A Brit Complicated (Castle Calder Book 3) Read online

  Bradley and I shuffle along through the crowd and as we reach the end of the protest route, we veer off towards Covent Garden. The crowd thins and it becomes even more apparent we have nothing to say to each other. My mind spins, but everything I think of is either work-related or too personal and I don’t want to go in either direction. So we trudge along in silence that feels like being stuck in a sleeping bag with a broken zipper.

  Until it doesn’t. I’m not sure when the tension between us dissolves, but as we pass by the Royal Opera House, Bradley turns to me and says, “I forgot how busy it is over here. I don’t get out to this part of the city as much as I’d like to.”

  “I’m sure it’s more so than normal tonight because of the march. And you were right. It’s kind of a perfect summer evening.” The temperature is warm but not hot and there’s still plenty of sun, even approaching eight p.m.

  “I should get out of the office more.” Bradley smiles a little and rolls his eyes. “I may as well be in Cleveland for all I’ve seen of London.”

  “Don’t you go exploring on the weekends?” I ask the question before realizing it’s personal. I know nothing about Bradley Waring-Smith’s life, except he’s the boss, I’m the employee. He’s a demanding, perfectionist jerk, I’m a cog in the wheel of his company. Already tonight I’ve learned his mother’s nationality and his favorite Indian restaurant, which seem like two personal things too many. Bradley Waring-Smith is a means to an end, which does not include knowing or liking him. Or ogling him, for that matter. In my experience, that complicates things. A lot.

  “Weekends are a chance to get caught up on work.” This time when Bradley smiles, there’s a hint of sadness behind it.

  “Because working fourteen-hour days isn’t enough?” My brow furrows. I’m pretty sure that’s a conservative estimate.

  “I run a company. A lot of people depend on me, and if I fail, it’s not just me that crashes and burns. It’s Sarah in accounting, who’s paying for a private nursing home for her mom. Or Patrick in HR whose wife just had triplets and isn’t planning on going back to work. Tom moved here from New York, and even you.” Bradley pauses, but not long enough for me to say anything. “You reworked your entire grad school schedule to be a part of my apprenticeship program.”

  Well, yes. What started out as a six-month apprenticeship extended into a job offer I couldn’t/wouldn’t refuse. Which meant juggling the requirements to complete my Master’s program back in Atlanta from afar and missing graduation in May. But experience with WS Consulting will be worth twenty times more than any graduation ceremony could ever be, so it’s worth it as far as I’m concerned. As I said, means to an end.

  Still, I can’t hide my surprise as I ask, “Do you know everyone’s story who works for you then?”

  Bradley shrugs. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

  Well, no. But the fact he thinks it is does something funny to my insides I’d rather not dwell on, so I say, “Either way, you should see more of the city if you’re going to understand the London market. Your clients will come to WS for the name, but they’ll stay for the personal touch and your understanding of the environment in which they work.”

  “I know.” Bradley sighs. “Which worries me. I’ve spent more of this year in New York than I’d have liked, and now that I’m living in London, I spend most of my time on the phone with New York. Each city has its own footprint and I pride myself on understanding that, but right now Greater London is as foreign to me as Tokyo.”

  “You can’t understand it if you don’t spend time in the city, though.” I gesture to the shop on the corner. “I mean, Covent Garden is great, but it’s touristy. King’s Road is amazing, but the whole area is wealthy. You’ve also got to go where normal people go. Go to Camden Market on a Saturday. Or Canary Wharf at 5:30 on a Wednesday. Take a water taxi to Greenwich and walk around on a Sunday when all the families are out. That’s understanding the so-called footprint of the city.”

  “You’re right.” Bradley nods, slowly this time. “Of course, you’re right.”

  “There are so many things about London that make it unique, and then when you figure in the population of people working in the city that aren’t even from here, that’s a whole different footprint, too. Those bankers who commute two hours each way or the weekday warrior types who cycle to work from God knows where. Tara and I are from the Lake District and that’s a different world, too.”

