A Brit Complicated Read online

  The older guy raises his cup of tea in my direction. “I think that’s our cue to go back to work. If you fancy a cup of tea, help yourself.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it,” I call after him as he strides away, taking his tea. The younger guy follows him, giving me a nod on his way out. I hear their voices outside the door and that’s the last I think of them as I photograph the existing kitchen from six different angles. I’ve seen the schematics for the layout and it’s a big, functional room. The problem is going to be keeping it presentable for clients, especially if the kitchen at WS Consulting’s existing office is any indication. Which either means finding a way to partition the space without looking like it’s separate or finding another nook that can seat a client team for lunch, tea, or even a cheeky glass of wine.

  I type a few notes into my phone and wander back to the foyer. There’s no sign of Bradley or Anthony. Or any of the construction workers, but I hear noise on the floors above, including some God-awful classic rock music blaring from a not-quite-in-tune radio station. That, more than anything, kills my curiosity and I head down the hallway to the proposed meeting rooms.

  Meeting room one is empty. And boring. Four walls, a window facing a stone patio, and that’s it. There’s some fancy crown molding on the ceiling, but even that’s nondescript. The room is a blank slate. My favorite kind.

  Rooms two and three have more character – an antique fireplace in one and built-in bookshelves in the other. In other words, the opposite of the Japanese-inspired minimalism I had envisioned. It won’t work unless I approach all three rooms as separate entities. I wonder if this is what Bradley had in mind when he told me to do my design document again? But then he could have provided the refurbed spec of the room to begin with. All I had to go on was my initial viewing and, if I remember right, the three meeting rooms were an office, a reading room/library, and a makeshift bedroom full of hospital equipment. Tom and I were here the day the medical supply people came to collect their equipment and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that whoever had been using the equipment hadn’t lived to return to his or her more luxurious quarters.

  Which means this room needs to be brightest of all to combat any bad karma left over. I don’t know anything about the former owners, but I do know – from Tom – that Andrew Pembroke was such a motivated seller that there were still clothes in several of the closets when the construction crew moved in.

  I also know that the original headquarters I visited last fall with the head of workplace design, Alice, were nothing compared to this place. Yes, it was more generic, which meant it was easier to fit around the vision Alice had, but it wasn’t memorable in its own right. Hence the reason it sold so quickly once Bradley settled on this place. It morphed from WS Consulting to Allen Accountants with a coat of paint and handful of vinyl letters.

  I walk over to the fireplace. I’m kneeling, looking up the flue, when Bradley walks in. “Are you planning your escape?”

  I turn to glance at him. His posture is relaxed and there’s no trace of his earlier tension around his mouth. I almost wonder if Anthony gave Bradley a hit of good weed, but that’s such a stretch I have to smile. “I’m wondering if this works. It could be a nice touch to have a fire in the colder months. Or, you know, July.”

  Bradley laughs. “Summer here seems to be relative, so a working fireplace would be great. I’ll ask Anthony if it works.”

  I nod and turn my attention back to the fireplace for a second before getting to my feet. My three-inch heels aren’t ideal for balance and I have to grab the wall. But not before I see Bradley taking a step towards me, hand outstretched as if to catch me. I’m tempted to say something sarcastic about how going to A&E with a twisted ankle would fuck with his schedule, but I don’t because that would be seriously unprofessional. Also, chances are if that were required, he’d put me in a taxi and send me on my own. Instead, I say, “Have you seen everything you need to see here?”

  “No, but I wondered if you want to come upstairs to see the main workspace? Anthony thought it would be better if you’re accompanied.”

  “Why? Is he afraid I’ll break something?” I ask.

  Bradley shakes his head. “He’s quite adamant about health and safety and he doesn’t want you to trip.”

  “I’m pretty light on my feet, you know.”

  “Even in those?” Bradley points to my feet, which are sporting black patent leather Chanel pumps. Compared to what I could be wearing, these are like trainers.

