he strips it off, but allows me only seconds to explore the muscles of his shoulder and chest before he grabs my wrist and lifts my hand away, trapping it on the pillow beside my head. His lips brush mine. His breath whispers against my throat. He teases me, flicking the tip of his tongue over my breasts. I pull my wrist loose, tangling my fingers in his hair, trying to pull his mouth closer, but he resists, laughing softly.
My heart stops. Is he playing with me? Oh, God. He’s going to stand up and laugh at me for not realizing this is a joke.
But then …
He’s unzipping my shorts, and with deliciously slow deliberation, he pulls them down. His lips follow their descent, caressing my skin as he bares it. When he reaches my toes he kisses his way back up, trailing his fingertips along the path his mouth takes. His touch is electric, shocking me senseless then jerking me back to life until I’m breathless from waves of tension and release.
“Jeremy, please …”
He pauses, his breath warm against my ear, two beats … three … four … five, and then his fingers slip under my panties, teasing me with their nearness, withdrawing, pulling the fabric down and away. When he touches me there again, I squeeze my thighs together, trying to trap his hand, trying to force him to do my bidding, but he pulls it away, laughing softly again.
He’s killing me with wanting.
I shove him to his back and reach to unzip his jeans. He relents, helping me undress him. Letting me look, but not touch. But he’s touching me. Touching. Probing, Stroking. I am slick against his hand. Rocking to the rhythm he’s set. Rocking. Deep and wet. The need that’s coiled inside me loosens, rising up and up … my breath catches … the air stills.
In an instant, he’s rolling on a condom and pushing me to my back and entering me all at once. The world stops for one second, and then I’m rising higher and higher and higher until I’m overwhelmed by this hot, throbbing, glorious, frigging benefit of being Jeremy’s friend.
“Dear God,” he says when he falls back to my side. We lie there, still panting, holding on to the moment.
I say nothing, but my mind is not quiet. This is not love. You didn’t ask him for love. This is just sex. You made a promise. I blink back tears and turn away, gathering my clothes.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Oh.” He sits up. “Right. My pleasure. Anytime.”
*
We’ve suffered through thirty-two hours of awkwardness since we had sex. I’ve dropped the shoe tease. And I’ve stayed in my chair. But Jeremy’s bed being in the room with us is a constant reminder. I’m relieved when he hits send to email the book to his editor, and we wrap up tonight’s work session.
“That’s it,” he says. “Now we wait.”
“But we keep working on the next book, right?”
“Absolutely. If we stay on schedule, we’ll have that first draft completed in six weeks.”
“Why do you pronounce it shedule? You say school, not shool. And how about scheme and schizophrenia and schematic?” I swear his right brow lifted higher with each example.
“The point is,” he says, “we will keep working as usual.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
I’m leading the way out of his bedroom when I trip over my own feet. He grabs me by the waist to steady me. And that little bit of contact is all it takes. In thirty seconds, we strip off our clothes and fall onto his bed. It’s quicker this time. Just raw need. Just sex. But that’s what we agreed to—friends just relieving each other’s need.
“Would you like a glass of wine,” he asks, after we’re dressed again.
“Sure.” I follow him to the kitchen. “Let’s watch an episode of New Girl.”
So we drink wine and watch TV. Then we say good night, and I go to my apartment alone, pretending that Jeremy was wrong that friends with benefits never works. I’ll make it work, play it cool. Until he realizes we’re more than friends. Until he falls in love with me.
Yes, I know that’s dishonest. He doesn’t feel about me the way I feel about him. But I want him to. I want that badly. I know, now, that I’ve never really been in love before. And I can’t even talk to Gabi about how I feel. Well, I could, but I don’t want to. I like having Jeremy as my secret.
*
Another indication that sex between friends, not to mention coworkers, can make life awkward is that in the last four days we’ve worked only once in Jeremy’s bedroom. We don’t even always work in his apartment. Today we’re sitting on my sofa with our laptops.
Suddenly, Jeremy yells, “Fuck!”
No. Just no. I’m not doing this sex thing on command.
“Chelsea! You joined Romance Writers of America as Penny James?”
Whew. An email is open on his screen. “Yes, I did. It’s an organization you should—”
“The local chapter has invited Penny James to speak at their next meeting.”
“That’s great.”
He gapes at me. “They want Penny James.”
