I nod, letting my head thud against the wooden door behind me. “I called you as soon as I got in. I haven’t taken it off yet. Where are you?”
Greyson glances from side to side. “Some hotel in Manchester.”
“Scarlett said you were spotted in London?”
“Possibly. I was probably also spotted on a yacht in the Canaries, but I promise you I’m in Manchester. I’m doing a breakfast show tomorrow and then heading back to London.” Greyson’s voice softens. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to come up during the breakfast show, by the way.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“They’re going to ask who you are and whether it’s serious. I’ll deflect, don’t worry, but it won’t help, at least in the short term.”
“Does this mean I need to worry about who’s outside of my apartment tomorrow?” The prospect makes my stomach lurch.
“I’ll say you’re in London for good measure.”
“Which is why you want me to come to this preview with you on Thursday? So I can be seen in London?”
“No. I’ll mention you’re in London because then they’ll be on the look out for you there. As for the premiere, the red carpet is a statement. If we’re out together at an industry event, it’s full photo op. There’s no need to try to find you because you’re out there. This was never supposed to turn into a thing where you end up being harassed.” Greyson’s lips twist into a half-smile. “Of course, the money shot was never supposed to be that good either.”
I smile and it feels like the first genuine one I’ve had today. “It wasn’t exactly holding hands in front of the fire.”
Greyson smiles too. It’s dazzling. “Hell no, it wasn’t.”
“Hence the problem.” My smile fades. “You know. The one I still have with the potential for swarms of photographers outside my flat?”
Greyson laughs. “There won’t be swarms of photographers. I swear.”
I bite my lip. “I’m glad you think this is funny.”
“Oh, Claire. Remember how I said I’m an asshole?” Greyson’s smile wanes. “I should’ve led with an apology, but I’m sorry. Truly. For putting you in this situation and for worrying you. I even ruined your weekend with your family. That’s part of the reason I left this morning. It felt like the least I could do.”
I bark out a laugh. “I spent today holed up in the St Juliens’ apartment with Scarlett, questioning your motives, which is still preferable to time with my grandmother. So.”
“What kind of questions did you have?” Greyson raises an eyebrow.
I let out a snort. It’s not attractive, but I’m not sure I care. “What kind of questions didn’t I have for the guy who made me weak in the knees and then disappeared?”
“Weak in the knees? Is that what I did?”
Okay, that’s flirtatious. Especially in combination with the bedroom eyes sexing their way through my screen. “No way. You’re not charming your way out of this.”
I push myself to my feet. It’s not graceful, but whatever. I shrug my jacket off and let it fall to the floor as Greyson says, “What? What did I do?”
“You’re doing the same thing you did the other night. Giving me your best Greyson Vaughn.” I flop onto my sofa. “I called you because some random bloke called me out at the corner of my street and it freaked me out and you haven’t given me one concrete suggestion for what to actually do about it.”
“Untrue. I gave you a very good suggestion, but you didn’t like it. Come to London to the premiere with me.” Greyson sits up straighter.
“Why? To prove I exist? I’m pretty sure I do, thanks very much. Did you know there was a Twitter poll someone started about whether I’m an actress too? I was flattered, until I realized that doesn’t help you out of the spot you were in with Alexa if the implication is that I’m acting. And then I got pissed because why should I even care when you left without saying goodbye?” Whew, my voice has risen at least two octaves while I’ve been ranting.
Greyson’s is exactly the opposite, lower than James Earl Jones’s. “Were you? Acting?”
I watch myself in the little square in the corner open and close my mouth without speaking. When I do speak, it’s to ask, “Were you?”
He shakes his head. “The last kiss I had like that was Kelsey McKay in ninth grade. I had a huge crush on her and I finally got up the nerve to ask her to Homecoming. I was a dork back then, but for some reason she said yes. We went to the dance and during a slow song she put her arms around me and kissed me like I was the only guy in the world for her. We went out for six months until the captain of the basketball team asked her out and she dumped me in the hallway one day in between math and English.”
