A Brit Complicated Read online

  “This one is legit and I need your advice. Where the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I’m on my way to the new office with Bradley.” Does my voice change when I say his name? I don’t think so, but I angle my head more towards the window.

  “And how is Mr. Walking-Sex?” Tara at least has the wherewithal to lower her voice. A little.

  “Seems fine.”

  I take a breath to continue, but Tara cuts me off. “I heard from Amalie he’s looking very doable today. You might want to get on that.”

  Already did, my friend. Already. Did.

  Aloud, I say, “I’ll see what I can do. I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you at the flat at eight. I’ll grab food on the way home. Is Thai okay?”

  “Only if you get prawn penang from Siam. Otherwise, let’s get pizza from Gino’s.”

  “Gino’s, it is.” I glance up as Bradley slows. Shit. We’re here. “I’ve got to fly. See you tonight.”

  “Don’t forget what I said about Mr. WS,” Tara calls as I take the phone away from my ear to press end.

  Not fast enough for Bradley not to hear, though. He raises an eyebrow as he turns into the car park behind the future office building. “Do I even want to know what that was about?”

  “Nope.” I don’t know how Bradley would react to being called Bradley Walking-Sex – I have a feeling he might laugh – but I doubt he’d appreciate that Tara and I have talked about him that way.

  He gives me a look I can’t interpret as he eases the car into a space, but doesn’t push the subject. Instead, he opens his car door and is out in one smooth movement. Before I can even gather my bag, he’s opened my car door and I look up in surprise. “Chivalry, too, Mr. Waring-Smith?”

  “As I keep telling you, Ms. St Julien, we aim to please.” He gives me a smile that – any other time – would make my stomach swoop. Today, though, my stomach’s filled with butterflies that have descended there en masse. Because Bradley Walking-Sex or not, he’s still my boss and he has high expectations of my new ideas. Problem is, I’ve still got nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Thank God Anthony greets us as soon as we walk through the door and ferries Bradley upstairs to check something about placement of vents for the heating. It gives me time to escape to the meeting rooms and stare at the blank walls. Which are no more inspiring than they were last week. It’s enough to make me bang my forehead on the mantle of the fireplace in frustration.

  I stay bent at the waist and stare at my shoes, hoping my LK Bennetts can provide some inspiration. They’re nice shoes – black peep-toe stilettos with a small bow at the back. Truth be told, that bow is what sold me. Well, that and the fifty percent off.

  I’m still admiring my shoes when my phone buzzes from inside my bag. I debate ignoring it, but a conditioned response is a conditioned response. When I click the button, it says I have a message from Jasper. I haven’t heard from him since Saturday and, oh, how things have changed since our last conversation. I’m reluctant to even click through to the message because if I don’t I can pretend I didn’t flagrantly ignore his advice.

  My phone buzzes again, twice in rapid succession. All from Jasper. Crap. It’s not like him to text me two times in a row, let alone three. I click through to my app and see a black and white photo of a woman in a long black dress standing in front of the Coca Cola Museum. The next message is a black and white photograph of an old man wearing a battered Atlanta Braves cap, his mouth open in a wide smile and both hands raised in the air. Jasper’s last text reads: At the High Museum. The woman in the photograph is in my grad school program. The man makes me think of Dad in 30 years when Bradford wins the league. You’ve probably seen these, but I thought you’d appreciate that I thought of you. And I’m out of the lab at a museum. – J xx

  I grin at my phone and start to reply, but somehow I swipe up and end up staring at the old man in the Braves cap. I can’t help but smile. He looks so happy. Cynical me thinks it must have been in the glory years, when the Braves were in the World Series all the time, but maybe not. Maybe he’s just happy that his favorite player scored a run. Some Braves fans are like that. Bea’s ex was. He thought it was a great game even if they lost by a couple and Bea and I would both be like, “But you realize they still lost, right?”

