Heart Improvement: A Brooklyn Heights Bachelor Romance

Chapter 23 – Chelsea

“We need to shoot some footage this weekend.”

What’s this about?I think. I look at Scott, trying to project my question, but he just shrugs. 5K a month, I remind myself.

“At your house.”

“No,” I say, at the same time Scott says, “What?”

I try not to glare at him, because Vivien, as always, is watching very intently. But what is he thinking? We were afraid to have Sam and my mom at his, our? Ugh, the house. And Vivien is far more shrewd and scary, than my mom at least. Sam could give her a run for her money if she felt like it.

“We need footage of you two in your own element. Acting all lovey dovey. You know, like people do when they are engaged.”

The emphasis she puts on the last word makes me cringe.

She knows,I think, with a growing sense of dread. Why did I, Scott, we, ever think we could pull this off?

“It’s non-negotiable,” Vivien says, crossing her arms. “We need the footage.”

“Not in our house,” I say desperately. “It’s…sacred. I, we, need some privacy.”

I look at Scott praying he’ll back me up.

He puts his arm around me. Normally that would make my knees weak, but I’m already trembling all over.

“Not the brownstone,” he says.

I breathe out, feeling a little lightheaded.

“How about the Hampton house?”

“What?” Vivien and I say together.

“I own a house in the Hamptons. Mostly to rent, but I’m very picky about who I rent it to. I don’t have a tenant until the end of August.”

He’s looking at Vivien, but I’m sure the explanation is just as much for me.

“What do you think, Chels? They want the footage, but not in our house. We barely go out there anyway.”

“I don’t know,” I stammer out.

The ease at which he’s spinning the lies is unnerving. We barely go out there? I didn’t even know the property existed.

“The convertible’s out there,” he says, turning to Vivien. “Maybe some shots of us driving off in it. Would that work?”

She chews on her lip and nods.

“Longer trip but less of a hassle for parking. It will work. Marie has to approve it though.”

“What do you say, Chels?”

Scott looks at me, projecting the word he can’t say in front of the dragon director. Please.

“Okay.”

I don’t so much say it as emit a sharp high squeak.

Vivien races out of the room, already shouting directions. A different feeling comes over me.

No,I think. It’s enough. I’m done. Even as I think it, I know it won’t be that easy. I really can’t bail on the show now. But the one thing I can do is let Scott know I’m done with being talked into things.

On the way home I do what I think of is ‘Channeling my inner Samantha.’ My take no prisoners attitude. My, ‘I’m mad as…heck and I’m not going to take it anymore’ frame of mind.

“Do you want to come in?” he says as we approach our building. “Talk about the Hamptons. Maybe I should show you some pictures. Just so it’s not totally unfamiliar.”

“Yes,” I say, but I have no intention of looking at pictures.

When we get into the kitchen, he goes right to his computer.

“This is it,” he says, turning the laptop to me. “I’m sure you could make it look way better, but I don’t know if I’m up for replacing everything. Maybe just some accessories?”

I catch a glimpse of the extremely beige rooms and some truly horrible prints on the walls before I stop myself.

“No,” I say, reaching out and closing the laptop.

Laptops really should be able to slam shut, like hard. When I was a kid, my mom would occasionally argue with my aunt Nancy or their mom, my grandma, on the phone. She’d slam the old kitchen phone down. Right now, I’m guessing that was far more satisfying than the gentle click of the laptop.

Scott is frozen. I got him right where I want him. I think. Definitely, says inner Samantha.

“Chels—”

“Nope, I’m talking.”

“Okay.”

I look at him, but that just makes my tongue lock up. He looks completely contrite and like he’s not sure what is going on. I start pacing. Pacing is good. Pacing shows I’m mad, maybe. Well at least I don’t have to look at him.

“I’m mad,” I say finally.

“You’re mad?”

Inner Samantha is laughing at me.

“Yes, I’m mad.”

“Sorry?”

I stop pacing and look right at him. Well, not right at him. At his forehead. If I stare into his eyes…

“What are you sorry for?” I ask him.

“I really don’t know. Sorry.”

“Hmm.”

