A Brit on the Side (Castle Calder Book 1) Read online

  Besides, how do you tell your bestie you had the best sex of your life with her older brother in short-term parking? Short answer: you don’t.

  “I mean, he’ll be around, but he has his dissertation to write, which gives him a free pass to do as much or as little as he’d like.” Scarlett’s tone makes it clear what she thinks about this.

  “Jasper’s…fine. I mean, whatever. He’s fine.” God, that sounds lame. Made all the more so by my stammering.

  Scarlett smiles. “I know, but let’s be honest, he’s not the easiest person to get on with.”

  Well, no. He’s super smart and has a massive superiority complex, but he’s also got a wicked sense of humor, can be charming as hell, and good Lord, can he kiss. It all evens out, as far as I’m concerned.

  “We have sixteen for dinner tonight,” Mrs. St Julien says, waving the list in her hand. “Louise should be here by two, but she’s going to need some hands.”

  “I’ll help,” I say. Let Scarlett say what she wants about my kitchen skills.

  Mrs. St Julien smiles. “Thank you, Bea.” She raises her eyebrows at Scarlett. “Any other takers?”

  Scarlett puts her hands up. “I’m all about the front of house, serving customers and upselling drinks. What about Jasper? He’s not doing anything.”

  “Don’t be trying to pawn off your jobs on me,” Jasper says. “Besides, I’ve got a Skype call with a professor at Emory at seven.”

  “Emory University? In Atlanta?” I ask the question before my head catches up with my mouth.

  “The one and only. I’m in the running for a research position there in the fall,” Jasper says.

  Oh.

  My.

  “That’s great,” Claire says. To Mrs. St Julien, she says, “I can help with dinner. Don’t worry.”

  Both Mrs. St Julien and Jasper give her grateful smiles. Claire asks Jasper something about his research – it’s on molecular biology, he says – while Scarlett pours tea. She splashes milk in each cup, then hands them around while Jasper holds forth about nucleotide structures and genetic abnormalities.

  I half listen. All I can really focus on is Emory University. In Atlanta. What are the odds? I wonder if he’d stay with Scarlett and me? It would make sense; that’s what he did last time, but that was a week, capped off by the weekend where Scarlett asked me to “pretty please, look after Jasper” because she had an art show in Asheville. And, well, look how that turned out. If the position comes through, we have not only this summer to get through, but the fall too?

  I close my eyes. Suddenly the secret I’ve kept from Scarlett feels big. Made bigger by the fact I’ve kept it from her at all. Would she have freaked out? Maybe. Will she freak out now? Oh yes. Because not only have I hooked up with her brother, I hooked up with him and kept it a secret. And if Scarlett’s said it once, she’s said it a thousand times – one of the main reasons she ended up at Georgia State was Jasper. They grew up being super competitive and college was just another scorecard to be gloated over at the other’s expense. Plus, it was a chance to be out of Jasper’s shadow for once, you know?

  I have a few annoyingly perfect cousins, so despite growing up an only child, I do know. I also know nothing casts a shadow like your best friend crushing on your brother. Never mind screwing him.

  I feel a hand on my arm and let my eyes flutter open. Claire’s green eyes peer down at me. “Why don’t I show you our cabin? You look like you could use a lie down.”

  Scarlett has taken Claire’s place, murmuring with Jasper while they both sip tea, their heads bent close together. Scarlett says they’re Irish twins because their birthdays are less than thirteen months apart, but seeing them standing so close, they could be actual twins with their wavy brown hair and high cheekbones. Jasper’s thick eyebrows are hidden behind the tortoiseshell frames of his glasses where Scarlett’s are plucked, arched, and perfect, but their features are equally arresting.

  I don’t realize I’m staring until Claire clears her throat. I wrench my gaze away and nod. “Sorry. I’m in a jet-lagged daze. Lying down sounds like exactly what I need.”

  Scarlett hears and glances up. “I can take you if you want?”

  Claire waves her off. “I need to go get my phone anyway. You stay and catch up with Jasper and your mum.”