  I shake my head and scroll back down to text Jaz, but an idea strikes me with such force I’m almost dizzy with it. In fact, I have to lean against the fireplace, but this time I’m not admiring my LK Bennetts. I’m looking around the room, trying to imagine what it would look like, how it could work. Because it could work, I think. I mean, it’s not interior design in the way I think Bradley was imagining, but it’s unique. It’s better.

  I pull my notebook out of my bag and start sketching, and I’m so engrossed I don’t even hear Bradley come in until his voice purrs in my ear. “You look–” He pauses for a second. “– electrified.”

  I twirl around on my heel. “Oh my God, I had the most incredible idea.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Let’s focus each room on scenes from different areas in London. We can take photographs of local sights, both well-known and not, but the centerpiece will be a person from that place. Like if we have photos from around Borough Market, Bess is our featured portrait. Another room could be dedicated to Greenwich and our portrait could be the guy who owns the comic book shop at the edge of the market. I’m thinking the photographs could be done straight up, but the portraits could be more artistic, kind of along the lines of Annie Leibowitz. We could set it up like New York Stories and include a poster with the person’s story next to the photograph, and if we want to be extra-savvy we can do some cross-promotion as well. Make sure we have business cards for everyone we choose and offer samples if it’s feasible.”

  Bradley nods, his hand on his chin. “Talk me through this room.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” I flash a wide smile. “Let’s say this is the Borough Market room. There’s room for four good-size photographs, in addition to the portrait. We’ll have to spec the photographs, but off the top of my head, for the larger photos I’m thinking of the grilled cheese place, the food stalls outside with people queuing for lunch, maybe one of the veg stalls. Then on the big wall, a portrait of Bess standing behind her table full of brownies, except I’d paint her apron and give her some blue skies with clouds because she’s so cheerful all the time. For our grand opening, we could invite her – and all the people we feature. It would be an amazing way to show we’ve taken the time to get to know the community, too.”

  Bradley’s head swivels around the room, as if he can see it. Last week, I would have assumed he was calculating the best way to shoot down my idea and I’d have been defensive and a little bit cranky when he asks, “And how does this represent WS?”

  Today I’m ready for it. “It doesn’t. But it represents the company’s ties to the community, which I think is even better. We could even choose so each room emphasizes WS’s partnership with the community and commitment to social issues. For example, I found out that Bess donates brownies to the women’s homeless shelter in Southwark. The Brixton pottery guy runs an apprentice program for at-risk youth, which you’d endorse, I’m sure. The people who walk through the door are already impressed enough with WS to consider doing business with us and partnership becomes part of the sell. You say it in your pitch to prospective clients anyway. This is a way to walk the walk.”

  Bradley nods again and takes another visual spin around the room. His expression is neutral, which is par for the course. Although having glimpsed the man beneath the façade, I know he’s way more expressive than I’ve given him credit for. Especially when he… “I like it. I like the way you’ve tied your idea into the ethos of the company, as well as the way you’ve put a unique spin on a typically trite idea.”

  Ouch. There’s the dickhead I know and loathe. Lest I think sleeping with the boss is going to change him. “Well, thank you for that ringing endorsement.”

>   Bradley looks stunned. “What? I said–”

  “I know what you said, but it’s a backhanded compliment when you say it that way. You could communicate the exact same thought by saying something like, ‘I like the way you’ve put a unique spin on the idea.’”

  “But that is what I said. I like the way you’ve made the idea your own. I assume you’ll be doing the artwork, and I look forward to you showcasing your abilities because I have no doubt the result will be fantastic.” Bradley stops talking and gives me a pointed look.

  “Well…” Bloody hell. Was that a compliment? And what do you say, Scarlett? My mother’s voice chastising ten-year-old me is as loud as if she were standing next to me. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to the challenge.”

  “One question, though.” Bradley smiles and it grows as he says, “Are you sure this whole thing isn’t just an excuse to have a regular stock of Bess’ brownies on hand?”