“Look.” He gets up and starts towards me, changes his mind, and sits down again. “I am sorry if you are upset. But you are going to have to tell me what I did. Because I am confused. I thought I saved us with the Hampton house idea—”

“Saved us?”

“Well, you didn’t want them here, did you?”

“No.”

“So?”

Inner Samantha is stumped. And she, like me, is looking at Scott and knowing she can’t possibly stay mad at him.

I slump down in a chair next to him.

“I’m sorry I got you into this,” he says quietly. “If I had known it would be this hard.”

“It’s not just your fault,” I say miserably. “I wish I had never agreed.”

But then you’d still be schlepping coffee at 5:30 AM,inner Samantha reminds me.

I hate inner Samantha. I put my arms on the counter and flop my head down on top of them. Out of the corner of my eye I see Scott start to put his arm around me, then stop.

“I have what is probably a terrible idea,” he says.

“What?” I say, propping my head up on one hand to look at him.

“If we head out there really soon, and I mean really soon, we can miss some of the traffic.”

I jump up. I know we should talk but the only thing that could make this worse would be sitting in the legendary Long Island traffic to get there.

“Back in ten?” I yell as I run out of the room.

In my bedroom I grab two bathing suits, three pairs of shorts, some tank tops, a sweatshirt, underwear, bras and a nightshirt. I toss in a pair of sandals and zip up the bag. At the last second, I decide to bring a dress. I’ll just hang it off the back of my seat in the truck.

“Huh,” I say, looking at it.

When you don’t have time to pack it isn’t that hard. Who knew? Scott is on the sidewalk when I step outside. He reaches for my bag.

“I got it,” I say, briskly popping up the handle.

“I called ahead for the truck,” he says. “They said they could get it right away. Not a lot of court in session on Friday in the summer.”

“Court?”

“You know, court. On Court Street. Plus, the federal building.”

“Right.”

I have no idea what he is talking about. He rattles off some famous cases that sound vaguely familiar. It’s a safe topic so I just go along with it. We walk briskly to the garage and don’t say a word until we are on the highway.

“We should get there in plenty of time for dinner,” Scott says. “Or do you want takeout?” Do you like Manhattan Clam Chowder? I know a place, it’s the best.”

He gives me the name of the restaurant. I find it on my phone and navigate through the menu while he drives. The traffic slowly begins to dissipate and we finally make it up over forty. Once we are off the highway, he asks if it is okay to turn off the AC and roll down the windows. The breeze has just a hint of the ocean air. When we pull into the restaurant, that is overtaken with the smell of garlic and fried seafood. It’s downright heavenly.

“I’m starving,” I admit as I start to get out of the car.

“Do you want to eat here?”

“But we ordered.”

“I know a park nearby. How about that? You can wait, I’ll get it.”

The park is quiet and we have our choice of picnic tables. One lone dad is on his phone while his son pumps back and forth on the swing.

“Calvin, we have to go now, dinner is almost ready.”

“Five more minutes.”

Scott and I laugh at the same time.

“This one?” he says, pointing to a table.

I nod. He plops the bag on the table and starts unpacking our food.

“I always feel for the only child,” he says.

“I guess.”

“Did you like being an only child?”

No one’s ever asked me that before. I have to think about it.

“I don’t know if I felt like an only child, not much. Myles has three sisters. Jenna, Talia and Erica. They were always jealous of me because I had my own room.”

“Chowder,” Scott says, lifting out a tub. “Oh, crap.”

“What, no spoons?” I grab the bag. I will die if they forgot the spoons. I peer into the bag. “Here.” I say, holding up two spoons triumphantly.

“No, we got a quart. I figured we’d be eating at the house. No bowls.”

“It’s not a problem,” I say, ripping the top off the container.

The smell of garlic and tomato and I guess clams wafts up. I sniff deeply.

“Here.” Scott pulls out a mini baguette and rips off a piece. “Dip.” I am only too happy to follow his instructions. “Well?”

“So good. Or maybe it’s just cause I’m hungry.”

“May I?”

“Of course.”

He slides closer. We polish off the chowder, him joking that he would stick his head in the container, if only it was big enough. Then we share the scallop and shrimp entrees.

