A Brit Complicated Read online

  “I can’t picture it.” He tilts his head like he’s trying to do just that and shakes his head. “In fact, I’m not sure I see you spending much time in the kitchen at all.”

  “When I’m visiting my parents all I do is help in the kitchen. I’m more competent than you might think.” Granted, when I’m at Castle Calder, I’m very seldom actually cooking – Lou, the chef, is phenomenal and my job is to do what she tells me, no more, no less – but I know my way around the kitchen.

  “I never said I doubted your competence. I imagine you’re quite good at whatever you set your mind to.”

  Okay, that was a compliment. I search Bradley’s face for signs of derision or sarcasm, but there are none. In my head, I offer a genuine thank you and we move on. In real life, I smile and bat my eyelashes a little, saying, “That’s what he said.”

  Bradley’s eyes narrow at the same time I mentally kick myself. Hard. For fuck’s sake. Did I seriously just flirt with my boss with a throwaway ‘that’s what he said’ remark? What am I thinking? I don’t get to wonder because Bradley’s eyes crinkle a tiny bit at the corners and he replies, “I heard that’s not all he said.”

  He offers a grin and turns away, taking a step back into the crowd. It takes me six seconds to move to follow him. Six seconds which I spend staring at his broad shoulders and gaping. Because if I’m not mistaken – and I’m not mistaken, I’m positive – Bradley Waring-Smith just flirted with me in return.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The rest of Friday afternoon passes in a blur. Bradley’s phone rings as we leave Borough Market and he answers it, which shuts down any chance of conversation on the way back to the office. And thank God because I don’t know what to say. I mean, what are you supposed to do when you flirt with your boss and he flirts back?

  I’d bet myself a new Louis Vuitton wallet, that’s not in the employee handbook.

  Once we’re back in the office, Bradley locks himself away in his glass castle and I dive back into my design documents, only emerging when Tara perches on the edge of my desk and says, “Are you coming to the pub?”

  “Um, maybe. Who’s going?” I doubt I’ll go. I know that already, but Tara will give me shit if I use work as an excuse. No matter what my career aspirations are, work on a Friday night is unacceptable.

  She glances over at Tom. “Are you going to the pub?”

  Tom shrugs. “Maybe. Depends who else is going.”

  Tara rolls her eyes. “I am. Isn’t that enough for you both?”

  I meet Tom’s eyes and laugh. “Obviously not.”

  “No offense,” adds Tom.

  “I’m offended,” Tara says. “That’s bollocks.”

  Judging by the expression on her face, she’s not kidding. At least not completely. So I lay a hand on her knee and say, “I want to finish this and then I’ll come down. I promise.”

  Tara rolls her eyes, but she’s a little mollified, and her gaze turns to Tom, who says, “I’m going to take a pass tonight. I’ve got a friend in from out of town this weekend and I should clean my flat before she comes.”

  “She?” Tara’s voice rises along with her eyebrows. “Have you been holding out on us?”

  Tom shrugs but doesn’t respond and the silence stretches long enough to be uncomfortable. I rush to fill it. “The sooner I finish this, the sooner I can be done. Just saying, in case you want to get off my desk.”

  Tara takes the hint and puts her feet back to the floor, telling me she’s going to text me in an hour if I’m not there yet. I wait until she’s out of earshot before speaking to Tom. “So? She? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Did you hear the part where I said a friend is coming to visit? She’s just a friend.” Tom glances down at his desk and then places his palms flat on the surface, rising from his chair. “It is possible, you know, to have friends of the opposite sex.”

  “I never said it wasn’t. I’m just noting that the mention of said friend seems to have made a certain mutual friend a tiny bit jealous.” I raise my eyebrows.

  “Has it?” Tom doesn’t even crack a smile. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  I watch Tom as he gathers up his things and shoves his laptop into his bag before saying, “Well, have a good weekend. Do you and your friend have any grand plans?”

