A Brit Unexpected (Castle Calder Book 2)

by Brenda St John Brown

“Times, plural?” Greyson rolls his eyes. “Can I ask you a legit question without sounding like even more of a dick?”

  “With that kind of intro, probably not, but now I’m curious.”

  “This whole Alexa debacle aside, you don’t seem bothered by the fact that I am an actor and all of the bullshit that goes with it. And –” Greyson holds up a finger. “— this is the part where you’ll think I’m an ass. You’re a lot less star struck than I’d expect you to be.”

  “So what’s your question?” I’m pretty sure I know, but I want him to ask directly.

  “Why? Why do you see me as a guy first and an actor second?” There’s an edge to Greyson’s tone that’s almost pleading.

  “Because that’s who you are.” I shrug. “And I’m not sure why you don’t see it.”

  Greyson’s silent through three sips of wine and I match him sip for sip, my legs tensing beneath the duvet as I anticipate his response. He’s going to slag me off, make some glib remark, pull a Greyson Vaughn. And when he does I’m going to leave. We’ve had a few real moments here–with no mention of our deal, this fake relationship, or photo ops–but I’m not interested in playing therapist.

  Greyson’s soft words interrupt my thoughts. “I bitch about always being ‘on,’ but I’m not sure I remember how not to be. I suspect the real me is a bit of an asshole.”

  “I suspect that, too.” I grin, but my mind races. I have two choices right now. One involves admitting to myself that I’m seeing the real Greyson Vaughn and it’s doing funny things to my insides. The other…well, the other involves me brandishing the wine bottle. “You ready for more?”

  “Is drinking the only solution then?” Greyson gives an exaggerated sigh and offers his glass.

  “It often is, but I didn’t actually think we had a problem.”

  “Didn’t you just agree that I’m an ass?”

  At least five flip responses pop into my head, but I rein them in and allow myself a little laugh as I hold the wine bottle between us. “I agreed I could see the possibility.”

  “Key word being possibility?” Greyson asks.

  I smile and shrug, but my head finishes the thought my mouth won’t.

  The real Greyson Vaughn isn’t as amicable, but he’s a hell of a lot more attractive. Both inside and out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wine with the real Greyson Vaughn is pretty lovely, truth be told. We down our drinks too fast, though, and by the time I pour the last from the bottle, I’m feeling tipsy tipsy.

  “I just realized I’ve been drinking on and off since breakfast,” I say. Breakfast comes out with a faint “sh” sound mixed in.

  “In between sneaking mincemeat muffins all day?” Greyson asks with a grin.

  “I should have been.” I smack him lightly on the knee because tipsy tipsy me doesn’t have the sense not to. “But no, I promised to give them to Hannah and I did.”

  “It’s probably for the best. All of those raisins.” Greyson makes a face. “We’ve probably missed dessert. I have it on good authority that there was some kind of chocolate thing.”

  “Oh, good authority, huh? Whose?”

  “Scarlett mentioned it when we came up to find you earlier.”

  “Scarlett said she volunteered to play your girlfriend for the weekend, you know, but your grandfather said no.” I’m fishing, but tipsy tipsy me doesn’t care.

  “Michael mentioned that and I saw his point. Besides, she reminds me of my sister.” Greyson smiles.

  I laugh. “I can see how that would be less than appealing.”

  “My sister’s great, but kissing her, even if it’s fake? Nope.”

  Kissing. Greyson’s talking about kissing and my lips tingle. My stomach does a little drop too. I take another gulp of wine and say, “I used to pretend Scarlett and Jasper were my brother and sister when I was younger, and I can say with good authority that even kissing your pretend brother is odd.”

  Greyson laughs. “You kissed Scarlett’s brother? Does she know?”

  “I think she does, but we’ve never talked about it. I doubt she wants the dirty details.” I laugh because the details couldn’t be more boring. I crushed hard on Jasper one summer, but when I kissed him there was nothing there. Less than nothing, if that’s even possible.

  “The dirty details? Do tell,” Greyson says, wriggling his eyebrows.