“Wow.” I don’t even know what I’m reacting to, but it’s the only thing I can think of to say.
“When Michael suggested you pose as a love interest to help with the Alexa situation, he sold it to me by saying, ‘It’s either Claire or you’ll need to find a way out of this without it getting messy.’ Because getting involved with me can be messy and I know that.” Greyson stops talking like he’s finished.
Like hell he is. “Okay?”
Greyson leans forward until his face fills the screen. “I never intended to kiss you that way, let alone feel the way I did about it after the fact. But I did, and I do, and it’s messy despite my best intentions.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying.” I think it’s something big and unexpected and I’ll be damned if I leave it hanging there for misinterpretation.
“I’m saying that if we stuck to the script, we’d have deflected the Alexa thing well enough that it would fade into oblivion and we’d go our separate ways. The end. But we improvised and here we are, with a bunch of hot photos making the rounds of the internet, and me wondering if that kiss was a fluke like Kelsey McKay or if kiss number two would be just as great.” Greyson backs away from the screen.
“So Kelsey McKay wasn’t the real deal?” It’s easier to ask this question than the other one ricocheting around my brain.
“She was, but that’s not the point,” Greyson says.
“So what is the point?” I ask softly. “I think you’re going to have to tell it to me straight because I’m not getting it.”
“You don’t make it easy on a guy, you know,” Greyson gives me a look I think I’m supposed to interpret as chagrined, but I can’t when he looks so cute doing it.
“I’m not trying to make it easy on you. And you haven’t answered my question.” My voice is stern, but I feel my mouth twitch with the beginnings of a smile.
“I haven’t met someone like you in a very long time. You’re funny and smart and gorgeous and you don’t seem to care about my resume. But I’m also aware that you’re a normal person living a normal life and being seen with me on any consistent basis changes that. It changes everything.” Greyson stops talking like he’s finished again, but this time I think he is because that was pretty damn clear.
So clear, it’s amazing my voice is even when I say, “So you asking me to this premiere? Is that your back door way of asking me on a date or is it about the publicity?”
“It’s my way of asking you on a date so I can call it publicity if you say no.” Greyson smiles.
“Coward.” Fuck a duck, my heart is doing weird fluttery things. “So, what does a person wear to a premiere?”
“A dress? If you come up early on Thursday, we can get you something. One of the women in the film works at Ted Baker and she’s hooked up pretty much the whole cast.” Greyson shrugs and has the grace to look sheepish as he adds, “If you’re worried about cost, please don’t. I mean, I’ll take care of it. I know it’s not something you’d normally think about and I don’t want you to have to worry.”
I consider reminding him that his grandfather is about to deposit a pretty generous check into my account on his behalf, but that would take away from the whole moment. And it is A Moment. “Greyson Vaughn just asked me on a date. Shine an everlastin
g light.” It comes out in a pseudo whisper and I laugh. “Sorry, I had to say that.”
“Does that mean you’ll come?” Greyson asks. He quirks his brow in a way that makes me think it might be appropriate to make a double entendre joke, but I chicken out.
Instead I nod in slow motion. “I think it does.”
Greyson smiles and I swear it’s bright enough to power Brighton Pier. “That’s awesome. Thank you.”
We spend a few more minutes talking about mundane things like logistics, but the rest of our conversation is short and five minutes later I’m sitting on the sofa in my very quiet apartment, staring at my black phone screen wondering if that even happened.
Until a text comes through from Greyson, which says, I’m looking forward to seeing you and picking up where we were interrupted last night.
I text back a smiley face and then sit there, clutching my phone with the same goofy smile on my own face. I have a date with Greyson Vaughn. A real one with no mention of our deal in sight.