  “She’s not been here before, so we’ll be doing a bunch of touristy stuff, I’m sure.” Tom’s brown eyes bore into me across my desk like he’s daring me to ask, but I bite the inside of my lip to keep from speaking, and he continues. “Kelly’s a friend from college. She’s en route to Dubai for work and scheduled a two-night stopover in London on the way. Happy now?”

  “Yep.” This time when my I bite my lip it’s to keep from smiling. “Sounds fun. You should take her to Greenwich Park tomorrow afternoon. They’re having the World’s Largest Tea Party. Plus, you could take a water taxi over and make it into a sightseeing thing.”

  “The World’s Largest Tea Party?”

  “It’s a charity fundraiser, but I saw pictures online of the organizers setting up and it looks very British. Kelly would love it.”

  Tom nods. “It sounds weird, but maybe. Are you going?”

  “Maybe.” I hadn’t been considering it. Not really. But an idea takes shape in my head and I nod. “It could be fun, right?”

  “Text me if you’re going and maybe I’ll meet you there.” Tom slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. “And don’t work too late. It is Friday, after all.”

  Friday, Schmiday. I wave Tom goodbye and work as the office empties around me. I promise a few more people I’ll pop down to the pub in a bit, but my focus is on the screen in front of me, which is filled with text that, for a change, is very much un-work-related. My notebook lays open on the desk beside my laptop, but it’s open to a blank page because last night’s list lies crumpled in the bin as I’ve compiled Plan B for Bradley Waring-Smith Sees London on my screen.

  Plan B includes a lot of Plan A. With one notable exception. Which makes me a little bit nervous as I tap on the door of the glass castle a half hour later, paper in hand. Bradley looks up from his desk and motions me to enter. “You’re here late, Ms. St Julien.”

  Crap. We’re back to Ms. St Julien? I nod. “I wanted to finish some things up after being out this afternoon.” Bradley nods, but it’s obvious I’ve interrupted him and he’s waiting for me to get to the point. “And I’ve come up with a list.”

  “A list?”

  “For the whole real London project that we discussed. I thought it would be helpful to have a list.” I flutter the sheets of paper in my hand and place them on his desk.

  He picks them up and frowns as he scans the items I’ve noted. He’s still frowning when he asks, “What is this? Tower of London, find out the name of someone’s cat?”

  “Right.” I nod like it all makes perfect sense because it does. To me.

  “These two things seem rather unrelated.”

  “I don’t think so. You gave me the idea after we saw Bess this afternoon.” I see understanding start to dawn on Bradley’s face and I rush to continue. “It’s all well and good to see the real London, but I’ve taken it a step further to give you some motivation to maybe get to know some real Londoners in the process.”

  “By asking someone at the Tower of London about their cat?” Bradley’s expression is blank, but he doesn’t seem mad. I’ve seen him mad before and this isn’t even close.

  “Or their dog. Any pet is fine.” I shrug, but it doesn’t feel nonchalant. It feels like a nervous twitch, especially as I say, “It’s not that hard. It’s small talk at the end of the day, right?”

  “What makes you think I’m interested in small talk?” Bradley asks.

  “Well, nothing. But it couldn’t hurt. Part of any city is its people and there’s a difference between seeing London and knowing it.” My heels press so hard into the floor in an effort to stand my ground, it’s amazing I’m not sinking through the floorboards.

  “And as
king about someone’s pet will help me know London?” The corner of Bradley’s mouth tilts up for a second, but it’s so fleeting I’m not sure I didn’t imagine it. “The Big Smoke and its pets? It sounds like a bad late-night program.”

  “That was an example. If you have an aversion to pets, I’m sure we can come up with something else.”

  “We?” Bradley raises his thick eyebrows.

  “Or me, if you’d prefer.” If he thinks he’s running this show, he’s got another thing coming. My game, my rules.

  Bradley glances down at the paper again and I lock my thighs together tighter than a chastity belt on Mother Theresa. That he hasn’t come right out and called bollocks is astonishing, but there’s still time. “The World’s Largest Tea Party. Find someone who likes Victoria sponge.”

  “It’s a charity thing tomorrow in Greenwich Park.” I swallow the cotton that’s filled my mouth all of a sudden. “I think I’m going to go if you want to go with me.”

