Give Love a Chai (Common Threads Book 2) Read online

  Give Love a Chai

  Common Threads Book #2

  Nanxi Wen

  www.smartypantsromance.com

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

  Copyright © 2021 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Made in the United States of America

  Ebook Edition:

  978-1-949202-74-8

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue—6 years later

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Weights of Wrath by M.E. Carter, Cipher Office Book #4

  Also by Smartypants Romance

  Author’s Note

  Content Warning

  When I started writing this book, one of my goals was to ensure that the characters are relatable. Some parts of the book are very much fictional, but many parts are grounded in experiences that I’ve had, or my friends or family have had, including events, habits, places, etc. Some of these experiences are hopefully light and funny, and some are not.

  With that, I want to call out that this book contains sensitive topics that may be triggering for some of you, such as pregnancy and miscarriage. I have tried to treat the experiences with care. A huge thank you to my sensitivity readers who provided thoughtful feedback. Anything that I got wrong is on me, and I apologize in advance.

  Thank you,

  Nanxi

  Chapter One

  Tia

  November 1, 2009 (never sent)

  Dear Andrew,

  I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Where did you go?

  Hatefully not yours,

  Ting

  I really needed to pee. The more I thought about how much I needed to pee, the more I had to. I started to fidget in the small driver seat of my rental car. As if I wasn’t already a complete weirdo, sitting in a tiny lime green Beetle (the only car left at the rental place), wearing sunglasses and a hat to hide my face even though it was cloudy outside.

  I squinted at my empty tea cup and debated peeing there, instead of getting out of the car. Knowing myself though, I would make a giant mess. Or get arrested for mooning. Probably both.

  Somehow, I doubted the police would understand why I was stalking a townhouse in downtown Chicago for hours on a Saturday in mid-October. In fact, that would guarantee a mugshot for me.

  Taking a giant breath, I opened the car and nearly fell on my face. Four hours and thirty-six minutes of being squished in a car had lulled my legs to sleep. Luckily for me, the street was pretty quiet, and only a judgy five-year-old had seen me flailing to regain my balance.

  Or, unluckily me? The little Judge Judy wannabe tugged on his mom’s hand. “Mommy, what’s she doing? Why is she walking weird? Mommy, Mommy, Mommmmmy!”

  Wringing out the pins and needles in my legs, I shot the poor kid a death stare. He stared back, confused. “Mommy, why is she making that face? Did she go poop? Does she have a diaper like baby George? Mommy?”

  Okay, so my death stare needed some work. The poor mom threw me an apologetic smile and hustled her kid along. I was almost jealous of them, going to wherever they were going.

  I shook out the last of the inertia from my legs. As if I were taking steps for the first time after an injury, I forced my legs to move toward the red door in front of me.

  I knew he was inside. I had seen him go out earlier for a run, in casual shorts and a long-sleeved shirt. Forty-five minutes later, he’d returned, sweat curling his black hair around his neck and making his shirt cling to a body that obviously had never taken a cheat day. I had seen a tantalizing glimpse of toned abs as he stretched his arms over his head, before I covered my eyes in guilt.

  Unless he had climbed out a back window or run away via a basement tunnel, I was ninety-nine percent sure that he was still inside. The remaining one percent still couldn’t believe that he was this close.

  Wincing, I knocked on the door, the sound so jarring that I whispered “Shhh” to the inanimate object. After a quick heartbeat, my courage completely failed me, and I turned to flee. When the door flung open behind me, I jumped like a startled rabbit.

  “Ting?”

  His voice was deeper. That was my first thought after my brain started working again. Something forbidden and forcefully buried responded to that baritone. A rush of emotions overwhelmed me, like a physical force so strong I had to close my eyes to try to fight it off. I didn’t have the time or the desire or the strength to wade through the tidal wave now. I couldn’t get lost in him and lose myself.

  Again.

  His footsteps sounded behind me, coming closer. Was it too late to run away?

  “Ting?” he repeated. His voice was right behind me. If I leaned back, I would fall against his chest. Not that I wanted to, of course. Liar.

  I turned around cautiously, preparing myself. His chest was broader than I remembered. We had both gained a few pounds since I had last seen him ten years ago, but whereas mine had gone to my booty, his was clearly all muscle. My gaze traced up his chest to his neck, searching for the left dimple. Andrew let me peruse him slowly, holding himself unnaturally still, waiting for me to say something.