  Scarlett raises her eyebrows at me and I nod. I’m so tired I’d follow this girl I just met anywhere as long as there’s a bed at the end. I don’t say that, but Scarlett must see the weariness in my expression because she grins and says, “You’d better rest up. Dinner service is a bear.”

  Claire saves me from making a smart retort by walking out of the kitchen and I follow. She goes back the way we came, out the front door and starts down a path leading away from the castle. I think about asking if we can get my bag out of the car, but the thought of dragging my suitcase with its crappy wheels over the pebbled drive makes me feel even more tired, so I leave it. I’ve got my phone to set an alarm and that’s all I need right now.

  Claire turns towards a small stone building at the edge of the tennis courts. There are two windows and a chimney, but it doesn’t look like any cabin I’ve ever seen. But apparently definitions are different here because, sure enough, Claire turns the handle and says, “Here we are. When there are a lot of guests, it’s a good idea to lock the door, but we’ve only got two couples in at the minute, so I don’t usually bother.” She steps in and continues. “It’s small, but functional. There’s no oven, so if you want to cook properly you’ll need to go up to the main house. But there’s a kettle and a microwave, and we’ve got a hob, so it’s not like you can’t fry an egg when you want to.”

  I nod, but my attention is on the room itself. It’s not big, but it’s perfect. A small kitchen alcove is framed by a table for two at the window, overstuffed sofas face a stone fireplace, even a grandfather clock ticks away in the corner. “It’s so cozy.”

  Claire nods. “They rent this out as self-catering sometimes, but most people who come here want to stay in the castle, so lucky us.”

  Seriously. This beats our Atlanta apartment by a mile, even if Scarlett and I can walk to the uber-trendy neighborhood bars nearby. “It’s really great.” My eyes land on a pile of books on the coffee table and my hand flies to my mouth. “I just had a horrible thought. Am I ruining this for you? I mean, you’d have this place all to yourself if it wasn’t for me, right?”

  “I might. It depends who they bring on board. A few summers ago I shared with a Polish girl, who was lovely, but I didn’t understand a word she said until about mid-July.” Claire smiles. “Don’t worry. I’d rather have the company than not.”

  I hope so. Especially after another horrible thought occurs to me – I hope we’re not sharing a room. There are three closed doors leading off from the main room, but one could be a closet for all I know. Unfortunately, Claire makes no move to open any of the doors to give me a clue either way, so I shuffle my feet and say, “So do you work here every summer?”

  “For now. Once I finish my graduate program, I’ll have to get a proper job, I suppose.” Like Scarlett. This is probably her last summer at Castle Calder, which made the invitation to join her even more appealing. Claire continues, “You’re an English teacher, right? Is that what Hannah said?”

  “Math, not English. I teach middle school, which Scarlett says you don’t have here. My students are twelve to fourteen, which pretty much means all the hormones, all the time.”

  “And you do this job willingly?” Claire asks.

  I laugh. “I did my student teaching in high school. Trust me, it’s worse.”

  Claire laughs too. “If you say so. I’m probably jaded after seeing the kids here over the years. Best form of birth control on the planet.”

  “I believe you. I think anyone considering kids should spend a day with a group of prepubescent girls.” I shake my head. “The only thing that keeps me from total despair is I was one once and I outgrew it.”

  Claire laughs aga
in. “We need to put a night on the books for your tales from the dark side. Preferably with a pint in hand.”

  “It’s a date. But won’t I be in the kitchen most nights?” The prospect is unnerving to say the least and for the first time I realize I never even asked Scarlett what the work schedule would be like.

  “I don’t know, but you’re on tonight, so nothing like getting stuck in.” Claire crosses the room and flings open a door. “I’m so sorry. This is your room. You’re exhausted and here I am babbling on.”

  I cross the floor and join her in the doorway. Claire gestures towards the double bed in the center of the room. “If you need anything, let me know. The bed has a proper duvet, so you shouldn’t be cold, but sometimes our American guests are surprised the great British summer isn’t all that summer-like. There are towels in the bath and I’ll get Jasper to bring your case in from the car.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll get it later.” I have visions of Jasper walking in on me fast asleep and even though he’d probably turn around and walk right back out, I’d rather not see him one-on-one for the first time with bedhead and raccoon eyes.