  “I’ve been known to race for a train wearing these.”

  Bradley looks like he might question that, but he ends up shrugging and motioning me to follow. To be fair, the main floor is more treacherous than it looks and I end up parked inside the doorway of the workspace taking photos instead of following Bradley around as he peppers Anthony with questions. The light in here is incredible – the old windows are huge – and I’m in the throes of imagining window coverings when I hear a laugh ring out.

  It fills the space and at first glance I can’t even tell who uttered it because a lot of the guys are smiling in response. Then my gaze finds Bradley and his head is thrown back and he’s so obviously amused I find myself smiling too. I’ve worked for Bradley Waring-Smith for almost a year and I’ve never heard him laugh like that. Of course, before last night, I also never heard him shout or mention his childhood or talk about his employees like they’re real people.

  So the question is: has he become more human and personable? Or am I just noticing that side of him for the first time? The answer almost doesn’t matter because, frankly, it’s alarming on all counts. I’d be better off focusing on window treatments. I know that. Still, I hear that laugh once more and I drink it in. Like a summer sunset. The smell of candy floss at the village fête.

  Or the beginning of a new crush?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bradley Waring-Smith might be crush-worthy, but he’s still my boss. And he’s still a plonker. Which dampens my crush, but doesn’t extinguish it all together. As we leave the headquarters building, he glances at his watch and says, “We have about an hour. How do you recommend we spend it?”

  “As I said before –” I start.

  “And as I said before, I’m a busy man and, though I would love to spend time on this little project of yours, I have to be realistic.” Bradley glances at his watch as if to emphasize his point.

  “My little project is for your benefit.” I pause just long enough for him to open his mouth and start to speak before continuing. “Let’s go to Borough Market as long as we’re over here. It’s on our way back and most of the vendors should be open today.”

  “Borough Market?” Bradley furrows his brow. “I don’t think –”

  I roll my eyes, but my back is to him and he can’t see. Which is just as well. “Have you been there?”

  “I went down to show my support after the terrorist attack on London Bridge.”

  I can’t wrap my head around socially conscious Bradley Waring-Smith, so I ignore it and ask, “But have you ever been into Borough Market itself?”

  “Well, no,” Bradley starts.

  “Then we should go.” I hop into the Mercedes without waiting for him to respond and slide across the seat. He slides in next to me and his knee knocks into my bare leg. It’s unintentional and unsexy, but with my newfound awareness of Bradley Waring-Smith, human being, it sends a little jolt down my calf. Like an electric shock, but warmer. So my voice is low and throaty when I tell the driver to head to Borough Market.

  Something Mr. Waring-Smith notices. Because of course he would. “Lemon juice and honey should help your throat.” That’s the extent of his concern because the next thing he says is, “What did you think of the space?”

  I clear my throat and angle my knees towards the door. Well away from his long legs still invading my space. Was the car this small on the way over here? “It has a lot of potential. I came over before with Tom, but it’s good to see it in progress. Wh
at do you think? Is it what you’d hoped for?”

  Bradley nods. “Yes, though it’s more work than I’d projected. And much more detailed with being a listed building.”

  “My parents own a hotel up in the Lake District that used to be a castle. I swear to God, every time they want to paint a wall it requires planning permission.”

  “Your parents own a castle?” Bradley’s eyes widen. “Do you have royal roots I should know about?”

  “Why? Would it make a difference?” I feel my lips twist with the start of a smile. “Because if it would make you promote me more quickly, then –”

  Bradley laughs. It’s not as appealing as the one he let loose earlier, but I give it a tick in the plus column anyway. “Promote you more quickly? What would I gain by agreeing to that?”

  “I’m a hard worker.” I twist to face him and our knees knock together. “And you know I’d be an asset to your luxury accounts team.”

  “I have to ask why you think you’re ready for that when you haven’t completed your first solo design yet.” Bradley’s smile fades, but traces of amusement linger around his eyes.