  Bradley stops in the middle of the sidewalk and gives me that stare of his again, although I don’t feel like he’s trying to read my innermost thoughts this time. It’s more a look of measured consideration, which lulls me into a false sense of security. So I’m unprepared when he nods and says, “I agree with you and I need to make this a priority. I’m wondering if you’ll show me this London of yours. If you make a list and a plan, we can start tomorrow.”

  What. The. Actual. Fuck? Did I offer? Because I don’t think I did.

  Aloud, I say, “Um, excuse me?”

  Bradley nods again. “I agree with you. Financial and economic conditions are only one part of market research, and if WS is going to thrive here, I need to understand the city. You seem to know London and I’m asking if you’re willing to share your knowledge with me.”

  “By doing what, exactly?” He didn’t stutter, but I’m going to need him to spell it out for me so I can say hell no.

  “Showing me the real city, as you say. If it’s impossible, I could make do with a list, but I have a feeling your perspective would make a big difference. Going to Greenwich to wander around, for example, is very different than going with someone who knows the hidden corners.” Bradley smiles. “And I have a feeling you’d disapprove of my version of wandering around in general.”

  I smile, too, against my every instinct because it looks like acquiescence. “If it includes a map or an app on your phone, I would. Because if you don’t end up in at least one dodgy kebab shop, it doesn’t count.”

  “Please tell me you don’t eat dodgy kebabs.” Bradley raises his eyebrows and looks so legit concerned I laugh.

  “Only after two a.m. It was more of a metaphor. I wouldn’t ask you to do it, don’t worry.”

  “So does that mean you’re up for giving me the Scarlett St Julien tour of London?”

  No, no, no, no, no. I’m not. It will be awkward and uncomfortable, and I can’t even imagine how it will work.

  But I also can’t imagine how I can extricate myself at this point, so I nod. Very, very slowly so it can’t be mistaken for enthusiasm, and I say, “Sure. I’ll make a plan and we can start tomorrow.”

  Bradley nods. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”

  I side-eye him and keep silent, but what I want to say is, “Are you? Because I’m not. I’m really, really not.”

  Chapter Five

  “You’re insane.” Tara’s said this no fewer than seven times since we’ve left our flat for the office. Once walking down the pavement. Twice on the tube. Twice in line for Starbucks. And the rest as we’ve made our way down Southbank with the rest of the early morning commuters.

  My reply every time, “Not helpful.”

  Tara pulls the door to the office building, which houses the temporary headquarters of WS, and smiles at the security guard behind the big black desk as we cross the lobby. “You could tell him no. It’s not in your job description.”

  “That’s relevant if I want the job I have, which we both know I don’t.” I wave the notebook in my hand I’ve been scribbling in off and on since I got in last night. “Besides, I’ve decided to have him do a fair number of these on his own.”

  That was my brainstorm after my initial panic. I could show Bradley Waring-Smith around London – and I would – but he was going to have to make some effort by going to a bunch of places on his own, too, and reporting back. My rationale was that I could introduce him to the “real” London until I was blue in the face, but until he could find it on his own, he’d never see anything.

>   “I’m not sure giving the boss homework is going to fly,” Tara says with a grin.

  “Well, he’s not going to have a choice because I have too much real work to do to be holding his hand all over town.” My other – and more important – issue. I work overtime every day. How am I supposed to fit in ferrying Bradley Waring-Smith around London and keep on top of my task list?

  “Oh, you didn’t mention holding his hand. Is that also part of the deal?” Tara laughs as she stabs the UP button on the lift with her black-painted fingernail.

  “Absolutely not. Trust me, this is strictly business.”

  “If you say so. Because I’m pretty sure last night you looked like you were enjoying being off the clock together.” Tara lowers her voice as we enter the lift. There’s one guy inside with his headphones in and even though his music is loud enough that we can hear it, you never know.

  “I laughed at his jokes. It was the polite thing to do.” And they were even a little funny, but I’m not telling Tara that. Bradley and I ended up sitting at the end of the table in the very noisy restaurant last night and it didn’t suck as much as I feared it would. He was nice enough. And he rolled up his shirt sleeves, so my assumptions about his forearms were confirmed. But enjoyable? Let’s just say I didn’t have that much to drink.