  I wait for him to raise an eyebrow or act like it’s weird for me to invite him to join me in a jaunt on a Saturday, but he doesn’t. Instead he stares at the paper like it’s a design brief. And a dodgy one, requiring his full attention and then some. I’m about to make an excuse to leave when Bradley looks up and says, “What time?”

  I glance at my wrist out of habit, even though I know he’s talking about tomorrow afternoon. “It kicks off around noon, so I’m thinking of getting there for two o’clock or so?”

  “How long will you be there? An hour?”

  At least ten responses flit through my head. Most of them are centered around his one-hour default window, but the one that comes out is, “I’m going to make a day of it. The view from the top of the hill by the Royal Observatory is pretty great and Greenwich Market is always worth a wander.”

  “So you’re suggesting I clear my calendar?” Bradley’s tone makes it clear what the likelihood of that is.

  But I keep mine light and say, “Well, no. I mean, obviously I know you’re very busy.”

  “Indeed.” Bradley has the grace to sound sheepish. “And I appreciate you remembering as well.”

  “You’re welcome to join me for the day if you fancy it. I mean, it might take you that long to figure out how you’re going to find someone at the event who likes Victoria sponge without looking like a stalker, right?” I laugh, but I’m not sure I’m overstepping.

  Because flirting with the boss is more acceptable than suggesting he’s a stalker?

  “Well, now you’ve given me a challenge I can get behind.” Bradley smiles for real. Finally. “I suppose the first order of business is to figure out if I like it.”

  I splay my hand over my heart, which beats a little too fast. “You’ve never had Victoria sponge? You need to remedy that. I’d recommend the tea shop over on Chester Street, but they’re closed now. Just don’t get a supermarket brand because they’re all awful.”

  “Noted.” Bradley looks down at the paper again, but I get the distinct feeling now it’s to avoid looking at me. I don’t get to think about it as he says, “So, shall I send a car for you around 1:30?”

  “No.” My response is too fast but I recover as he looks up. The last thing I need is Bradley’s Mercedes in front of my flat for Tara to see. “I’d prefer to take public transit if that’s okay with you. The best way to get there is to take the Thames water taxi or we can take the DLR from Bank Street Station.”

  “The DLR?”

  “The Docklands Light Rail. It goes out to what used to be the docklands, hence the name.”

  I resist rolling my eyes and Bradley nods. “Fine. I’ll meet you there at 1:30?”

  I scowl a little. “Bank Station is huge and parts of it always seem to be under construction. How about we meet at Cheapside and we can descend into the depths together? There’s a sketchy pizza place right by the clothing shop. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Great. It’s a date.” Bradley turns back to his computer screen, indicating I’m dismissed. What I should do is walk out the door and head to the pub. What I do instead is hesitate long enough for Bradley to look up and say, “Was there something else?”

  “No, no, of course not.” My words come out fast and breathless, but he just nods once and goes back to his computer screen.

  Which isn’t rude or contrary or even particularly out of character. It is enough, though, to propel me out of his office. It’s only while I pack my bag that I acknowledge the butterflies that have taken up residence in my stomach. He didn’t mean date as in date. The fact that we’ve had a few actual conversations in the last few days have clouded my judgment, that’s all. It’s nothing a drink or two at the pub won’t cure.

  I hope.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The crowd at the pub is in full Friday mode when I get there, led by Tara and Amalie, who’s visiting from the New York office. I drop my bag under the table with everyone else’s and take a long sip from the pint Tara offers.

  “You escaped,” she exclaims. “I thought I was going to have to come pry you away from your desk.”

  “I had to finish up a few things after being out this afternoon.” I take another sip of beer, even though Tara holds her hand out for the glass.

  “You went to see ze new office, yes?” says Amalie. I’m so in love with her accent, I could listen to her all day. She’s French to the core. Even on a Friday night in a dodgy pub, she looks like she’s at a five-star restaurant, her dark red lipstick flawless and her cream-colored dress pristine.

  I nod. “It’s going to be gorgeous. It was great to see it in progress. I got some good ideas.”