Chapter Nineteen
Greyson charms his way through his breakfast show appearance on Monday morning and, true to his word, alludes that his mystery woman is London-based. I watch the interview so many times on BBC iPlayer that anyone monitoring my internet usage would call me obsessed. I prefer to think of it as thorough. Because the more I rewatch Greyson’s interview, the more relaxed I feel walking out my front door. There’s no one lurking because he’s sent any would-be lurkers off on a wild goose chase to London. Easy peasy.
By the time Thursday comes around, I’ve become so caught up in my usual routine of working and being late to class that an errant photographer is the last thing on my mind. I’ve also been texting Greyson so much my phone feels like an extension of my hand. So I’m juggling my phone in one hand and a tray of dirty coffee cups in the other during my early morning shift at Brew Brothers when the guy from Sunday night saunters in, sending me scurrying for the spot behind the deli case. I’m not hiding, exactly, as much as observing, and yep, same neat beard, same grey coat, but he wears a green jumper this time. I eye him as he approaches the counter, but he doesn’t look any more familiar now than he did before. But he’s here where I work, which feels awfully coincidental after he was just outside of my flat a few days ago.
Bugger me sideways. I grab the tray of dirty coffee cups and fly through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Ben, the dishwasher, takes my tray from me and says, “You okay, miss?”
Maybe. Or maybe not. As far as I can tell, no one at Brew Brothers knows about “that kiss” and I want to keep it that way, so the last thing I need is to run into the kitchen ranting about paparazzi. Instead I focus on Ben. He’s sixteen, so I realize I seem ancient to him, but I still hate him calling me miss and he knows it. “Fine, little one. You?”
“Is Dr. Lindencott out there getting your knickers in a twist?” Amelia asks from the counter where she’s assembling sandwiches for the deli case. Amelia’s my age, give or take a couple of years, but she’s the backbone of Brew Brothers. Technically the shop belongs to her two brothers, but I’ve never seen either one of them working as hard or as much as Amelia.
I roll my eyes. Dr. Lindencott is my advisor and the head of the marketing department at Bath University. He’s also an avid cyclist with brown, wavy hair and a killer smile. I’m pretty sure every girl in my program has had a crush on him at one time or another, including me. A confidence I shared with Amelia one day. Unfortunately. Now every time he comes in for coffee, Amelia’s got match-making on her mind. “Nope. My knickers are fine, thank you. He’s here for his coffee like everyone else.”
“Like everyone else?” Amelia glances at Ben and says, “Oh, I don’t think he’s like everyone else at all. Should I elaborate and risk corrupting a minor?”
“Hey, I could probably teach you a thing or two,” Ben calls out from the sink. “Just saying.”
I shuffle closer to Amelia so Ben can’t hear me over the sound of the gushing water. “It’s not like that. I swear.”
“But you like him, right? Maybe you should offer to liven up his latte?” Amelia shakes her head, swinging her straight black bob so a few hairs end up in her mouth and she has to spit them back out.
I laugh. “I don’t think that’s appropriate. Remember the part where I mentioned he’s my advisor?”
“You’re graduating in a couple of months. No one would ever know.” Amelia’s not much for rules. For her, the fact that he’s my advisor makes him more appealing instead of less.
“I would know. Plus, I wouldn’t want to give him a reason to fail me at this point.” I laugh and Amelia joins in.
“Well, obviously. Although it would give you a reason to stay in Bath because I’m not enough.” Amelia pretend-pouts.
We’ve had versions of this conversation for months, but both of us know my goal is to end up in London. “Yeah, yeah.” I keep my voice easy as I continue. “You’re still good to cover for me Saturday, right?”
“Yep, I’m good. I hope you’re hooking up with someone because I can’t believe you’re giving up the weekend shifts two weeks in a row.”
I can’t either, to be honest. Friday afternoons at Brew Brothers are filled with a regular crowd of yummy mummies who tip well, followed by students from the university who ask to turn up the music and turn closing on a Friday into a party. Saturdays are steady, with a mix of students, tourists, and locals—another day where time goes fast and the potential for tips is high. I missed last weekend for my obligatory family trip to Castle Calder and this weekend I’ve agreed to spend an extra night in London with Greyson. Possibly two, since Brew Brothers is closed on Sundays.
