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

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  Jeremy joins us just as Laura hands me my drink. He pours himself something brown—Scotch I presume—but all of Laura’s liquor is in decanters, so it’s hard to tell.

  “You’ve redecorated the bedrooms,” he says to Laura.

  “Actually, I decorated the bedrooms. You never quite got around to doing that. Or was that bare white walls and haphazard furniture arrangement strewn with clothes your idea of style?”

  “Jeremy was a slob?” pops out of both my mom’s mouth and mine simultaneously.

  Laura looks at each of us and then at Jeremy.

  Jeremy points at her. “Be fair, Lolly, or I’ll tell them about the—”

  “All right, he wasn’t that bad.” She gives him a smirk. “And to be completely fair, he didn’t live here long enough to finish all he’d planned to do.” Gracefully, she sweeps the hand holding her drink, gesturing to the room. “This is all Jeremy’s work.”

  My eyes and mouth go all googly. Though I lived in his apartment, he’d told me he furnished it through a rental company, so when we were moving, and he packed up the high-end decorative items, I just assumed he’d had to buy those from the company. Dang. No wonder he’d rather live in my mother’s nice house than in the kind of apartment we could afford, filled with my crappy furniture.

  My mother doesn’t seem surprised. “You have wonderful taste, Jeremy.”

  “Thank you, Marie.” Jeremy moves toward the distressed brown leather club chair and, with a finger under my chin, closes my gaping mouth as he passes. “Drink up, Chelsea.”

  I take a gulp and nearly choke. Gin and tonic is totally not my thing. It tastes like my father’s aftershave smelled. I glance at Jeremy. He’s barely hiding his amusement. He knew I wouldn’t like it. Silly man; he should know by now that I’ll get him back eventually.

  “Do you play well, Laura?” My mom is pointing to the piano at the far end of the room in front of the bay window.

  “Oh”—she and Jeremy exchange a look—“no … um … it’s for looks.”

  I’m not sure what that was all about. Did she think Jeremy had told us she was a concert pianist or something?

  “I made reservations for dinner,” Laura says, “but if you’re not up for that, I could fix a light meal here. I know it takes a while to adjust to the time change.”

  “I think we’re fine for dinner.” Jeremy looks to me and my mom to see if we disagree. We don’t.

  “Good.” Laura glances at the clock on the wall to her left. “We’ll leave at a quarter till. So. Was your flight uneventful?”

  “It was very nice,” my mom says. “No problems at all. And since your mother was kind enough to plan an overnight stay in New York, that’s helped us to adjust to the time change.”

  “Well, I remember from my short visit last fall that you dine earlier in the evening, so I hoped it would still feel early to you when you arrived.” Laura sips her drink and then turns to Jeremy. “I read the new book. Adored it.” She looks at me then back at Jeremy with a devilish smile. “Which of you wrote those knickers-melting sex scenes?”

  My mom shoots to her feet. “Excuse me, but where’s the …”

  “Oh,” Laura says, “we passed the guest loo in the hall, just round the corner.”

  We’re all silent as my mother leaves the room, and then Laura speaks again.

  “I embarrassed her, didn’t I? She’s such a dear.”

  “No problem,” I say. “She’s just sensitive about that topic with Jeremy in the room.”

  “To answer your question,” he says, “Chelsea did. For the rest, I wrote from the hero’s point of view, and Chelsea wrote all the heroine’s.”

  Laura nods. “I figured. The heroines are stronger now. And the love scenes have definitely improved since your first book.”

  “I thought Wanting More was hot,” I say in Jeremy’s defense.

  “Well, yes, but these new books have added an emotional element to the sex, which makes them hotter.” Laura gets up to take hers and Jeremy’s glasses to the bar. “So the next one is another California romance?”

  “Yes,” Jeremy says. “The last.”

  Laura’s eyes widen. She looks at me. “The last Penny James novel?”

  “No,” I say, “just the last of the California series. At least for now.”

  “So what’s after?”

  I’ll let Jeremy answer. I still haven’t shared my idea with him.

  “Well … we haven’t discussed it much, but Chelsea will make that call. She has better instincts, and she understands the market more than I.”

  Wait, what? What he just said is news to me. “What do you mean, I’m making the call?”