  Memories upon memories of Andrew blurred into the man in front of me. Nine-year-old Andrew teaching me to fish, and when I hadn’t caught anything after four Saturday mornings, announcing that he would catch enough fish to feed me. Andrew brushing away my question when I asked about the hole in his sneakers. Teenage Andrew flashing a private smile for me in the hallways between classes, encouraging me during my awkward teenage years. He had once been my lifeline and the source of all of my adventures.

  Yet, here he stood—almost a stranger. Except for the familiar, piercing gray eyes that looked too deep within me and rarely gave anything away.

  When my gaze finally reached his face, I could see his eyes widen before quickly slamming into neutral. I couldn’t help letting out a small gasp, as every part of me was screaming to run. Run home to Boston, run home to my safe apartment with the weighted blankets and pints of Ben & Jerry’s, run away from this man who had defined my past. Despite the warnings in my head, my traitorous legs took a step toward him.

  A second step.

  Stupid legs, ignoring my head, that delivered me to him until there was no air between us. Despite the chilly autumn d
ay, heat radiated from him to my greedy body.

  Because it would be too much even for me to just stand there and breathe his warmth in, I gave him a quick squeeze around the waist and jumped back. “Hi, Andrew, hi!” I waved cheerily, as if a day had separated us instead of ten years.

  Ten years, one month, twelve days, and a few hours, but who was counting?

  Head tilted slightly to one side and brows furrowed, Andrew asked, “This is a surprise. What are you doing here? How do you know where I live?”

  “From a friend who knew a friend,” I responded vaguely to his second question. I didn’t admit that this friend of a friend of a friend was a private detective that I had hired. Because nothing screamed “run away” than knowing your ex hired a professional to track you down.

  As for his first question—what was I doing here? When I had left ten years ago, I had promised myself that he was not going to be part of my life anymore. I thought I had taken steps, painful steps, to extract myself from him.

  Yet here I was—one shocking phone call, lots of freaking out, an impulsive plane ride, a car ride, and a few hours of stalking his door later.

  Which reminded me. “Um, can I use your bathroom?”

  Whatever he expected me to say, that was not it. He glared at me for a few seconds to see if I was serious. Thankfully, before I had to start hopping up and down, Andrew gestured toward his still-open door. I did not wait for him to follow before sprinting inside.

  A few minutes later, I had run out of excuses to hide in his bathroom. I could only wash my hands for so long before he became suspicious, if he wasn’t already. Sighing, I finger-combed my straight black hair and pulled it into a low ponytail. Brown eyes stared back at me, looking huge in the reflection. I had been too much of a mess to put on makeup that morning before I headed to the airport. Not that I was trying to make an impression.

  I didn’t care what Andrew Parker thought.

  Not anymore.

  Still, I put on some lip balm before I could think too much about why and opened the door. Andrew sat by the little island in his kitchen, hands gripping a beer.

  Huh.

  I had never seen him drink alcohol before. Unlike pretty much everyone that I knew, he had been very intentional about not engaging in underage drinking. It made me sad to think about all of the changes that I missed, moments that I had expected to be part of if he hadn’t pushed me away.

  Now, I was getting angry. I held on to that anger. Anger was easy. Anger had carried me through the first few months after he had betrayed me, especially when I was railing against the world in those awful days in the hospital.

  Oblivious to my anger, he looked up. “You still smell like those fruity Lip Smackers you used to love, Ting.” His gray eyes roamed over me. A single dimple flashed at me, as his lips tugged to one side.

  I couldn’t believe he still remembered my fondness for Lip Smackers. I had been using them since I first immigrated to the United States from China and discovered them in the aisle of some supermarket. I was the only person over the age of ten that still used them, but I was loyal to what I liked. Unlike Mr. Cool in front of me. “I don’t go by Ting anymore. It’s Tia now.”

  “When did you decide that?” Andrew asked, unfurling himself to standing. His six feet two inches of muscles towered over me. The large kitchen suddenly felt small. Andrew the man had a presence that overwhelmed me in a way that Andrew the boy had never.

  “Almost ten years ago when I needed a fresh start. I wanted a name that helped me to fit in,” I said, daring him to say anything.

  His only response was the tightening of his shoulders. I couldn’t tell if he was reacting to my dig about a fresh start, or to me changing my name after years of him encouraging me to keep my given name. When we first met twenty years ago, we had bonded over not fitting in. As much as he told me “screw them” when our classmates made fun of my foreign-sounding name, my faint accent, or squinted their eyes while saying “konnichiwa” despite my protests that I was from China, I had cared too much. My name was the part of me that was the easiest to change.