“Yeah, I heard you. Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.” He leaps up and starts pacing. “Your action was presumptuous. Inexcusably bad form to do that without asking me.”
Think fast. “Well, it’s no big thing, really. You’re not the only man writing romance under a pseudonym. They’re probably used to that. Just tell them you’re her and go speak to them.”
Judging by his expression, he thinks I’m insane.
“Do you hear nothing I say? Clearly, you don’t understand what would
happen if any of this ever gets back to my father. That’s a chance I can’t afford to take.”
No, I don’t understand because he won’t tell me what would happen, but in his state of overreaction, I don’t think I’d be helping my case by choosing this moment to point that out.
“This is just a local thing,” I say. The scowl he directs at me says he’s not buying it. “Okay, okay. If you feel that strongly about it, just decline. I was only trying to get your book more exposure. Geez.”
He sighs and sits back down. “I know you meant well, Chelsea, but you are never to do anything concerning my work without checking with me first. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” I go back to what I was doing. Three minutes later, a message from him pops up on my phone. It’s a photo of a sad-looking puppy with a chewed up shoe. Above its head are the words ME SORRY. When I glance at Jeremy, he’s wearing that sad puppy look. I can’t help but smile.
“Still friends?” he asks.
“I shouldn’t have done that without your permission.”
He starts to say something, then stops. His face goes slack. I can practically see the wheels turning as his brain works something out.
“You.” He gets up to pace again. After a minute, he stops and faces me. “Do you really think this association thing is a good move?”
“Yes. Look it up.”
“I will. But I have an idea.” He walks closer and studies my face for a moment. “You could be Penny.”
He can’t be serious. “How would that work? Is that even legal?”
“We can make it legal. You’d act in proxy.”
“But they want you to speak. About writing. I can’t fake that. What if they ask questions?”
“I’m sure they will, but—”
“Jeremy!” He looks at me calmly. “Look, I’ll do anything I can to help you, but I don’t see how I could—” I shut my mouth because I’m beginning to see his point. I know Wanting More backward and forward. And I haven’t spent all our time together lusting after him. I’ve learned a lot about the way he works. And I’m personable.
He’s questioning me with a look.
“I’ll do it,” I say, and he grins. “You take care of the legal stuff and write out the answers to questions you think they might ask.”
“You can memorize them?”
“Of course I can. I had a speaking role in every musical production our high school put on.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
We go back to work, but my mind isn’t on researching the locale for the third book in the California series. I’m thinking about my new persona. I look up the bio Jeremy created for Penny. “Uh-oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This says Penny lives in London. Do you want me to fake an accent?”
He considers that for all of two seconds. “It would be easier to change the bio to say you were born here, lived there for a while, and then returned home.”
“Yeah. That’ll work.” I point to the author photo. “You think I can pass as your sister?”
“I’ll replace that with one of you.”
“Wow. We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?”
“Writing the book started as a lark,” he says, “so why not have fun promoting it as well?”
“Cool. Let’s go to lunch and talk about this.”
“Tacos?”
“Fine with me.”
We’ve barely left the parking lot before I question him. “Tell me how Wanting More started as a lark.”
At first he says nothing, but he’s smiling.
“Ethan and I were at university,” he begins. “One night we were in our flat getting pissed when he found a paperback romance left behind by an ex-girlfriend and started reading passages aloud. Being under the influence, we found it hilarious. Ethan knew I dreamed of being a novelist, so he dared me to write a romance like that. And I started writing it that night—incorporating some horrid suggestions from him.”
“Like what?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“The book you published is not that version, right?”
“God no. At night we’d drink a few pints and read what I’d written and laugh ourselves sick. But then, for me, something changed. I no longer wanted the story to be ridiculous. I cared about the characters, and I’d started to imagine a real story for them. So I told Ethan I was bored with the joke and abandoning the project, but secretly I began rewriting. You know the rest.”
Jeremy parks the car and we cross the street to the taco stand. I scope out a table while he orders. I’ve been wondering about something for a while, but knowing how touchy artists can be, I didn’t know if I should ask. He sets our sodas on the table and goes back for our tacos. We eat for a few minutes before I ask him the bigger question on my mind.
“Jeremy, what’s your literary novel about?”
He was about to take a bite, but he pauses. He doesn’t look at me. “Nothing.”
“Cool. I get it. Strictly need-to-know.”
