High Tea & Flip-Flops: High Tea & Flip-Flops Series, #1

By Linda Cassidy Lewis

What could mellow SoCal and high-society London possibly have in common?

Chelsea Cole is only one paycheck away from--OMG--moving back to her mother's house, which would really suck because she's trying to catch the eye of the gorgeous Brit who moved into the apartment above hers. Jeremy Pearce is definitely not Chelsea's usual blond and bronzed surfer type. He's all sexy long hair, poet shirts, suede boots, and secrets. Lots of secrets. But how will she get close enough to solve the Jeremy puzzle if she keeps humiliating herself every time he's around? When drawn together by fate and a pizza, they make a pair that's hilarious, sexy, and worth cheering for.

The High Tea & Flip-Flops series consists of three books. Each book is a complete story ... no cliffhangers. However, I suggest you read them in order as the books follow the progression of Chelsea and Jeremy's relationship.

Book 1: High Tea & Flip-Flops
Book 2: Love & Liability
Book 3: Open & Honest (Sometimes)    

• Language: English
• Publisher: Two-Four-Six Publishing
• Release date: Oct 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215856598

Linda Cassidy Lewis

Linda Cassidy Lewis believes life is all about relationships, and her writing reflects that. Born and raised in Indiana, she now lives with her high school sweetheart husband in California where she writes versions of the stories she only daydreamed during the years their four sons were growing up. She lives in the city and is thankful for the gift of imagination that whisks her away to the sea or mountains or countryside whenever she wishes Linda would love to know your thoughts on her books, so please consider leaving a review at your favorite bookseller's site. When you visit her website, don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to stay informed about her future book releases. https://lindacassidylewis.com

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THERE’S NO FRIGGING way I’ve misplaced three of my newest thongs. True, I have a habit of losing things like my keys and sunglasses, and once I even lost track of a Big Mac—which I found two days later in my desk drawer. But I have a specific visual of pulling the cheetah-print thong from the washer this morning.

I developed a better laundry system after my last boyfriend’s precious Blink-182 tee vanished when I forgot it in a washer for a few minutes—okay, for two hours. Now, I always double-check the machines to make sure I never again leave anything behind in the laundry room of the fabulous Ocean View Luxury Apartments.

That name’s a joke, by the way. There’s no view of the ocean from here . . . unless you grab a pair of binoculars and climb to the top of one of the three fan palms planted in front of each of the buildings in this complex. And if apartments built in the ’70s and barely updated since are luxury living, let me die now.

Anyway.

It’s bad enough I had to spend a summer Saturday morning doing laundry. Now this. Where is my missing underwear? Think, Chelsea. Think.

(Yes, sometimes I talk out loud to myself.)

The only other person I saw down there this morning was Jeremy Pearce, my upstairs neighbor. Because he’s British and snooty as hell, I call him Mr. High Tea behind his back. You’d think he’s at least twice my age, which he most certainly is not. I’d say he’s only a few years older, maybe twenty-seven, thirty tops. But is the dude also a perv, a panty thief?

I close my eyes, picture the laundry room, and retrace my steps. Open the washer, scoop out the clothes, and carry them to the dryer. Recheck the washer and collect the little things stuck to the sides, add those to the dryer, go to the change machine, where I silently curse Mr. High Tea because he’s already there. If he empties the machine, I’ll have to kill him.

Uh-oh.

I mentally back up and see two dryers, both with doors standing open. I toss my last handful of things into the closest one. When I come back with change to start my dryer, his is already running—with my panties inside.

Okay. So, he isn’t a thief. But is he a perv?

Ohmygod—one of those things I tossed in was definitely covered in rosebuds. It’s embarrassing enough that I own briefs like those. My mother thinks thong, and even bikini, underwear is indecent. So sometimes, when she shows up at my door with something nice she’s bought for me, the bag also contains a three pack of granny panties. You know the ones that cover every inch of skin up to your waist and come in white or pastels, except one pair is always some stupid floral print? Yeah, those. It turns out they’re more comfortable when I’m on my period, so I keep them. But I don’t want anyone to know I wear them. Especially not Mr. High Tea.

I didn’t get around to folding my laundry for a little while—well, more like five hours, pretty quick for me—so surely he’s noticed the mix-up by now. Why hasn’t he returned my underwear? I have two choices: ask him for them or let it go. But the thongs were brand new and not from the bargain table either. We’re talking Victoria’s Secret good stuff.

What’s really creeping me out is thinking he might be holding one of those right this minute, imagining how I’d look in them. Or worse yet, how I’d look out of them after he slips them over my hips and down my thighs. That image freezes in my mind for a moment, but then I shake it away because it doesn’t creep me out.