  “Okay, Tia,” he started, letting my name roll over his tongue, as if testing how it felt. “Why are you here?”

  I looked into his face, so achingly familiar that I could have drawn his features from memory. I let myself feel the full weight of sadness, bitterness, and regret wash over me. Andrew Parker was my past, an anchor that I hadn’t even realized was holding me back. I needed to move forward now.

  In a voice that sounded stronger than I felt, I said, “I want a divorce.”

  Chapter Two

  Andrew

  September 19, 2008

  Dear Ting Ting,

  I miss having my best friend around every day. There—I shared my feelings. Now, you can’t complain that I never tell you what I think.

  I went to a party yesterday, and I’ve been eating lunch and dinner with some of the guys in my dorm. It’s freeing not having anyone know about my dad. I can’t wait until you’re at college with me next year. I can feel it, next year will be our year.

  Yours,

  Andrew

  Fuck. What?

  After weeks spent traveling for work, I had been looking forward to a weekend of nothing. Some working out. Some vegging in front of the TV. Lots of takeout and sleep. I was not expecting to see Ting, um, Tia, trying to run away from my door. Or standing in my kitchen, smelling like piña colada, and looking smoking hot.

  Demanding a divorce.

  Ten years ago, she had been cute in an approachable way. Today, she was all woman—

  curvy, full pouty lips, and smooth-skinned. Despite how much she had changed, she still blushed easily. Right now, her face was flush with color, and I was very curious to see how far the blush extended. She had all of my attention. By all, I mean all parts of me were aware of her.

  “Andrew, I need you to sign these papers.” Tia waved a stack of documents in my face. “Now.”

  I shook my head in confusion. Tia must have mistook the gesture to mean that I refused to sign, because she started to look pissed. “Look, Andrew, you owe it to me. I mean, you were happy to do it the first time. Why—”

  Out of years of habit, my hands reached for hers. Bad idea. She dropped the papers in shock, leaving just her warm hands in mine. Her fingers were soft, yet I also knew they were strong from years of playing the piano. Her awkward hug earlier had caught me by surprise. It was so quick and separated by so many layers of clothing that I didn’t have time to respond. This time though, her bare hands in mine did something to me. I wanted to pull her closer. I wanted to see if her lips would taste as sweet as before.

  I was a fool.

  My Ting—damn—Tia was asking for a divorce. Wait, what the … “Aren’t we already divorced?”

  At my words, she snapped and yanked her hands away. My hands felt the loss.

  “No!” She glared at me in accusation, as if I had done something sneaky. “There was some sort of filing error that my new lawyer just told me about. I was … distracted during the whole process before. I must have missed something. It was a busy time.”

  Tia looked guilty. She may have grown and changed in ways that I didn’t fully understand, but she still sucked at hiding her feelings. Even though she tried to hold my gaze, her face was bright red, and her hands fidgeted with nonexistent dust on her jeans. I didn’t blame her for being distracted or too busy all those years ago. Hell, I had buried myself in school, my part-time job, anything that came my way, just so I wouldn’t go mad thinking about her.

  Besides, it was my fault that I didn’t even confirm the divorce. When she texted, “It’s done,” I had no reason to question her then. Our marriage was over.

  Except, I guess, not.

  “What do we do now?”

  My question was met with more waving of those damn papers. I grabbed the stack from her and skimmed through. Typical divorce verbiage, except this was about me. My name was on the contract. The most signific
ant relationship of my life was classified as: Irretrievable Breakdown of Marriage. I finally understood why my clients often ignored my suggestion to stay objective.

  While I skimmed, Tia asked, “Do you need a lawyer? I can refer you to some in Chicago. My lawyer has a bunch of people he knows in the area. Do you want the list? Do you want to call some of them? I bet one of them works weekends. Or maybe you could leave a message—”

  “I’m a lawyer,” I said simply.

  “Really?” Surprise laced the word.

  “Really. Not as much of a delinquent as you expected?” I asked, trying to infuse amusement into my voice. It surprised me how much her disbelief stung.

  If tomatoes could sunburn, that was Tia. She looked down and said to her socks, “I never thought that. I didn’t laugh when you said you were thinking about college. I made you flashcards for the SATs and dragged you to college fairs. Remember?”

  I remembered.

  She may have thought that she left. I knew the truth. Even as my heart beat for her, I had pushed her away. Who would want to be with the son of a criminal who had nothing to offer? I couldn’t even fulfill her request to open up. Because what if Tia had discovered that there was nothing inside, or worse, she saw signs of the same rottenness as in my dad?