  “Never.” I need to change the subject because all this talk about kissing is only making me notice Greyson’s lips. Which he licks and digs his teeth into as he grins in a way that makes me want to… I bolt up, letting the duvet fall to the floor. “You know what I want? Pudding. Let’s sneak into the kitchen and get some.”

  “Pudding? Is this like the muffin thing?” Greyson asks.

  “The muffins were for breakfast or tea time. Pudding is dessert or afters. Call it what you like, I want some, especially if there’s chocolate.”

  “Well, when you mention chocolate,” Greyson rises from the sofa, “how can I say no?”

  I start to pile the duvet back in my duffle then stop. “Shall I leave this here?”

  He nods. “It might come in handy. Plus it makes the next escape much less conspicuous.”

  “Are you anticipating the need for another escape?”

  “Always.” Greyson’s smile is almost sad.

  Maybe it’s the wine or the fact we’ve had a couple of hours where things have felt just plain easy, but I step closer, resting my hand on Greyson’s chest. “You know, you should really do something about that.”

  Greyson doesn’t move away and out of the corner of my eye I swear I see his arm rise and fall, as if he’s thinking about taking my hand. “I know I’m very lucky to live the life I do, but I miss this.”

  “This?”

  He covers my hand with his. His is warm and dry, unlike mine, which is neither. “Time with someone who’s not in the business.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Unless you’re harboring secret fantasies about being an actress and are waiting for the right time to break the news.”

  I laugh. “Um, no. No secret fantasies about acting here, trust me.”

  “So you do have secret fantasies about something? Do tell.” Greyson’s voice drops a notch. Is he trying to sound seductive? Or is that a bonus?

  I lick my lips. He watches me do it. The air between us ignites a little as he squeezes my hand. Or maybe that’s me heating up. It’s hard to tell. “What kind of secret fantasies do you want to know about?”

  “You mean there’s more than one kind?” The look he gives me makes it pretty clear what he thinks the answer to that question should be.

  In my mind’s eye I see my seductive response, but I chicken out when I open my mouth. “Sure. For example, I sometimes fantasize that I’m a gourmet chef able to create an amazing meal out of the last five ingredients in my pantry. Or there’s the one where I have a personal shopper who buys me clothes that fit perfectly every time. Sometimes I mix it up and imagine I’ve got enough money to shop exclusively at Ted Baker and Stella McCartney for the rest of my life, but even then I think the personal shopper would be fab.”

  “So your fantasies are about cooking and clothes?”

  “I never said all of my fantasies were about cooking and clothes. How dull do you think I am?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t think you’re dull at all, so I hoped for something a little spicier.” He grins.

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “Spicier, huh? I don’t think I know you well enough for that, do I? I mean we haven’t even held hands properly.”

  “Right. That was your caveat, wasn’t it? Before I’m allowed to kiss you, we have to get to first base.” Greyson smiles and shakes his head.

  “Well, first base is your phrase. I’m not very good at sports metaphors.” I swallow hard because as I speak, Greyson’s hand brushes mine and stays there. In the next breath he threads his fingers with mine and our palms meet. I suck in a breath and babble in hopes he can’t tell how unnerved I am. So much
for Pretty Woman. Turns out we’ve both got a bit of Julia Roberts in us. “That’s baseball, right? Running the bases? I don’t understand baseball. Bea tried to explain it to me once, but she lost me after a few minutes.”

  Greyson tugs me closer. “I could explain baseball to you if you’d prefer.”

  “Or what?” The moment hangs suspended between us like a soap bubble, shimmering and fragile. My heart races and my lips part and I let my gaze fix on Greyson’s gorgeous mouth before darting up to meet his eyes.

  Unlike last night in the library, his eyes are fixed on me, roaming over my face and bright with desire. It’s intoxicating enough for me to grab a handful of Greyson’s shirt and close the remaining distance between us. My other hand winds around the back of his neck as one of his hands slips around my waist and his lips brush my temple, sending a shiver down my spine. He pulls back to glance at me and for a moment my brain kicks into gear and I falter.