  He gives me a look I can’t discern. “Aren’t you the boss?”

  “Chelsea’s the boss?”

  My mom is back. “Geez, Mom, you don’t have to sound like that would be a total disaster.”

  She responds with a wide-eyed, questioning look.

  “Mom.”

  Smiling, she reclaims her spot on the sofa. “I’m just teasing you, sweetie. If Jeremy wants to let you wear the pants in your relationship, it’s none of my business.”

  “We were talking about our writing, Marie.”

  She turns to Jeremy. “Do you really think she’s capable?”

  I huff a sigh and swig my drink, totally forgetting I hate it. The shock of the taste dilutes my irritation. There’s no use trying to explain—for the hundredth time—that I’ve progressed to doing half the writing.

  “A refill, Marie?” Laura hands back Jeremy’s glass.

  “Yes, please.”

  Laura takes my mother’s glass and reaches for mine. “What would you actually like this time, Chelsea?”

  “Sorry.” I hand her my barely touched glass. “But I’m good.”

  She frowns. “Are you sure?”

  Oh, crap. Have I insulted her? I glance at Jeremy.

  “She’ll have a tequila and lime,” he says.

  “Perfect.” Laura’s smile is back, and a minute later, we’re all drinking again. We chat until it’s time to go to dinner. She tells Jeremy to show us our rooms in case we’d like to freshen up. I’m wondering if this means we should change clothes and hoping Jeremy’s good taste extends to knowing that.

  “How should we dress?” my mom asks Laura.

  “You’re fine,” she says. “It’s casual.” She looks at Jeremy. “Catalano’s?”

  “Ah, yes. This way to the bedrooms, ladies.”

  He leads the way back toward the entry but then motions for my mother and me to go ahead up the stairs. I know from past experience that he does this from his innate sense of gallantry. He’s the brave knight, ready to break our fall should one or both of us fair maidens tumble down the stairs. Isn’t he cute?

  The upstairs decor does not disappoint. Apparently, excellent taste runs in the Pearce family. I get a glimpse of the guest room when Jeremy opens the door for my mother. Pale tan walls, bleached wood floors, and muted aquas in bedding and drapes. Very peaceful. Beachy.

  Jeremy waits for me to start up another flight of stairs.

  “So up top means the third floor,” I say.

  “Second.”

  I glance down the stairs behind us. “But isn’t that the second floor.”

  “In England, that’s the first.”

  “And where we had drinks?”

  “The ground floor. And the kitchen and garden are on the lower ground floor.”

  “Makes no sense to me, but okay.”

  He opens the door to a huge loft room. It’s painted pale cream, and the flooring is some dark wood. There’s a sloped ceiling on one side, a sitting area in the center, and a bed beyond that. At each end are dormer windows. In front of one of these, on the street side, sits a massive desk.

  “You wrote Wanting More in this room, didn’t you?”

  “I rewrote it here, but how did you know?”

  “I just feel it.”

  “My little witch.” He takes me in his
arms and kisses me like we’re not expected to be downstairs in ten minutes.

  “Save that for later.” I wiggle out of his grasp. “Are you sure I’m dressed all right for dinner?”

  “You look perfect to me.” He reaches for me again.

  “Forget it.” I look around for our suitcases. “Maybe I should wear something else.”

  Jeremy sighs. “Laura is wearing jeans.”

  “And she looks dressed up no matter what she wears.”

  “Are you dressed well enough for Mama Mia’s?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Same kind of restaurant.”

  “Okay. But I want to check my hair and makeup.”

  He points to a door in the corner. “The bathroom up here is nice but small.”

  It’s more than nice and not so small at all. God, he must miss this place.

  Catalano’s is not the same as Mama Mia’s. It’s definitely upscale Italian. We’re shown to a table set for five, and when the hostess doesn’t remove the extra place setting, Jeremy tenses.

  “Who’s joining us, Laura?”

  “You’ll see.” She smiles and holds out the wine list to him. He frowns at her for a moment before he takes it.

  The wine Jeremy orders is so fine, I don’t even want to think about how much it costs. I almost choke on my second sip when someone comes up behind us and slaps Jeremy on the back.

  “Ethan!” Jeremy cries out. He rises for a man hug. “You said you’d be out of town until Tuesday.”