  “I’ll bet you did,” Tara says with a laugh. “What’s his name?”

  “The site foreman is kind of cute,” I offer.

  “Oh, I do love ze man who works with his hands,” says Amalie.

  Tara laughs. “There’s a lot to be said for a man who doesn’t mind getting dirty, although I like my guys suited and booted.”

  “Depends on the guy,” I say. “There’s a world of difference between the way, say, Len in IT rocks a suit and Mr. Waring-Smith.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair to bring Bradley Walking-Sex into it,” Tara starts.

  I nearly spit out my beer. “Bradley Walking-Sex?”

  “That’s what we call him in New York,” says Amalie.

  “And if the shoe fits.” Tara laughs and takes a sip of her beer.

  Oh, it fits. “Does he know you call him that?” I ask.

  “Goodness, no.” Amalie’s eyes go wide before narrowing when she smiles. “But he is sexy, no?”

  “He is sexy, yes,” says Tara. “Don’t ask Scarlett, though. She’s biased against him because he’s not bowled over by her beauty.”

  “That’s not why I’m biased against him,” I start.

  Tara holds up a hand. “And because he won’t promote you to the luxury accounts team straight from the trenches.”

  “He just hasn’t realized what an asset I could be to that team yet, but I’m working on it.” I shrug. “Errors in professional judgment aside, I admit he’s good looking.”

  “I think he is very single-focused,” says Amalie. “But I have seen him. He can be fun.”

  “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Bradley Walking-Sex?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

  “Before he moved to London, we had ze going away party. His assistant set it up and we closed ze office on a Friday and went to Coney Island. He rode ze roller coaster and ate fried things.” Amalie grins. “He even wore shorts.”

  “I bet he has nice legs,” says Tara.

  “Zey are quite nice. His calves are very muscular.” Amalie wriggles her eyebrows. “If London were hotter, maybe you would see.”

  I try – I swear on my favorite pair of Jimmy Choos, I try – to keep my head from going there. I don’t need to be imagining Bradley Waring-Smith’s legs, let alone his muscular calves. But I can practically see them, even though I’ve never laid eyes on them in person. And in
my imagination, they’re lovely enough for me to hope on my second-favorite pair of Jimmy Choos that he wears shorts tomorrow.

  “He must have a secret girlfriend, a blow-up doll, or a very exclusive escort service,” Tara says.

  Wait. What? While I’ve been imaginary-ogling Bradley’s legs, Tara and Amalie have moved on. To talking about his sex life?

  “I do not know. He had someone for a while, but it has been some time now,” says Amalie.

  “I think you should find out,” Tara says, turning to me.

  “Me? Why me?” My voice goes up at least two octaves.

  Note: if my mum were here, she’d call me out right now because that’s my guilty voice. She and I both know it.

  Thank goodness Tara does not. “Because you want to be promoted and understanding what makes the boss tick can help.”

  “Understanding his sexual proclivities has nothing to do with being promoted,” I say, my voice firm.

  “You never know. It could. Sleeping your way to the top is a thing, you know.” Tara wiggles her eyebrows, then says, “Besides, you’re showing him around London and you’ll be spending time with him. You’ve got to talk about something, right?”

  I take another sip of my beer and lower my voice. “I was thinking something more along the lines of, ‘So, do you have any siblings?’ Not ‘So, do you use an escort service?’”

  “I’d still bet on a blow-up doll,” Tara says.

  “I would vote for ze secret girlfriend,” says Amalie. “He is too passionate for passive sex.”

  I’ve just taken a sip of my beer and that nearly makes me choke. While I cough, Tara says, “And you know this how?”

  Amalie shrugs. “I assume. Bradley Walking-Sex does not do zings halfway. Why would he skimp on ze pleasure?”

  Why, indeed?

  The image of him shouting at the protest rally the other night fills my head. Unlike my imaginings of his muscular calves, this is very real. “I agree with Amalie. But I’m not asking him that either.”

  “I dare you,” says Tara. “Come on.”

  Even Amalie says, “I think he would be so shocked he might answer you.”