He looks up now, his brows rippled in confusion.
“You want my help only on the romance books,” I explain. “I don’t need to know about the literary work.”
He shakes his head. “That was a ruse.”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “Asking for my help was a ruse?”
He smiles. “No. The literary novel was the ruse. I’ll explain it sometime,” he says. “But not while I’m eating.”
We finish our lunch mostly in silence. I’m dying to know why he lied. He seems proud of writing romance. Why the pretense of being a literary writer?
CHAPTER 17
It’s all set. Jeremy’s taken care of the legalities. And because his book is distributed by print-on-demand services, he uploaded revised book files last week, easily substituting my photo for his sister’s. Mine is also the new face on the author website we’ve developed for Penny James. I have four more days to prepare for my debut in the flesh.
Right now, I’m trying to decide what to wear to the RWA meeting. I’ve tried on three outfits, and Jeremy said each was fine.
“You’re no help,” I tell him.
He’s sitting on my bed and beckons me over. “Take that off.”
“So you don’t like this dress?”
“Yes, I do. But I like you au naturel better.” He slides a palm up my inner thigh.
I step back out of his reach. In two seconds my dress is on the floor and I’m doing a little striptease for him as I remove my bra and panties. He laughs in that raspy voice he has when he’s turned on, and I dive onto the bed, pulling him down with me. His hair is loose today, and as his lips caress my body, his hair brushes against my skin, whisper soft, inflaming me.
When it’s my turn, he strips and lies beside me again, and I begin my exploration of his body. Why does he hide these luscious muscles under those loose shirts? He’s smooth under my hands, hot under my lips, hardened by my touch. He is craved by my body. He is loved by my heart. And when he can wait no longer, he lays me down and fulfills that first craving.
He leaves my heart aching.
When we’re done, I start to sit up, but he holds me back. “Don’t we need to get back to work?” I ask.
“Just lie with me.” He gazes into my eyes and then at my mouth. He touches my bottom lip. I don’t know why he does that, but I love it. Then he brushes my hair away from my cheek and cups his palm around the back of my head. He looks deeply into my eyes again. “Friends,” he whispers.
I’m not sure what he means, saying it like that. But the sound of it makes my eyes sting. I clench my fist, pressing my nails into my palm, to keep from crying. He can’t be sad about our “friends” arrangement. That makes no sense. It’s what he wants.
He closes his eyes, brushes his lips against mine, and then we lie with foreheads pressed together. His hand cradles my head. My hand lies against his chest. We fall asleep.
*
Today is Wednesday and the RWA m
eeting is on Saturday. I need a break from all the preparation. Being two people is not an easy job. I’ve spoken on the phone twice to Carolyn, the woman who arranged for “Penny” to speak at the RWA meeting. I’m supposed to tell them why I decided to self-publish, and how it’s worked for me. Like I know.
Of course, Jeremy wrote it all out for me, but I had to edit it into something I might conceivably say. For the same reason, I edited Jeremy’s copy for the Penny James website. And we’ve rehearsed and rehearsed the questions Jeremy thinks I’ll be asked on Saturday. He’s sure we have it covered, but I’m worried about the odd questions that might pop up.
Anyway, like I said, I need a break. “Let’s go to the beach.”
He doesn’t look away from his computer. “I’m not a beach person.”
“Then let’s go to Disneyland.”
I get the Mr. High Tea scowl in response.
“Take me somewhere.”
“I’ll take you to lunch in an hour.”
“I’m sick of lunch.”
“You’re whining.”
“That wasn’t me, it was Penny.” I flop down on his bed. Something I’ve been trying not to think about weighs on my mind. This is all fun and games now, but what’s going to happen when Jeremy leaves? “Jeremy … you never talk about it, but when do you have to return to England?”
That gets his attention. “Have to?”
“Visas expire, don’t they?”
“I don’t have a visa. I’m a citizen.”
“Of the United States?”
“Seriously?”
“Ha. Ha. Instead of mocking what you call California girl-ese, you should learn to write it so I don’t have so much editing to do.”
“Ah, so you’re my editor now? I shall have to draw up a new employment agreement.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “Anyway. How are you a citizen?”
“I have dual citizenship. I was born in Cambridge.”
“Isn’t that in England?” Now, I get the exasperated head shake.
High Tea & Flip-Flops Page 15