  I laugh and the knot in my chest unravels. It tightens up ever so briefly when I realize Bradley and I have a shared joke, but we had that joke before Saturday. It has nothing to do with us sleeping together, though my response has everything to do with it. I take a step closer – still an acceptable distance away in case anyone’s passing by – and murmur, “It’s more of an excuse for a repeat of earlier. After all, I might require supervision.”

  “I see.” Bradley’s face gives nothing away as he says, “I’m sure Tom would be happy to accompany you if necessary.”

  “But I don’t want to end up on Tom’s dining room table with his head between my legs.” I brush by Bradley, letting my fingernails graze the back of his hand as I head for the door. “That’s the difference.”

  Bradley’s laugh is loud and full as it follows me down the hall. I could get used to that sound. It beats the alternative, which is Bradley Way-Too-Serious.

  Who I don’t see another glimpse of the rest of the afternoon. Bradley’s easygoing and his phone stays tucked away in his jacket pocket as we wander through Fortnum and Mason, trying biscuits and smelling tea. My mouth waters as we wander through the fresh food section, and I say, “I’m going to have to get some balsamic to take home. There’s nothing better than expensive balsamic vinegar.”

  “Nothing?” Bradley raises an eyebrow.

  “Well, relatively speaking.” I grin up at him and he moves closer, putting his hand on the small of my back. There’s nothing sexual in his touch at all. In fact, it’s…nice. The thought unnerves me enough to want to change it up right now. “I wonder how I’d like it if I licked it off you. Better or worse than, say, whipped cream?”

  “I’m game for either. You had me at lick.” Bradley grins but doesn’t move his hand.

  And I don’t move away. From that point forward, some part of us is always touching. His hand grazes mine. My fingers circle his wrist to get his attention. That hand on my back. It’s like we’re…together.

  By the time Bradley’s chosen a gift for his mom and sorted shipping, it’s 4:30 when we walk out the front door, back onto Piccadilly. Bradley hands his ticket to the valet, pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, and for the first time in hours, he’s the old Bradley Waring-Smith.

  On another day, I wouldn’t notice. Or, scratch that, I’d notice but I wouldn’t mind. But today I not only notice, I mind. Way more than I’m comfortable admitting. And even as I chalk the reason up to not thinking on his part, I make a mental note. In black fucking Sharpie. This thing between me and Bradley is based on mutual attraction and convenience, but he’s the same guy he’s always been and I need to remember that. The minute I start thinking Bradley Walking-Sex is the real deal instead of a glorified hook up is the minute I need to shag him goodbye.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  When I walk into our flat at 8:15, balancing the strap of my bag on my shoulder and a pizza box in my hand, Tara jumps out at me like a ghoul in a haunted house, making me jump.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I catch the tilting pizza box with my free hand.

  “You said you’d be home at eight. It’s 8:15.” Tara puts her hands on her hips and makes no move to take the pizza or my bag.

  “I had to wait for the pizza. Gino’s was super busy.” I thrust the box at Tara and slip my heels off. “God, that feels good.”

  “I poured you a glass of wine. Plates and cutlery are in the lounge. Come on.” Tara prances ahead of me.

  “That’s some service.” I drop my bag next to the table in the hallway. “What’s so urgent anyway?”

  “You’re going to need to be sitting down.” Tara doesn’t glance back, which is how I know she means business.

  Some people might try to guess what on earth she’s got to tell me, but I’m not one of those people. Not with Tara. She has a flair for the dramatic and we’ve had Chardonnay therapy over everything from her hummus recipe to a missed period. One of these demands Chardonnay and the other, well, doesn’t. But tell that to Tara. Or don’t because you’ll end up admitting you were wrong. She’s persuasive like that.

  I follow her into the living room and drop onto the denim sofa. It’s old, slouchy, and my favorite thing in the entire house because it’s so comfortable. I sink back into the cushions as Tara pulls a slice of pizza from my half of the box. Mushrooms and onions for me, jalapeños and tomatoes for Tara. She’s even poured me a glass of wine, waiting on the side table.

