A Brit Complicated Read online

  A BRIT COMPLICATED

  BRENDA ST JOHN BROWN

  CONTENTS

  Castle Calder Series Book 3

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Thank you

  A BRIT ON THE SIDE

  A BRIT UNEXPECTED

  A Brit Unexpected — Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgments

  A BRIT COMPLICATED

  BY BRENDA ST JOHN BROWN

  Copyright © 2017 by Brenda St John Brown.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition: October 11, 2017

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  A Brit Complicated/ by Brenda St John Brown

  1. Fiction 2. Romance 3. Contemporary

  Summary: A woman and her boss move from indifferent to involved, but it’s not as emotionless as it’s supposed to be.

  Cover design by Okay Creations

  Developmental Editing by Bev Rosenbaum

  Copy Editing by Brianna Lebrecht

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bradley Waring-Smith is a knobhead.

  A fact confirmed by him dropping my draft design docs on my desk with a big red Try Again scribbled across the top. Like I’m an underachieving high school student. He doesn’t even say anything as he strides away, his long legs carrying him back to his glass-walled office, where he surveys us all. We’re the peons and he’s lord of the manor.

  I clench my hands and resist screaming. Barely.

  “Scarlett St Julien, don’t you dare give in.” Tom pushes half of a Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate bar across the two-inch gap separating our desks. “It will only bring you the wrong kind of attention.”

  “You mean I’ll come across as angry as opposed to incompetent?” I take the chocolate bar and break off a square. “I don’t even understand why he moved me to this team if this is what I get from him. Do you know how long I spent on this design?”

  Tom does know because he’s sat at the desk across from me for the past two months since I’ve joined the workplace design team. He’s seen me go through what I call the Stages of Employment: Up Before the Alarm; Two-Coffee Mornings; Four-Coffee Mornings; Running late. Again; Attending the Company Picnic; and Organizing the Company Picnic. It’s kind of like the stages of grief but without inner peace at the end.

  “Read Brad’s comments before you lose it. They might not be that bad.” Tom’s a two-coffee morning kind of guy. I’ve hardly ever heard him swear.

  Which doesn’t make me the ideal colleague. “Do you believe that? Because scrawling Try Again across designs I’ve spent two weeks on is supposed to be fucking motivational?”

  “No, but you know when he does compliment your work he means it.” Tom smiles. He has a good smile, straight white teeth that glow against smooth ebony skin. Most of the time I can’t help smiling in reply.

  But today I won’t be swayed. “The distance between encouragement and downright demoralizing is pretty great. I’m not asking for praise here, just a speck of support.”

  Tom nudges the chocolate bar towards me again. “Have some more chocolate. It might make you feel better.”

  “It won’t.” I take another square anyway and flick through the sheaf of papers. “Tell me again how you’ve been his business manager for five years? You moved here for this company.”

  “Eh. New York isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Tom glances up at my expression and shrugs. “The truth is, Brad’s built an incredible company and even though he’s tough, he’s fair. You prove yourself and the world is your oyster as far as WS Consulting is concerned.”

  Proving myself obviously means something different than what I’ve been doing. But what? I’ve been working twelve hours a day, six days a week for the past two weeks and it’s not enough. I sigh and take another square of chocolate, eyeing Tom across his desk. “When I have a fat arse, I’m holding you responsible. Or him.”

  I twist around to glance at Mr. Waring-Smith. He’s on the phone, looking out over the street below, his back to us. I admire the pull of his dark gray suit jacket across his shoulders. Although Bradley Waring-Smith is a twat – my name-calling game is strong – he is something to look at. Black wavy hair, perpetual five o’clock shadow dotting his olive skin, dark brown eyes, and an undoubtedly killer physique beneath those tailor-made suits. He’s not movie-star handsome – his nose is a tiny bit too hawkish and he could use a brow trim – but he’s sexy as hell. If he had half a personality to match, I’d work my twelve hours a day happily.

  Because, of course, he logs all the hours I do and then some. I come in before eight, he’s already on the phone. I pack up after the cleaners have come and gone, he’s focused on the giant computer screen in front of him or scrawling in a notebook. Sure, he disappears to the gym most afternoons, but it’s probably the only time he sees daylight.

  It’s also the only time the office lets its collective hair down. People laugh, linger over the kettle in the kitchen, and talk about footie scores or weekend plans. From two to four p.m., we’re free to be human. Not that there’s an explicit rule against it, but it’s implied. WS is one of the top architectural and interior design firms in the U.S. and it’s not going to break into the London/European market with a bunch of slackers sailing the ship now, is it?

  I turn to Tom, who’ s back to his keyboard. “So, proving myself? How does that work? Because I thought I was doing that.”