  Tara elbows me in the ribs and leans over to whisper in my ear. “Tom says he’s very single. Just saying.”

  “Um, no.” My voice is loud enough that headphone guy glances at me. “Not happening.”

  Tara shrugs. “Okay. But never say never.”

  I don’t bother to reply. I don’t have to because, as far as I’m concerned, Bradley Waring-Smith is off limits. And vice versa. One of the things we talked about last night over paneer masala (Mine. Note: still a masala, but branching out.) and lamb rogan josh (His) was HR policy. As in, WS Consulting won’t hire spouses because it creates the possibility of too much conflict. When I asked about his stance on coworkers dating, Bradley said there was no explicit policy against it, but it had never been an issue.

  That doesn’t stop me from hoping two coworkers of mine might connect, the boss man notwithstanding. It’s the first thing I ask Tom as I toss my coat across the back of my chair. “So? Scoop, please?”

  Tom doesn’t even lift his eyes from his computer screen. “No scoop, sorry. And Brad wants to see you when you get settled.”

  I swivel around to look at the glass castle. Bradley is on the phone pacing, his free hand clenched into a fist. He wears dark blue trousers and a white shirt so crisp I can see the creases in his shirt sleeves. His tie is pink, which is different for him. Usually he’s all about dark reds and navy blues. “Why? What did I do wrong?” I ask Tom.

  This time Tom looks at me and shrugs. “I don’t think you did anything. He wants to talk about a project you two discussed last night?”

  ‘Project’ being an office-acceptable label for Bradley’s ‘I See London’ mission? Or my actual design project, which I’ve given zero thought to since I left the office last night, but still looms large? Either way, it’s not a conversation I’m eager to have and, judging by the pacing going on in the glass castle, I won’t have to any time soon. I ease into my chair and open my laptop, saying to Tom, “So? How did it go last night?”

  “You were there.” Tom’s words are clipped and he’s back to looking at his computer screen.

  “I know, but I was at the other end of the table, next to Claire and Greyson.”

  “Exactly.” Tom looks up and rolls his eyes. “If I’d known the evening was going to turn into a Greyson Vaughn fan fest, I would’ve gone home and saved myself the thirty pounds I spent on dinner.”

  “And you’re mad at me because?” My words come out slowly, but confused. Because if Tom is implying what it sounds like he’s implying…

  Tom lets out a sigh. “I’m not mad at you. I’ve decided I’m done with it, though. Tara doesn’t even see me and it took Greyson Vaughn for me to realize that.”

  “I’m not sure that’s fair. Tara knows Claire’s dating him, but they’ve never met before and I think it’s understandable she’s a little starstruck.” Judging by the text Claire sent me last night, linking to photos of all of us at dinner, Tara’s not the only one. By the time I went to bed, at least four different gossip sites had picked up photos of our little crew and none of them were exactly the same, which means the photos came from multiple people in the restaurant.

  “Maybe, but my decision stands. I’m either going to devote myself to my job or get on Tinder. It could go either way.” I laugh, but before I can respond, Tom says, “Speaking of jobs, you’re being summoned.”

  Oh, hell. I turn around and, sure enough, Bradley’s nodding at me like I’ve had eyes in the back of my head the whole time. I take another swallow of coffee and grab my notebook. Crossing the floor to the glass castle, I glance at my notes scribbled on the page. Why did I agree to this again?

  Not that the why matters. I can’t back out now without looking like a jerk and, as I push the door to Bradley’s office, I take a deep breath and find a smile. My voice even comes out cheerful when I say, “Good morning. How are you today?”

  “Not as good as you, it seems.” He raises an eyebrow. I don’t walk around here looking like Happy Hannah most of the time. All the better to be taken seriously. I try to rearrange my expression, but it doesn’t matter because he’s shifting papers on his desk and doesn’t even look at me when he continues. “I’m going over to visit the new office space this afternoon and I’d like you to come with me. Since it’s over in Marylebone, we can cross at least one thing off your London tour list, yes?”