  Ethan shrugs. “I lied.”

  The first time I saw Ethan on Skype, I was surprised that he didn’t look anything like I’d pictured him—well, that’s because Jeremy used his best friend’s name when he wrote his first romance, so after he told me that, I pictured the real Ethan the way Jeremy described the character in the book. But the fictional Ethan has blond hair, and the real Ethan has curly black hair. But what I couldn’t see clearly on screen was that he has the most amazing eyes—they’re golden. And they’re looking expectantly into mine right now. Uh-oh. I think he’s just said something to me.

  “Hi,” I say. “It’s nice to see you in real life.” (Could that sound any lamer?)

  Ethan grins and grabs me in a hug. “I’d wager you’ll take that back before this night is over.”

  Jeremy introduces him to my mom. “My goodness,” she says, “you and Jeremy must be the two most handsome young men in London.”

  Ethan bows. “And it’s easy to see that your beautiful daughter takes after you.”

  My mom giggles. Ethan squeezes Laura’s shoulders as he passes behind her to take his place between her and my mom.

  So now our party looks like four young people and their mother, but somehow my mom always seems to fit in—unless someone mentions sex. Actually, that’s not true. It’s just when Jeremy’s around that she acts like a prude. She may never get over her embarrassment the moment she realized the sex scenes she’d just been gushing about were written by him. Freaked her out big time.

  The appetizer arrives along with another bottle of wine. A minute later, I revise my first opinion of Catalano’s. This restaurant looks nicer, but if the appetizer is any indication, the food is not as good as Luisa’s. I do love this wine though. I breathe it in, quietly swish it around my mouth, swallow, and note the finish. With my limited knowledge, I can’t identify the varietal, but I’m pretty sure I detect cherry and oak and maybe—

  Jeremy slams his hand on the table. “Stop right there, Ethan!”

  What the hell? Ethan’s glaring at Jeremy, and my mom’s the picture of shock. With my mind on the wine, I lost track of the conversation.

  “I’m only telling the truth,” Ethan says.

  “Rubbish. You’re telling your cocked-up version of the truth.”

  “You can’t deny it, Jeremy,” Laura says. “Half of West London knew about you.”

  Crap. Please, someone say something to clue me in.

  Jeremy lays a hand over mine. “Don’t believe a word of this, Chelsea.”

  “Oh. Okay. I won’t.”

  Everyone bursts out laughing, including Jeremy.

  “What’s going on?”

  Jeremy wraps an arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek.

  “Daydreamer’s prank,” Laura explains. “Ethan and Jeremy used to pull it on anyone whose attention wandered.”

  “That was hilarious,” my mom says.

  “Forgive us, Chelsea?” Ethan asks.

  “Yes. And as much as I hate to, I have to admit that was funny. I can only imagine what life here with you two was like.”

  “It was horrid,” Laura says, “just horrid.”

  The gleam in her eyes says she doesn’t mean that at all.

  The rest of dinner is prankless, and the food turns out to be better than I anticipated. Afterward, we walk a few blocks through a small park to a pub Jeremy, Ethan, and Laura seem to know well. Listening to them talk is entertaining in itself. Jeremy’s accent has grown stronger since we arrived in London, and they’re all using slang I’m not familiar with. A couple of times I totally miss the point of what they’re saying, but I don’t feel offended or excluded because I’m sure they don’t even realize they’re doing it. It’s just normal speech to them. But a tiny part of me feels weird witnessing this different Jeremy.

  CHAPTER 7

  Considering where Laura lives and that it’s Saturday morning, it’s a no-brainer that we’re walking the few blocks to the Portobello Road Market, but first we’ll eat breakfast at a place they call Tabernacle.

  Since I want to taste yummy things at the market stalls, I order just a croissant and juice, but Jeremy feeds me bites of his bacon and eggs because he worries I don’t eat enough protein. Isn’t he sweet?

  Jeremy says the market runs for two miles, which makes our Front Street Market lame by comparison. “Will we see the whole thing today?”

  “If you want,” he says. “Just be careful who you’re bumping into, Ms. Cole.”

  Laura frowns at his formality. “Ms. Cole?”