  Tom stops typing and looks at me like he’s trying to decide how honest he should be. “Review the notes he’s made on your designs, then ask for a meeting so you can discuss his comments and how they align with your vision. Brad moved you up to the workplace design team and gave you responsibility for the meeting rooms because he thinks you’re capable, but if you incorporate his feedback at the expense of your unique perspective, then what’s the point of having you on the team? He could have done it himself and next time around he will.”

  Well. Tom decided to be very honest. Ouch.

  He lowers his voice. “Look, you have a real opportunity here. Take it.”

  I let out a long breath. I know Tom’s right. But every fiber of my being protests Bradley’s approach. I’ve read books on management and have had other bosses – including my own mother – but none have made me as frustrated as Bradley Waring-Smith. It’s not like I
’m fifteen and cowed by authority. Hell, Bradley Waring-Smith is less than ten years older than me. I’ve slept with men older and more powerful than him. But they weren’t men I wanted to impress.

  Which is the crux of it. Even if I don’t earn his praise, I want Bradley Waring-Smith’s respect. Or at least enough of his respect to get promoted. I pick up the sheaf of papers on my desk. I’m going to follow Tom’s advice to the letter, which means cooling off and addressing these suggestions one by one.

  Starting with ignoring the red Try Again at the top and diving into his actual comments, which, after an initial scan, focus on aesthetics like materials and practicalities like cost and supply. His comments, though red-penned and plentiful, are straightforward, and by the time I’ve gotten through the whole document I’m nodding in agreement.

  A fact that doesn’t escape Tom, who grins at me when I look up and says, “Feeling better, Snow White?”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony. The shoe fits.”

  “Which dwarf are you today then? Dopey?” Tom and I almost have a script for this and, while I usually play along, now I need to focus on other things. “Never mind. Question for you, where would you get silk from if you were the one sourcing it?”

  Tom goes straight into work mode. “A lot of people would go to Peregi because they’ve got the name recognition, but I’d check out the Textiles Co. over in Shepherd’s Bush. They’re not as upmarket, but they’re competitive and they’ve got an incentive scheme. What are you using it for?”

  “I think it will add a certain flair as a wall covering in the conference rooms.” Tom opens his mouth but I continue. “Especially if it’s hand painted.”

  “You’re going to paint silk?” Tom asks. “That sounds expensive. What makes it a better option than wallpaper?”

  “Clients come in expecting a level of luxury and if we take them to meeting rooms with flowered wallpaper and rosewood tables, they’re going to go somewhere else. I know I would.” I glance at my computer screen. “The WS logo is green and white. Not my favorite color combo, but when it’s cream-colored silk with leaves and blossoms, it’s not so bad. Plus, it’s very Japanese, which lends itself to more interesting furniture and accessories.”

  Tom nods. “Is that how you’ve positioned it in your design brief?”

  Well, no. And having talked it through, I see what my original was lacking. I still don’t think it warrants a red-penned Try Again, but what I’ve got could be a lot better.

  I stick my lower lip out a little in a pout. “Don’t you dare say ‘I told you so’ or I’ll tell Tara you lurve her.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Tom’s tone is guarded and I’m not sure if it’s because he thinks I’d do it or he doesn’t like me teasing him about his crush on my roommate in our open-plan workspace. At the pub on a Friday night is one thing, and I immediately look around. No one’s listening or paying us any attention that I can tell.

  “I wouldn’t. I’m just being hateful.” I give a simpering smile. “Please accept my apologies.”

  “On one condition.” Tom raises a brow. “You and your gorgeous roommate come to the protest march tonight.”

  “The protest march?” I know what he’s talking about. I’d have to be deaf and blind not to. Social media is in an uproar about the contracts the U.K. government has with a company that’s taking a lot of heat for human rights violations. Six p.m. outside Downing Street. “I won’t be done with work by then.”

  “This is important. Make an exception.” Tom raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Why? I mean, I think the whole thing is terrible, but it’s not my problem.” I shrug.

  Tom stares at me. “Not your problem? Please say that again so you can hear how self-centered that sounds.”

  “You know I didn’t mean it that way.” My words come out in a rush and I feel the pink rise in my cheeks. Talk about acting like a knobhead. “I’m not that awful.”

  “Prove it, Snow White.” Tom gives me an evil grin and he taps his fingers on his desk.

  My lips twist with the effort not to smile. Damn Tom and his ideals. And the fact that he’s been nice to me from the minute I walked in the door and doubly nice since I took up residence across from him. He’s senior to me, part of Bradley’s inner circle, and way more competent than I’ll ever be. He could make my life hell, but he hasn’t. He wouldn’t. Because of course he’s also a better person than I am in at least ten different ways.

  Eleven, counting tonight’s protest.

  Dammit.

  I flick my phone on and text Tara. Hey, what are you doing tonight? Want to come shout at the PM with me and Tom?