  Shine a light, I’m with Greyson Vaughn. Greyson. Freaking. Vaughn. Who’s slept with Alexa Gayle and probably kissed two hundred people. At least. My breath hitches.

  But Greyson either doesn’t hear it or doesn’t care because in the next breath he’s kissing me. His lips are soft and gentle, but his fingers tighten on my waist in a way that’s almost painful and I wind my fingers through his hair in response.

  It’s like flipping a switch. His kiss turns possessive. Needy. Hot. When his tongue slips into my mouth I let myself moan and he pulls me closer. His hand slides down my ass to the top of my thigh. He deepens our kiss and his hand slips down to the hem of my skirt.

  As his palm meets my leg, every nerve ending in my body responds and I let out another strangled moan. I have tights on, but I want to feel his fingers digging into my flesh and my wool skirt is in the way. In fact, all of my clothes are in the way. My hand roams over his very muscular chest and just as Greyson’s lips find my neck and I open my eyes, the door to the clubhouse flies open and a flash erupts, sending me stumbling backwards into the couch, bringing Greyson down on top of me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Greyson’s off me in an instant. “What the…”

  I scramble to my feet in time to hear a deep male voice say, “Money shot.”

  Another voice laughs and says, “Bingo, baby.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” I step around Greyson to face two guys—in their early twenties, maybe—in black wooly caps and puffy coats.

  “Photo op of you two snogging,” the first guy says. “Don’t let us interrupt. You looked like you were well into it.”

  I look from him to Greyson at least twice before settling on Greyson. “What is this?”

  His brow furrows. “You’re asking me?” He steps towards the shorter of the two guys. “Give me your camera.”

  For the first time I notice the fancy Nikon around his neck. “Are these guys, like, proper photographers?” Lord, I wish I hadn’t had so much wine. I feel way too slow on the uptake.

  Greyson’s voice is cold. “I believe paparazzi is the correct term.”

  “Look, man, we’re just doing a job. Didn’t mean to ruin your moment,” the taller guy says. The camera around his neck is a Canon.

  His posture’s relaxed and he’s not anticipating Greyson’s lunge for his camera. For that matter, neither am I. But Greyson grabs the camera in one hand and the strap in the other in an attempt to take it from the photographer. Unfortunately, Greyson isn’t this guy’s first irate subject. He wraps an arm through the strap and twists away, calling to the other guy, “Time to bolt, man.”

  The other guy slips out the door while his friend tangles with Greyson, who still hasn’t let go of the camera strap, even though he’s losing his hold. “This is a private fucking moment, asshole.”

  The photographer laughs. “Aren’t they all?” He gives one more hard twist of the camera strap, causing Greyson to let go, and yells back as he jogs out the door, “Thanks for that. No harm, no foul, man.”

  Greyson starts after him, but I grab his arm. “What the hell is going on?”

  Greyson twists out of my grasp. “Seriously? You’re asking me?”

  Wine fog or not, I recognize that tone. Loud and clear. “Who else would I ask?” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t even understand what just happened.”

  “What just happened is those two men took photos of you and me in a compromising position that will be all over the internet within the hour. If that was your idea, then well done.”

  “You think I had something to do with this? Why would I do that?” My voice rises.

  Greyson’s does too. And then some. “Christ, I don’t know. But money talks. And you were the only one who knew we were going to be down here.”

  I open my mouth and close it again. He’s right. But… “It wasn’t me. I swear to God.”

  “You were very convincing. I thought what was happening between us was real.” The disgust in Greyson’s voice is clear now.

  I’m torn between embarrassment and disgust myself. But not that torn. “You know what? Fuck this. I don’t know much about the world you live in, but I know plenty about treating others with basic human decency and this isn’t it. I treat stray cats better than you’re treating me right now and I’m deathly allergic. You want to do something about your problem with Alexa Gayle? You’re on your own.”

  In my mind’s eye, I flounce out of the clubhouse gracefully, slamming the door behind me. In real life, I trip over the duvet and Greyson catches me before I face plant on the floor. I refuse to look at him and pull my arm away, but his grip is firm. Keeping my teeth clenched I say, “Let go of me, please.”