“Maybe we should go to the market,” Scott suggests as we pick up the trash. “Get some stuff for breakfast.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Vivien wants us ready to go at eight.”

At the market, Scott grabs a cart.

“There could be absolutely nothing in the house,” he explains. “Usually I bring stuff, but we didn’t have time.”

“No problem,” I assure him.

We meander around the aisles. He stops in front of the soup.

“Hey, isn’t this the soup you like?”

“It’s on sale!”

Two bucks a can. It’s not that exciting, Inner Samantha tells me. Uh, fifty percent off, I remind her.

“You can stock up,” he says.

It’s tempting, but I shake my head.

“Carry it all back from the garage?”

He rests his hands on the edge of the cart and makes his adorable ‘Give me a second to think, I’ll figure it out,’ face.

“I’ll swing by the house and drop you off with it.”

“You don’t have to do that—”

“And the luggage. You’d be doing me a favor.” I hesitate. It’s such a good deal. “Come on, which one is your favorite?”

“Do they have any Manhattan Clam Chowder?”

I’m joking and he smiles. Then he makes a show of inspecting the labels.

“New England,” he says, holding up a can triumphantly.

“Oh, I would put that back if I were you.”

I shove his hand down and let mine linger on his wrist for just a second. Then I look around, pretending to be worried that someone noticed us.

My dad loved watching Boston versus New York baseball games whenever they were on TV. Because as he said, ‘They hate each other.’ When I got older, he told me they used to have brawls when he was a kid. I think that’s why he watched, hoping for a bench clearer.

I explain all that to Scott while we fill the bottom of the cart with soup. It’s really too much, but I’m kind of thrilled about the money I’m saving. Plus, I expect a lot of late nights when I start my classes. A semester’s worth of soup isn’t a bad idea.

We take our time in the bakery picking out some pastries for tonight and some muffins for the morning. When we head to the cash register the cart is full which is ridiculous. I mean, we are only planning on staying the weekend. But when Scott smiles at me I realize I don’t care.

“Good…Scott?”

“Oh. Mary. Hi.”

Mary looks directly at me.

“Hi, I’m Chelsea.”

“Chelsea.”

The way she says it makes my name sound like a curse word.

“Are you guys friends?”

I look back and forth between them.

“Friends,” Mary snorts.

I start stacking the cans on the belt. I hadn’t really given any thought to what the cashier would think about our groceries, but suddenly I’m worrying about it. And Mary has a very judgey look on her face. The way she is staring at me—

“When did you get engaged?”

Oh. That. She’s not staring at the soup, at least not anymore. She’s staring at my finger.

Scott puts his arm around me.

“I asked her in May,” he says.

Mary turns around and starts chucking cans into a bag. They are going to end up all dented. I slip out of Scott’s grasp and head to the end of the belt.

“I’ll bag.”

The silence grows more uncomfortable with each beep the cash register makes. Mary alternates between glaring at my face, the ring and Scott. He pays and I don’t object. I’ll settle up with him at home.

Mary holds the receipt out without saying a word. When Scott reaches for it, she lets it drop.

“Nice to meet—”

“Hi, how are you?”

She smiles at the next customer, but her tone is like ice. I shut my mouth and follow Scott out of the store.

“What was that about?” I say when we are out in the parking lot.

“Later.”

We drive to the house in silence. I sneak looks at him, but he just stares at the road, so I wait. I wait until we bring in all the luggage and groceries and soup. He doesn’t say a word.

He shows me to the guest room, mumbling about how if we just keep the bedroom doors shut the crew won’t notice anything. Then he walks away from me.

I don’t even bother to glance around the room. I just follow him back out to the kitchen.

“Scott.”

“Oh. Do you want dessert? I’m full, but you go ahead.”

I’ve never seen him turn down food. And in the store when I suggested two desserts he said, “But what are you going to have?”

“What I want, Scott, is to know who that was.”

A pained expression crosses his face, but Inner Samantha doesn’t care. She wants answers. Now.

“Scott.”

I deliberately make it sound like a statement instead of a question. If it takes…channeling my internal Vivien, so be it. I want answers.

“My ex-fiancée.”