  “Okay, either way.” Claire clasps her hands together. “Are you all set? Do you need anything else at the minute? Do you need me to wake you?”

  I don’t even like Scarlett waking me up, so I assure Claire I’m fine and she scurries out, closing the door gently behind her. I sink down on the bed and look around the room. Like the main part of the cabin, the bedroom is cozy and welcoming. From fresh wildflowers on the dresser to books stacked on the shelf, everything about the room is a gentle invitation to come and stay awhile. The curtains rustle in the breeze from the open window and outside I hear a lawn mower in the distance. Otherwise, silence. I can’t even hear Claire moving around in the rest of the house.

  I force myself off the bed to use the small en suite bathroom, which is filled with fluffy white towels and a basket of toiletries on the window ledge. The tub gleams and looks like it was made for bubble baths. It even looks big enough for two.

  I squeeze my eyes shut like I can stop the thought from fully forming, but too easily I imagine Jasper and I intertwined in that tub – his lean muscles and long limbs wrapped around mine. Jasper doesn’t have an almost six-pack or biceps like Theo, but he’s hot for a self-proclaimed science nerd.

  Which is exactly the wrong way to think about him. Another train of thought I need to derail.

  I open my eyes, splash water on my face, and comb my fingers through my tangled black hair before veering back to the bed. I slip my shoes off, peel off my jeans, and yank the comforter – duvet – down with a little too much vigor while forcing myself to focus on the sound of the mower outside. It’s gotten closer. I can smell the freshly cut grass now.

  I slide under the duvet and settle back into the pillow, closing my eyes, letting the hum of the mower fill my head. It takes a few minutes, but I haven’t spent all that time practicing yoga for nothing. As my breathing evens out, the mower drowns out any thoughts of Jasper – naked or otherwise – and lulls me to sleep.

  Chapter Three

  By the time I arrive back in the empty kitchen, I’m panting and all of my pre-nap calm is gone – usurped by forgetting to set my alarm and the chaos of waking up late. Thank God Claire came in to check on me or I’d still be in dreamland. Double thanks for bringing my suitcase in with her so I could take the world’s fastest shower and throw on something clean.

  Judging by the temperature of the kitchen, the short-sleeve T-shirt and shorts I’ve chosen are completely inappropriate. I mistakenly thought the kitchen would be hot with ovens on, but it’s colder in here than outside. I rub my hands on my bare arms as the door swings open and a woman bustles in with Mrs. St Julien.

  “Ah, Bea. There you are. I was telling Lou you’d be helping her,” Mrs. St Julien says.

  “Sorry I’m late. I fell sound…” I let the words die in my mouth as Lou looks me over. I feel like I’m being judged the same as a milk cow at the county fair. Short, on the plump side, and completely out of place.

  “It’s not a problem at all,” Mrs. St Julien says. She seems oblivious to Lou’s scowl. “I have to go and make a few phone calls, but I’ll pop back in later. And, of course, Scarlett and Claire will be helping to serve tonight.”

  “Isn’t Freya on?” Lou asks. Her voice is higher than I expect. She sounds almost girlish.

  Mrs. St Julien shakes her head. “Unfortunately, she fell and broke her ankle. She’s going to be out for the season, I think.”

  Lou harrumphs as Mrs. St Julien walks out and turns towards the long silver counter. I stand rooted to the floor for a good ten seconds wishing it would swallow me up, but when it becomes clear it won’t, I clear my throat and say, “Um, who’s Freya?”

  Lou doesn’t turn around as she answers. “Local girl who helps out here. She’s getting a certificate in massage therapy.”

  It’s clear Lou has an opinion about one of these things. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s the massage therapy, but maybe not. I smile a little and say, “That’s kind of cool. Are you from around here, too?”

  “I live a couple of villages over.” Lou opens a drawer and pulls out a heavy bag, thunking it down on the counter. “Do you want to get started on the chips?”

  “Uh, sure. No problem.” Thanks to years of living with Scarlett, I at least know chips are more or less the same thing as French fries, but I have no idea how to actually make them. Although, how hard can it be, right? I step up to the counter and open the bag of potatoes.