  Which kind of pisses me off because I don’t think he’s laughing at me, per se. But he’s amused by me or my request, which means he doesn’t take me seriously. Yet. “I didn’t say I expected the promotion anytime soon. Of course I’m committed to this project.”

  “I think perhaps the problem is that you expect a promotion at all.” Bradley’s tone is bland. “A promotion is something you earn.”

  Ouch. Tara would say I just got owned and I’d have to agree with her. I bite my lip, but I sound confident when I say, “Then earn it, I will.”

  “That sounds like a challenge, Ms. St Julien.”

  “Think of it more as a promise.” I flash a grin that’s totally plastic and point out the window as we pass St Pancras station. “You know, when I was little I used to call St Pancras St Pancreas.”

  “An easy mistake.” Bradley laughs a little, then he pulls his phone from the inside pocket of his suit and swipes a thumb across the screen. Conversation over.

  Which makes me fume more than getting owned because he’s indifferent about this. Me. This entire situation. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t say anything, but it’s not the part that wins. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  Bradley doesn’t look up. “Do what?”

  “Dismiss me like that.” My heart pounds as the words flow out of my mouth before my brain has the sense to stop them. This is not the way to get promoted. “I’m not talking about my work. I’m talking about acting as if I’m worthy of your time. If I’m going to take the time to show you London, I need you to put that thing away and participate. Otherwise, we may as well save ourselves the time.”

  “I told you, I’m a very busy man.” Bradley doesn’t look up as he speaks, but his fingers freeze on the screen of his phone.

  “We’re all as busy as we want to be.” The truth of my words hits me like a jab to my funny bone because I see myself in them, too. I lean forward to speak to the driver. “Excuse me, sir. We may as well go back to the office after all.”

  This time Bradley looks up and puts his phone screen-down on his knee. “What about Borough Market?”

  I shrug. “I told you my conditions and if you don’t want to play, that’s fine. I’m busy, too.”

  His dark eyes bore into me for a good minute. Long enough for me to have to resist squirming under his scrutiny. The only way I can do it is to stare at his left eyebrow. Which still could use a bit of a trim, by the way. When he speaks, I let my eyes lower to meet his gaze. “Fine. We’ll try this your way.” To the driver he says, “Borough Market, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” The driver gives a nod and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel.

  Bradley slips his phone back into his jacket pocket and I bite my lip, as much to keep from smiling as to keep from saying anything that would ruin this moment for me. It’s a victory, whether Bradley Waring-Smith knows it or not. A very, very small victory, but if it means I’m being taken seriously, I’ll take it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Borough Market is not Bradley’s usual scene. If I had any doubt, his hunched shoulders and hands fisted in his pocket are dead giveaways. He was more relaxed at last night’s protest and that was way more crowded and volatile. I don’t think it’s the association with the attack either. A terrible thing happened right outside Borough Market, but there’s no evidence of that today. Today, it’s just food. Stall after stall of fruit, veg, cheese, and baked goods. It’s pretty much my idea of heaven on earth, so why Bradley’s being so Bradley is confusing, to say the least.

  I pick up a strawberry from a sample tray and hold it out to him. “Here. Try this. British strawberries are amazing.”

  He takes it, but makes no move to eat it, just taking a tiny nibble. “It’s good.”

  I hold back my sarcasm – with effort, mind you – and point to another stall. “They have the best grilled cheese sandwiches in the entire world. I’m going to circle back here before we leave and get one.”

  Bradley nods, but doesn’t say anything. He follows me through the aisles, listening to my Tina Tour Guide commentary until we get to Bess’ Brownies. I’ve been here often enough that I know Bess and she gives me a toothy smile and says, “Hi there, lovely! I’ve got some mint choc chip brownies today. Can I tempt you?”

  “Oooh. You know I can’t say no to your mint chocolate chip brownies, dammit.” I put on a stern face.