  Okay, overly-solicitous Tara and Chardonnay therapy puts me on edge a little, and for the first time I worry this isn’t about Tara at all, but about me. Or, more specifically, Bradley and me. “So, I’m sitting down. Speak.” I give Tara a pointed look over the rim of my wineglass.

  “You’re going to be mad.” Tara winces a little like I’ve already started yelling at her.

  “Why?” I frown. One of the reasons Tara and I work so well as roommates is because we don’t judge each other’s choices.

  “I’m thinking about asking Tom out.”

  Tara says this just as I’ve taken a gulp of wine, so it’s kind of amazing I manage to swallow it instead of spit it all over the coffee table. “What? Why?”

  “I thought about it all weekend. Which you would have known if you’d been here at all.” She pauses to give me a look, but I stay quiet. This isn’t about me and if Tara had even an inkling of what I was doing all weekend, she’d make it all about me. “He had a woman visiting from out of town and the more I thought about it, the more I didn’t like it.”

  “So you decided the solution was to ask him out?” I mentally pat myself on the back that my tone isn’t full on what-the-fuck.

  “I know you don’t like when your friends date, but–”

  “What do you mean, you know I don’t like it when my friends date?”

  “I remember all of the drama with your friend, Bea, and your brother last summer.” Tara looks sheepish. “You were pissed when they got together.”

  “I was pissed because they lied to me. They’d been hooking up for weeks and lying about it.” Lying by omission, but still. I ignore the little niggle in the back of my head reminding me I’m doing the same thing. Because it’s different. Bea and Jasper were in a relationship. Bradley and I are as far from that as two people can be and still be sleeping together.

  “Which is why I’m talking to you first. I know you’re friends with Tom and I don’t want to cause a rift.” Tara looks so earnest.

  I choose my next words carefully. “So, do you like him? Or do you not like the possibility of him moving on?”

  “Moving on from what?” My God. Again with the earnestness. Tara’s very much a what-you-see-is-what-you-get type of girl, so I know she’s being genuine.

  Which means I need to weigh the pros and cons of being honest. I take a big bite of my pizza, followed by a gulp of wine before I decide. Here we go. Honesty for the win. “Tom’s been interested in you since you joined WS. I don’t know how you’ve not seen it and I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but I’m breaking my solemn oath to Tom because this is serious.”
>
  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if you’re just curious, you need to leave him alone. He’s got feelings for you and it wouldn’t be fair to string him along if you’ve just got a passing interest. Scratch that itch with someone else.” My tone has turned brittle around the edges and I try to soften it as I continue. “I don’t get the impression Tom does casual. You know what I mean?”

  Tara nods. “I do. I don’t think so either.”

  “But you’re still interested?” I raise my eyebrows. Tara had a serious boyfriend back at uni for a while, but once they broke up, she said she didn’t want to be tied down and that was the beginning of her three-dates-and-done rule.

  I have a feeling Tom might not even kiss before the third date.

  “I’m ready to get off the roller coaster and go out with a nice guy. Someone who wants to talk with me instead of only talk me into bed.” Tara’s face screws up and for a second it looks like she’s about to cry. “I want something real with someone who matters.”

  “I understand that, my friend.” I take another swallow of wine before I can say anything more. My weekend with Bradley was the most real thing I’ve had in a long time, but he’s never going to be someone who matters.

  “Maybe it’s time to find you a nice guy, too.” Any trace of tears I thought I saw is gone as Tara bounces up and down on the sofa.

  “No.” The word comes out way louder than I intended it to. “I don’t even have time for a not-nice guy, never mind someone who wants to spend actual time together.”

  “What about the guy from Saturday night? You seemed to have time to spend with him?” Tara looks hopeful rather than judgmental.

  “Yeah, he’s a great distraction, but it’s not a long-term thing.” And not something I want to talk about, especially to a coworker. Even if she is a friend, the whole boss-employee thing demands secrecy. “Tom, however, is a possible long-term thing, so how are you going to play it? Are you going to ask him out or–”