  The first thing I notice is the smell. The next thing is the dirt that spills out as I unfold the brown paper bag. Okay, these are real potatoes, not Publix-sanitized ones. I manage to keep my nose from wrinkling in distaste and reach in to grab a few. Once my hands are full of dirt-encrusted potatoes, I take them over to the nearest sink and turn on the water. Too bad the hose is pointed out instead of down. The water spurts out, hits the metal side, and soaks the front of my shirt completely.

  “Oh my God.” I jump back, but leave the water on, which means it now sprays all over the kitchen floor. I dart back in front of it to turn it off, but sometime in the last half second it’s turned icy cold and my next exclamation is a loud, “Shit!”

  I turn to find Lou completely oblivious, pouring flour into a large industrial-size mixer bowl. She doesn’t look up and for a second I wonder if she has a hearing problem. Until she says, “There’s a mop in the closet and you’ll probably find a spare shirt in there. You might want to grab an apron, too.”

  I nod and mumble a thank you, heading for the closet on the far side of the kitchen. There’s a long-sleeve flannel shirt hanging on a hook and I quickly strip off my wet T-shirt. The flannel is a welcome change, even if I do have to roll the sleeves up three times. My face flames as I drag the mop across the floor and I’m glad Lou keeps her focus on her mixer. In fact, she doesn’t look up until I’m done cleaning up and am back at the counter beside her, washed potatoes in hand.

  “We usually make thick-cut chips, so slice them about half an inch wide,” she says.

  I smile in gratitude, but she goes back to her work. I fleetingly think now I might be able to start a conversation, but she turns on the mixer, its whirring fills the room and that’s that. I turn my attention to the potatoes and we work silently, side by side.

  It’s exactly the opposite of any other time I’ve spent in the kitchen. Whenever I cook with my mom, it’s a production. Eating is a necessity, but cooking is an art. One which involves my mom using every spoon and pot in the house. Scarlett and I eat together, but never cook, and Theo was, well, Theo. Everything he made was nutritionally balanced and precisely measured, which, for me, meant sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter watching. The few times we tried cooking together, we fought because I wasn’t doing it right. Which really meant I wasn’t doing it Theo’s way, so it became easier not to do it, period.

  This is oddly soothing. Lou doesn’t even inspect m
y chips. The whole time I’m peeling and chopping potatoes, she mixes and rolls out dough, lining little oval bowls with the pastry. Only when I’ve piled my chopped potatoes into a mound does she say, “If you can blanch those quick, then they’ll be ready.”

  I open my mouth, then shut it again. Blanch? I’m positive I’ve heard this term before, but it doesn’t mean I actually know what to do. Lou obviously thinks I should, judging by her attention to the pastry. I open my mouth again and this time force myself to say, “Blanch? Um, I’m sorry, I’m not sure…”

  “Bring a pot of water to a boil. Put the chips in for a minute, then dump them into a bowl of cold water in the sink.” Lou points to a shelf lined with pots. “Make sure you let the water boil first, otherwise the potatoes will start to cook and turn mushy.”

  Got it. Pot. Water. Boil. I half expect Lou to stand over me at the sink, making sure I don’t overfill the pot, but she doesn’t. Nor does she say anything when I put the potatoes in, setting the timer on my phone for a minute. Only once they’re immersed in cold water in the sink does she say, “Okay. Leave them there for now until we’re ready to cook them. Can you dice up some carrots and onions for the pie?”

  I nod and grab some carrots from the giant crisper drawer in the fridge. Like the potatoes, they’re covered in dirt, but this time I pay attention to the water and it feels like a small victory when I’ve got a clean pile on the counter beside me. I take them over to the chopping board and cut them into little squares, throwing them into the frying pan Lou provides.

  I’m halfway through the onions, tears streaming down my cheeks, when the kitchen door flies open and Scarlett comes in, Mrs. St Julien on her heels. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” Scarlett’s voice wobbles and a quick glance up shows I’m not the only one with tears streaming down my cheeks.