  “Oh, please. You could eat brownies every day and never have to worry about a thing.” Bess picks up her tongs and puts the other hand on her hip. Bess is anywhere between thirty and sixty; it’s impossible to tell. She wears tent-like house dresses and wellies, which hide most of her shape, so it’s also impossible to tell how big or small she is underneath. I used to wonder why, but I don’t anymore because there’s a lot of merit in letting her customers think she samples while she works. “We have chili chocolate, too, if your friend likes things a little spicy.”

  My first thought is to correct Bess. Bradley Waring-Smith is not my friend. My second thought is what comes out of my mouth, complete with an elbow nudge in the air towards Bradley’s ribs. “He does like spicy, if I remember correctly. Do you fancy a brownie? My treat?”

  Bess laughs. “If she’s offering, you should take it. Nine times out of ten if she’s here with a bloke, he’s the one coughing up the cash.”

  For the first time since we’ve been here, Bradley looks interested. Probably because my face flushes pink and he senses a weakness. Damn Bess. I may have brought a few morning-afters here, but it’s not been that many. Bradley’s lips tilt up just a little as he says, “Well, in that case, it would be rude to say no, wouldn’t it?”

  “Indeed.” Bess grins and bags our two brownies. We make small talk about her dog – a pug named Mr. Fred – for another minute while I pay and then Bradley and I edge away from her stall.

  “How do you do that?” Bradley asks once we’re out of earshot.

  I unwrap the paper around my brownie and inhale the scent of the chocolate and mint. My mouth waters in anticipation. “Do what?”

  “Have such effortless casual conversation with people.” Bradley’s tone is neutral. “You’re so easy with this person who works at a random stall in a busy London market. How do you even know she has a dog, let alone what his name is?”

  “Well, because she brings him here sometimes.” I furrow my brow. “And I asked what his name was because he’s cute. Most pugs are cute, but Mr. Fred has a different collar for every month and sometimes a big bow, which is a little over the top, but a conversation starter.” Bess even has a calendar made up of Mr. Fred photos in holiday costumes, but that’s another thing completely, and I’m not sure Bradley’s ready to know that.

  “So what else do you know about this Bess person?” Bradley asks.

  The furrow in my brow grows deeper. “If you fancy her, I’d suggest going the brownie route. Sh
e’s here most days and you could say you want to try her full range. Which I’d recommend anyway because even the frambois one is amazing and I don’t like fruit and chocolate.”

  “I don’t fancy her, but thank you for the tip.” There goes Bradley’s mouth again in that almost-smile. “I’m thinking about what you said earlier about knowing people. Obviously, you practice what you preach and that extends further than I’d have thought.”

  Is that a compliment? Ish? “I buy a fair number of brownies, I guess, and it feels weird to me to see Bess all the time and not know something about her. Maybe it’s from growing up in a hotel. My mum is a master at small talk and drawing people out so they’ll feel at home. Then my dad’s behind the bar getting everyone to tell him their life story, and it’s kind of a way of life.”

  “So, let me guess. You’re on a first-name basis with the owner of your corner bodega, the barista at Starbucks, and the IT guy at WS?” Bradley’s tone is dead serious.

  I nod. “You know it’s common sense to be friends with the IT guy, right? Tara even bakes him cookies sometimes.”

  “And you don’t?” Bradley raises an eyebrow at me and there’s that bloody half-smile again.

  “I’m not a bake-him-cookies kind of girl.” Len, the IT guy, is in a long-term relationship with his childhood sweetheart, so my flirting is useless on him too, but he’s a big Harry Potter fan. As long as I throw in an ‘Accio’ or ‘Expelliarmus’ I can convince him to help me.

  Bradley lets himself smile for real this time. “No, I don’t suppose you are, are you?”

  My instinct is to bristle, but I can’t quite get there because Bradley’s smiling wide now. So I keep my tone light and say, “What’s that supposed to mean?”