Okay. I’ll admit it. A month ago, after I’d watched him come and go for a few days and then introduced myself to him at our building’s mailbox, I indulged in a similar fantasy. And what girl could blame me? He’s gorgeous. Tall and hard-body slim, with intelligent blue eyes and shiny dark hair that hangs past his shoulders, which he pulls back into a tail, though the shorter strands in front always loosen and fall sexily around his face, just begging a girl to brush them away. And ohmygod that accent! Just hearing him say his name heated up my girly parts.

But that was my first impression. That was before he stomped on his floor when I plugged my iPod into the dock and cranked it up. And before I noticed that when he returns my hellos, he never returns my smiles. In fact, most of the time he has this distant look in his eyes, like he doesn’t even see me. And I’m cute, damn it.

Several strangers have mistaken me for some blonde actress I’d never heard of, but I Googled her. We do look a lot alike, except my hair is layered, chin length, and a little curly, and sometimes I add a blue or magenta streak, though I’m kind of liking the platinum trend, so I might go there next. And I think her eyes are darker, more brown than hazel like mine.

Back to Mr. High Tea. His desk sits perpendicular to his bedroom window—you can see that just by glancing up from the sidewalk out front, honest—and if I have my bedroom window open at night, that damn clicking as he types on his keyboard keeps me awake. Lack of sleep is killing me, and that’s his fault. He should have consideration for people like me who have to get up at three when they work the morning shift. (I will never schedule myself for mornings after I become assistant manager because that shift does all the prep before the deli opens, which is at seven so we can serve breakfast sandwiches too.)

Plus, now I’ve noticed irritating details about Mr. High Tea like the way he ties his hair back with a strip of leather. A ribbon. Seriously. What kind of man does that? And he wears these long, loose shirts and boots, and I don’t mean Doc Martens or even cowboy boots. They’re suede. In the summer. In Southern California. And he almost always has that same antique leather-bound book in his hand. I’ll bet he writes poetry, like some Lord Byron wannabe. We have nothing in common.

Anyway.

What about my missing underwear? No way will I let that perverted poet get his rocks off with my panties. Ain’t gonna happen, dude. I toss the empty laundry basket in the general direction of the bedroom closet and march out of my apartment and up the stairs.

I have to knock on his door three times before I hear any movement on the other side. And then I endure a longer than necessary pause while he no doubt looks me up and down through the peephole. When he finally opens the door, it’s only wide enough to show his face in the opening.

Ah, my clamorous neighbor, he says. To what do I owe this interruption?

Poor dude doesn’t know he’s met his match in the snark game. The smile I slip on is as warm as his tone is cold. I think some of my laundry might have gotten mixed up with yours.

Some?

A few small items.

And those would be?

I keep smiling, but my fists clench on their own. Look, dude. You’d know if they turned up in your basket. Did they or not?

Okay. Lost my cool. He wins a half point.

He closes the door in my face. I’ve just recovered from the shock and raised my fist to beat on his door when he opens it again, halfway this time. For a moment, he just stares at me, his face totally without expression. Then he raises his right hand. My panties dangle from his waving index finger.

Quite an interesting selection you have here, he says. The rosebud is my favorite.

I snatch them from him, which causes him to smirk. Crap.

A rather dodgy way to get my attention, don’t you think? he asks.

I have absolutely no desire to get your attention.

For which I shall thank God every day for the rest of my life.

Okay, I’m down at least a full point now. I’ve had enough, but just as I shift my foot to turn away, I notice his eyes. I would have sworn they were blue, not green, not the exact shade of green as ocean waves when caught by the sun, which do show a tint of blue, now that I think of it. Suddenly, the brow above the right green-not-blue eye arches high.

"Do you require something more, Ms. Cole?"

The arrogance in his voice snaps me back to earth. Not from you, Mr. Hi—Pearce.

As I head toward the stairs, I’m aware his door hasn’t closed, and I figure since he’s probably watching my ass anyway, I might as well give him a better look. I stop at the top of the steps, turn my back to him, and pull down my sweats far enough for him to see I’m wearing a hot-pink thong. His door clicks closed, but not before I hear his gasp.

Game tied.

While I’m walking down the stairs, my best friend, Gabi, texts me.

What’s up?

I swear, sometimes it’s like she reads my mind. I tap a reply.

Call me.

My phone rings before I can get my apartment door open.

What’s too important to text? Gabi asks.