  I hear her phone ding across the room and she glances up, nodding as she catches my eye. Two seconds later her thumbs up comes through and I sigh.

  I glance up at Tom and nod. “Looks like we’re going to a protest march. I guess it’s good I wore flats today.”

  “Almost as if it were meant to be.” Tom’s smile widens.

  Finally, I laugh. In the long list of things that are meant to be, this is so not one of them. It’s not even on the list.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tom holds my elbow and I link my other arm through Tara’s. It should be Tom holding onto Tara, considering the crush he has on her, but it’s so crowded, I don’t dare shuffle around.

  “I told Claire we’d meet her and Greyson by Horse Guards Parade and we can walk down from there.” My voice is loud, almost yelling over the sound of steel drums and chanting. Normally I keep quiet about my closest friend and her hot Hollywood actor boyfriend, but if they’re here, they’re not concerned with privacy.

  “You do realize there are thousands of people here?” Tom looks dubious and I don’t blame him. Finding anyone, even Greyson Vaughn, is going to be like looking for a polar bear in a snowstorm in this crowd.

  “Look for a gorgeous guy being hounded for his autograph,” I say.

  “Are you kidding? I’m a huge Star Fleet fan. I know who Greyson Vaughn is, but I’m not sure that will help,” says Tom.

  Tara yanks my arm. “Is that him?” She points to our right.

  I strain to see, but all I see are heads bobbing up and down to the beat as the crowd works its way down the street. “I can’t tell. Let me call Claire.”

  I slip my phone from my bag and dial Claire. She answers on the third ring. “Hey. Where are you? We’re right near the gate.”

  I swivel my head around. “We’re right near the gate, too.”

  “Okay, I’m waving. Can you see me?” Claire’s voice muffles. “Hey, love, wave so Scarlett can find us.”

  “So it’s love now? Oooh la la.” I smile and look up, seeing two hands raised about ten meters in front of us. “I see you. Stay there and we’ll be right over.”

  “Where?” asks Tom.

  “Over there.” I follow Tara’s lead as she weaves through the crowd, dragging Tom forward until he’s by my side. “You know, I’ve been thinking, in exchange for coming here tonight, are you going to help me finalize my designs?”

  Tom narrows his eyes at me. “I thought you were here out of social consciousness and the goodness of your heart.”

  “I am. But I’m mostly here for you.” It’s the truth, even if I’m not supposed to say it.

  Tom looks like he wants to say a million things, but he settles for, “Well, I appreciate it.”

  “Hey, no work talk, you two,” Tara says, poking me in the ribs with her elbow. “I had a shit day and I’m looking forward to screaming my lungs out. I don’t need any more ammunition.”

  “We’re not talking about work. We’re talking about Scarlett’s lack of social conscience.” Tom smiles, but there’s no joking in his tone.

  Tara, my old friend, roommate, and now coworker, has never struck me as very socially conscientious either. But then she says, “It’s her privilege showing. It was going to come out so
oner or later.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” My tone is straight up defensive.

  “You’re white, upper middle class, and there’s a whole host of things you’ve never had to worry about because of it.” Tara shrugs. “It doesn’t mean there’s no hope for you, but awareness is kind of the first step.”

  “Wow.” I stop in the middle of the crowd. “Have you always had such a low opinion of me or is this something new?”

  “I don’t have a low opinion of you or we wouldn’t be friends, let alone roommates. But truthful things are truthful.” Tara shrugs again and says, “A lot of people see someone with brown skin and make assumptions. When you grow up with those assumptions, you recognize pretty quickly when someone hasn’t had the same experience because their set of assumptions are totally different.”

  “Like what?” I wish I didn’t sound scornful, but I did. I do.

  “Easiest example, when you get on an airplane, people nod and smile. When I get on an airplane, people assume I might blow it up, and if not me, then one my brothers.” Tara’s eyes dare me to challenge her.

  But I can’t. She’s right. I still remember our Art History trip to Italy when we were in sixth form. Tara and her twin brother got pulled aside at passport control and questioned for so long we thought they’d miss the flight. Tariq had gotten on the plane madder than a bee in the bottom of a wellie, but Tara had just been resigned.

  “I know.” I sigh and nod. “Point taken. I’m an asshole.”

  Tom, who’s been quiet during this whole exchange, pipes up and says, “Nah. If you were really an asshole, you’d have stopped listening by now.”

  “And you wouldn’t be here fighting the good fight.” Tara yanks me forward. “Buck up, sister. You could still be at work.”

  True that.

  “Who says ‘buck up?’ Have you been taken over by a sixty-year-old man? Because, if so, I’m going to have to rethink our roommate situation.”

  “It’s Tara-speak,” says Tom. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You know I speak English better than you do.” Tara laughs. “I am fully versed in the Queen’s English as opposed to that rubbish from the colonies.”