None of which I’ve told Amelia. I move and start stacking plates in their plastic carrying crates to take up front as they come out of the steamy dishwasher. “Don’t worry. I won’t make it a habit, but I appreciate you taking my shifts this time.”
“Who-hoo, miss. You gonna get lucky?” Ben asks.
If the conversations Greyson and I have had the last couple of days are any indication, then quite possibly. I smile sweetly at Ben and pick up the crate of dishes. “I’m already lucky because I’ve got you in my life, little one.”
“Too right,” Ben calls after me.
I hit the door with my hip and head to the deli case with the dishes. Only to come face-to-face with Mr. Grey Coat himself. “Hey. You’re the girl I met the other night.”
“Um?” Shit. I don’t know what to say, so I quit while I’m not behind.
“I’m Simon. I’m in town doing some historical research at the baths.” He raises his eyebrows, but my expression stays blank and he says, “You know, the Roman baths in the middle of town?”
“Um, yes. I know. I mean, that’s great. Wow.” I balance the crate of dishes between a nearby table and my hip and blurt out, “So you’re not a photographer?”
“I’m photographing the baths. In fact, I got an amazing shot the other day as the sun was shining in and lighting up the water so it almost looked blue instead of that weird green color.” Simon reaches in his pocket and pulls out a digital camera.
Which puts me on high alert like I haven’t been since, well, Sunday night. I duck my head, raise my hands to my face and take a step backwards, causing the crate of dishes to crash to the floor. But Simon’s still waving his camera at me and instead of apologizing or saying anything sane I say, “Stop. Please, stop.”
Simon doesn’t respond at first, but when I glance up at him he shakes his head and says, “Wow, what’s your problem? I was going to show you the photo of the baths, but never mind.”
He doesn’t sound angry as much as confused and I don’t blame him. But I can’t explain it to him, so I bend down and start picking up pieces of porcelain from the floor. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood.” I look up and offer a weak smile. “I had some bad candid photos taken recently and I haven’t quite recovered.”
Simon takes a step back and this time the look on his face has pass
ed confused and moved to very serious. “You should see someone about that. It’s not doing you any good.”
“No, it’s really not.” My laugh starts out soft and nervous, but it grows until it’s a full-out belly laugh as the ridiculousness of my reaction dawns on me. Simon walks away–straight out of the shop, in fact–without a backwards glance.
I only stop laughing when Amelia comes out with the broom and dustpan. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yes. Sorry, I wasn’t paying enough attention.” To the signs that Simon was a nerdy history student and nothing more. The thought makes me have to fight to control my laughter again.
“No worries. Why don’t you go take a few minutes? You look like you could use a break.” Amelia’s tone is easy, but when I pop into the loo and look in the mirror, I’m surprised she wasn’t harsher.
My cheeks are flushed, my hair is askew, and my cardigan is buttoned wrong. The latter has nothing to do with Simon, but it doesn’t help. I feel a pang of embarrassment, but it doesn’t last. Because even though I made a complete fool of myself, I know now Simon wasn’t a photographer stalking me when he approached me Sunday night. He was just a guy who’s good with faces and probably has too much time on his hands. Relief runs through my veins like warm water.
I fish my mobile from my pocket and pull up the string of messages between Greyson and me. My fingers fly over the screen as I type: The guy who I thought was a photog is really a historian. I’m obviously rubbish at your celebrity lifestyle thing.
Greyson’s response comes five seconds later: Best news of the day so far.
I smile at the screen because I know his response isn’t about Simon the historian at all, and I type: Best news of the day is that I’ll be there in five hours.
Greyson’s reply makes me laugh out loud. It also makes my heart dance in my chest because it’s so perfect. And all it says is: 4:59.
A Brit Unexpected (Castle Calder Book 2) Page 12