"I just had a delightful conversation with Mr. High Tea. I push a couple of magazines and an empty chip bag to one end of the sofa and plop down on the other. Then I relay the whole story, imitating his accent, complete with snark. Can you believe he thought I did that to get his attention?"

From what you’ve told me, he sounds full of himself, Gabi says. I saw him at the mall yesterday. He was sitting in the food court pretending to read, but he was really eavesdropping. So obvious.

He’s weird.

Yeah. And you know that leather book he has? It’s a fake.

A fake? I’m disappointed by this news. How do you know?

When I walked past him, I got a closer look, and the pages were blank.

No way.

I know.

He’s so pretentious. Still, he’s fascinating.

Gorgeous, though.

A waste. Truly, really, horribly a waste. My stomach growls. Hey, are you busy with Mr. Hot Body?

Matt’s at his company’s softball practice, and you know he hates it when you call him that. I’m driving down to Mom’s later, but I’m not busy now. Why?

I skipped lunch. Why don’t you come over and bring me some Carl’s Jr.? I’ll pay you back.

Twenty minutes.

I sit up, slip my phone back in the pocket of my hoodie, and grab the TV remote, hoping I can find a killer movie for us to watch. But Netflix won’t connect. Internet must be down. I switch back to TV, but the only channels I can get are local ones, and even those aren’t tuning in so hot. Damn, cable’s out too. Or maybe it’s not.

I turn off the TV and go to my desk. Riffling through the stack of mail turns up two envelopes from the broadband company, one of them buried at the bottom. I don’t need to bother opening the most recent one. They’ve cut me off.

Damn, Chelsea. Keep neglecting your bills and they’ll revoke your totally useless business degree. The one my mom never lets me forget she’s still paying for. The one I’m supposed to be using to get retail marketing experience so Gabi and I can get going with our plan to start a business together.

When Gabi arrives, instead of using her key, she bumps the door to let me know her hands are full. I take a deep breath and open the door for her, forcing a smile.

She sees through that in ten seconds. What happened now?

Cable’s cut off. I’m sick of being broke.

Pay me for the burger some other time.

It’s not that. I just don’t make enough money at the deli. I need that promotion.

You’ll get it. She hands me the drink carrier. You’re the best worker Barry has. No one can top your awesome party tray skills.

Ha. Ha. I follow her to the sofa.

We can still watch DVDs. Gabi moves the magazines and chip bag to the floor and claims her usual seat. She takes a bag of mint patties out of her purse and lays it on the sofa between us. Dessert.

We agree on A Walk to Remember, one of our longtime favorites, and I start it playing. After a few minutes, I hit the mute button. How do you know he was eavesdropping?

Huh?

Mr. High Tea. How do you know he—

I watched him. He was pretending to read his so-called book and not even turning pages, so what else could he have been doing?

Who was he listening to?

She frowns at me for a second before answering. The girls at the table behind him, I guess. What does that matter? She pops a fry into her mouth. And why do you care?

"I don’t care. I’m just trying to figure him out. That’s my new hobby."

Gabi sips her Coke and gives me a wary look over the rim of her cup.

I’m curious, I say. I mean, what’s he do for a living? As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have a job. Unless he only works the exact hours I do, and it just seems like he’s always here.

"He’s not always here; I just told you he was at the mall yesterday."

You know what I mean. He’s not gone for eight hours like he has a job to go to.

She shrugs. Maybe he’s working undercover.

That’s Gabi for you, jump straight to the drama.

Funny, I say, but then I rethink that possibility. Undercover as what?

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and, just in case I missed that she thinks my question is stupid, she tops off her reaction with a sigh. "He’s not undercover, Chelsea."

"But if he was, what could he be undercover as?"

Gosh, I don’t know—an upstairs neighbor? She grabs the remote and turns the sound back on.

This is something Gabi does that drives me crazy. She starts a conversation and then a minute later loses interest. What if Mr. High Tea is undercover? Maybe that’s why he’s so unfriendly. By trying to talk to him, I could be blowing his cover or screwing up a sting operation or something. And when he’s doing all that typing at night, he could be writing his reports. Gabi has no imagination.

When the movie’s over and we’ve blown our noses and laughed about still crying after all the times we’ve watched it, Gabi gathers all our fast food and candy wrappers and dumps the mess in the kitchen trash. She even grabs the chip bag off the floor on her way. That’s her way of telling me it’s time to clean my apartment. I don’t mean to be a slob. I’m just easily distracted. And seriously, when it comes to either cleaning out the refrigerator or going to the beach, is that even a choice?