  He doesn’t say anything for twenty-six seconds. I know because I count with the intention of ripping his head off when I reach thirty. Then his voice is soft when he says, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My first instincts aren’t always my best ones.”

  I keep my eyes straight ahead. “You mean your first instinct is to accuse me of setting up a paparazzi shoot? Because that’s something I’d not even know the first thing about.”

  “That’s the one. I’m protective of my privacy and when it’s violated, I don’t think straight. I’m sorry.” Greyson sounds like he’s giving a sheepish smile and sure enough, there it is.

  I shake my head, feeling the fight going out of me. But it’s replaced with something that feels a lot like apathy. “I get it. I do. But that kiss that just happened? That’s not something I do every day. So the fact you’re so willing to think poorly of me makes me realize it’s probably commonplace for you. I mean, you’re Greyson Vaughn. Obviously. Even if you don’t snog a stranger every day, you could, with little or no regard. Which is fine. A kiss is just a kiss until it makes you feel cheap. Which is what you just did. So.”

  “I’m sorry. Truly, Claire. I mean it.” To his credit, Greyson looks sincere.

  I pull my arm out of his grasp and he lets go easily. “Thanks. Really. The pictures will get out, I assume, and you’ll be sorted as far as Alexa goes. That’s an unintentional bonus, right?”

  “It still doesn’t answer the question of where those guys came from,” Greyson says.

  “Doesn’t it?” I roll my eyes. “There’s only one other person here with the knowledge of how to even get in touch with these people, and I’m pretty sure you’re related to him. You might want to have a word.”

  Understanding dawns on Greyson’s face and I feel a pang of sympathy. He’s not a bad guy and, Lord, is he hot. Once I get over the sting of his accusation, I have no doubt this night will fuel a few fantasies. I step towards the door as his hand slips from my arm. “I’m, um, going to head up. Would you make sure to turn the light off when you leave?”

  He looks like he might stop me or offer to walk me back, but something in my face stops him because he just nods and watches me go.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday at Castle Calder passes quietly. Due in large part to Greyson’s early departure Sunday morning. So early, in fact, the only person
who saw him leave was my cousin, Nigel, who was up pacing the lobby, trying to coerce one of the boys back to sleep by pushing him in the pram through the castle.

  “Nigel said Greyson just left. Had a car waiting and he was gone,” I say. Scarlett’s helping me pack even though I could do it myself in no time. My train leaves in ninety minutes. Just enough time for a cup of tea with Grandmother and a lift to the station.

  Scarlett shakes her head. “I can’t believe he didn’t leave a note. I mean, all things considered.”

  All things being That Kiss. Which Twitter says “broke the internet,” both for the attention it received and Alexa Gayle’s response after being blindsided with it by EN. Julie Whatever-Her-Name-Is shoved her microphone in Alexa’s face and said, “So, Alexa, Greyson’s mystery woman became a little less of a mystery today.” She flashed a couple of glossy photos at Alexa. “You have to admit, this looks pretty genuine.”

  Alexa glanced at the photo of us kissing, then turned her attention to the photo of me, looking disheveled and very deer-in-the-headlights. She flicked the photo with one of her French-manicured fingertips. “I wish them every happiness. I mean, she’s going to need all the well wishes she can get.”

  She didn’t elaborate and Julie didn’t press her because speculation about Alexa’s remark was much more interesting than anything she could have said to clarify. Twitter seemed pretty evenly divided between the theory that Alexa was being a bitch—my own personal favorite—or I’d find out that Greyson still pined for Alexa and would end up heartbroken. Only a small contingent even thought about me in all of this. My personal favorite, from @VaughnFan4ever, was, “Hey what about the girl? She's into it and CAN YOU BLAME HER? Lucky bitch.”

  Into it? No doubt. But a kiss is just a kiss is just a kiss. No matter how hot it was.

  And that hot kiss is exactly what I don’t need to be thinking about. I shove a jumper into my case. “It’s all in a day’s work for him, Scarlett. Why would he leave a note?”