  “Um, yes…”

  Bradley speaks over me. “I need to leave at two and be back by 4:30 at the latest, so if you can be ready a few minutes early, that would be great. There will be a car downstairs to take us over. The foreman is at the site today and I want to make sure everything is proceeding as it should be. I thought you’d benefit from seeing the work-in-progress to inform your design, and on the way back we can see something of the city.”

  I don’t know what to respond to first. Part of me knows it should be work – seeing the space will be amazing – but instead I blurt out, “I don’t think it will be quite as effective if we do it that way.”

  Bradley looks up. “What’s not going to be quite as effective?”

  “This whole show-me-London thing. It’s not a tick-box exercise. Taking the tube to Camden Market just to say you’ve been there, great, see you, bye, isn’t the same as spending time there and absorbing it. Perhaps I misunderstood, but I thought the point was experiencing London, not simply seeing it?”

  Bradley gives me that stare of his and says, “The point is, I’m a very busy man. This isn’t a date, Ms. St Julien.”

  I step back like I’ve been slapped. “I am well-aware. Mr. Waring-Smith.” I enunciate his name so clearly my voice could cut glass. “My apologies. I’ll be downstairs and ready at 1:55. Don’t let me keep you further.”

  I yank the door to the glass castle open and do my best to flounce out. Problem is, I’m wearing a close-fitting pencil skirt, which is very unflounceable. Still, I make sure to pull the door closed with a thud and stomp across to my desk in case he’s watching. Not that I’ll give him the satisfaction of turning around to check. Even when Tom looks up and lifts an eyebrow, I give my head a small shake and keep my gaze trained on my computer screen.

  It takes me the whole logging in process and three emails to unclench my jaw. When I do, I close my eyes and allow myself a deep breath. I let myself think for a minute that Bradley Waring-Smith had a streak of humility underneath his arrogance and now I know better. Once a twat, always a twat.

  I won’t forget again.

  Chapter Six

  Despite a twenty-minute car journey, Bradley and I don’t speak until we arrive at the future home of WS Consulting and he finishes the phone call that kept him busy en route. The phone call he held in fluent French with no
regard for whether I might overhear or understand. Since I’m still cross from this morning, I’m not sure if I’m more annoyed that I had to listen to him rip a freelancer a new one, or that he assumes I didn’t understand what he was saying in the first place.

  Of course, Tom would point out that I’m making assumptions too, but whatever. As we exit the white Mercedes, I say, “Shall I go ahead and warn the site foreman you’ve already been unimpressed and disappointed once today?”

  If Bradley’s surprised I’m parroting back the words he spat out at his freelancer, he doesn’t show it. “I doubt Anthony would be concerned. He’s not one for pleasantries himself.”

  I wouldn’t know, of course, because I’ve never met him. In fact, my few trips to the new office site were pre-renovation, when it was still a residence. A very luxurious, if outdated, home that had been in the Pembroke family for three generations and Bradley snatched up at auction after Andrew Pembroke III got in over his head with gambling debt. According to Tom, Bradley got the property for half its value, but is spending at least twice what he paid in converting it to office space. It’s a gamble – especially considering all the hoops the government makes you jump through for planning permission – but no doubt it will be beautiful when it’s done.

  Right now, however, it looks like a building site, complete with a digger on the front sidewalk and a stack of tiles in the foyer. Men walk through the space and a few glance our way, but Bradley moves down the hallway with purpose and I follow, wondering which one of these guys is Anthony.

  I don’t have to wonder long. We enter what was once the family kitchen – and will most likely remain a kitchen – and a muscular guy in a red hard hat comes forward, a cup of tea in one hand, the other outstretched towards Bradley.

  “Glad to see you’ve finally made it, mate.” Anthony shakes Bradley’s hand and turns his attention to me. “And you’ve not been here before. I’m Anthony Ford.”