I’m surprised when she returns to the sofa, because she has a two-hour drive to her mom’s house. Gabi and her mom get along without drama, not like me and mine, who will never understand why I can’t be normal—and by that she means either start a career or get married and start popping out grandbabies for her. Gabi will probably do both. Not that I’m jealous or anything.

Gabi takes a deep breath. Chelsea, I’m worried about you.

Crap. Not this again.

Why don’t you have a date tonight? And don’t say you weren’t asked because I know better.

Seriously? Erik’s reporting back to you now?

"He’s Matt’s cousin. They talk. I’m not sure Erik will ask you again. I mean, six times you’ve made lame excuses. Six times. He was supposed to help you put Kyle out of your mind forever. Is there something about Erik I don’t know? She grabs my arm. Oh no. Don’t tell me a hunk like that is a dud in bed."

I just didn’t feel like going out this weekend. I’m tired.

Are you depressed?

That question rockets me to my feet. "That came straight from my mother’s mouth, didn’t it? Geez."

She’s concerned, Chelsea. We all are.

All?

Your mother, me, my mother . . . even Matt.

With a groan, I drop back onto the sofa. They’ll be organizing an intervention next. We’ve known each other since sixth grade, Gabi. You should know this is just who I am.

"No, this is not really you, and besides . . ."

Besides what?

You’re older now.

Can you believe this?

You’re telling me I need to grow up? Is your closet filled with sensible shoes now or something?

Chelsea, I—

"Wait a minute. If you’re so mature, that couldn’t have been you who flashed the surveillance camera in 7-Eleven last week, right?"

The memory of that gets us both laughing. When you’ve been best friends since you both got your first bras, you know each other better than anyone else does.

Sorry, she says. I promised your mother I’d try.

I know. Just tell her I’m fine.

You are, aren’t you? I mean, you tell me everything, right?

Of course.

So, why are you so tired?

I worked three opening shifts this week, and I didn’t get enough sleep because of Mr. High Tea’s banging on his keyboard.

"Speaking of, you’re just joking about him being your new hobby, right? I mean, you’re not trying to get his attention. Are you?"

"Ohmygod. He’s, like, forty."

She laughs. He’s not nearly that old. I just don’t think he’s your type.

"You mean I’m not his type."

What’s the difference? Well, she says and stands, I’d better get on the road. My mom will worry if I’m late.

I walk her to the door and we hug. Have a good visit with your mom. Tell her I said hi.

She walks through the breezeway and to the curb before I say, "Hey, Gabi, how old do you think he is?"

She spins back to face me, her eyes wide. Chelsea . . .

Joking, I sing and wave her on.

This time of year, the sun won’t set for another hour and a half, but I’m already yawning as I shut my door. Gabi was right; I could have gone out with Erik tonight. He is a hunk, and he’s not a dud in bed. He just bores me. I don’t even know why. A lot bores me lately. Maybe I need vitamins or something.

I consider the stack of DVDs on the coffee table. Nope. One movie is enough for tonight. I’ll just read until I fall asleep. I lock my doors, turn off the light, and head to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Twenty minutes later, I’ve started and given up on three books. I don’t feel like reading either.

Okay. So maybe I’m not fine.

The truth is I don’t share everything with Gabi. Sometimes I even lie to her. Like tonight. About more than one thing. Mr. High Tea in particular.

I know this is stupid—or is it pathetic?—but I don’t really hate that I can hear sounds from Jeremy’s apartment. Most nights I lie here listening to him type because it’s kind of comforting to know he’s sitting right above my room.

Is that his phone ringing? The typing stops. Now I hear murmuring. I get to my knees so I’m closer to the open window. His voice is clearly audible from above.

Dear God, no, he says. Slowly. Pause. September, I should hope. Pause.

Is there anything more frustrating than trying to make sense of only one side of a phone conversation? Wait! Did he just say murder her? I press my ear against the window screen.

How do you suggest I handle the situation then? Pause. Precisely.

He laughs, but not like he’s amused, and then I hear the rumble of his chair rolling back from his desk. His voice fades away as his footsteps cross the floor above my ceiling. Damn. I lie back down and wait for the typing to begin again.

I made a joke of it with Gabi, but figuring out Jeremy Pearce is my new hobby. Who is he talking to? What could that comment have meant? Surely he wasn’t talking about literal murder.

It’s driving me crazy not knowing what he’s writing. Is it a book I’d like to read? Of course, he could be writing something totally boring like an essay on the sex life of earthworms or something, but I doubt that. He may be snooty, but I have a feeling he’s not boring. Besides, that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I think we have something in common.

Okay. I lied about that too.

I think he’s a lot like me. He stays in his apartment most of the time because