  “One of our early meetings,” he explains, “and the least injurious, I believe, was at the local farmers market. Chelsea sought to get my attention with an elbow to the solar plexus.”

  “I did not. That was an accident.”

  My mom pats my hand. “He’s teasing you, sweetie.”

  It’s totally possible to roll your eyes without moving them. I can only hope she doesn’t ask me to try on some goofy craft clothing at this market.

  After we finish eating, we head out to Portobello Road. By the time we’ve made our way slowly through six blocks of the market, I’m on sensory overload. There are just too many sights and sounds and smells. My dear attentive Jeremy sends Laura and my mom off after something and steers me to a quieter spot a few feet down a side street.

  He brushes the hair out of my eyes and gives me a quick kiss. “Better? Your eyes were glazing over.”

  “Just give me a minute to recharge.” He’s massaging my shoulders when my mom and Laura, bearing gifts, join us. I reach for one of the sugary cakes, and Jeremy smacks my hand away. He gives me a warm cheese and sausage roll and takes the raspberry-colored juice drink for himself.

  “You can have some of this juice after you eat your protein,” he says.

  “Yes, Daddy.” I stick my tongue out at him.

  He looks at Laura, shaking his head. “You think we should take her word that she’s an adult or demand to see a certified birth record?”

  I scarf down my roll as ordered, then reach for the juice bottle, but my brain goes blue screen, and I misjudge the location of my mouth. Most of the juice ends up on the front of my jacket—my white jacket. Three pairs of eyes stare at me in disbelief. Laura takes the bottle from my hand. My mom starts dabbing me with a napkin. Jeremy guffaws. I shoot him a deadly look, but that only makes him laugh more, so I kick him.

  “Ow.” He frowns at me, but he’s struggling not to laugh again. “You have to admit that was—”
/>   “Not funny, Jeremy. And why didn’t you buy water instead of berry juice?”

  “I assure you I would have if I’d known you were going to wear it.” He hugs me—making sure his front doesn’t actually touch mine. “I’m sorry for laughing. Be right back.”

  We watch him until he disappears from view on Portobello Road.

  “We’ll drop your jacket at the cleaners on the way home,” Laura says.

  “I’m sure they can get out the stain,” my mom says.

  “I’m still thirsty.” I reach for the juice. For a second, Laura hesitates, and I wonder if she’s going to hold it and just tip it up for me like I’m a toddler, but after a glance at my chest, she hands the bottle to me. Yeah, what can it matter if I spill it again?

  A minute later, Jeremy sprints toward us with a lime-green scarf in hand. He wraps it around my neck, ties it under my chin, and tries to arrange the ends to hide the stain.

  “You’re strangling me.” I loosen the knot. He’s trying to help, so I stop myself from asking why he chose lime instead of purple or hot pink, which might have camouflaged the stain instead of calling attention to it.

  He frowns as the ends of the scarf refuse to stay where he wants them to. “Well, I tried.”

  My mom pats his shoulder. “And it was an excellent try, dear.”

  “You just can’t take me anywhere nice, right?” I smile and take his arm. “Let’s go. There’s more to see.”

  Okay, so London has a huge population, and even though it’s not quite spring here, some of this crowd is bound to be tourists, so it was freaking me out that Jeremy keeps running into people he knows until I remembered this used to be his neighborhood. Besides “Jeremy,” of course, he’s been hailed as “Pearce” like men usually do, but the one I’ll have to question him about is “Handsome One,” which three guys have called him—and not in a flirting way. He is handsome, but there seems to be an inside joke there or something. Now, someone’s called that out to him again.

  I turn around to see who Jeremy’s talking to, but my eyes never make it that far. They stop on a shop window. Specifically on a dress in that window. I’ve joked about things calling to me—a kick-ass pair of jeans, a chocolate éclair, Coachella tickets, for instance—but I never really felt that experience until now. That dress is calling my name. It’s not a modern dress. I mean, duh, it’s in the window of an antique shop, but it’s sort of classic. Glamorous. Which is not a word I use often, but that’s what comes to mind. It looks like it has two layers—a shimmery, transparent smoky lavender over an opaque lavender—and subtle beading, mostly on the bodice. I love that dress. But it’s not like anything I’ve ever worn before. I mean, it’s not me.