A Brit on the Side (Castle Calder Book 1)

by Brenda St John Brown

  Scarlett asks, “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to shower. I should at least pretend to be a functioning adult today.” I head for the bathroom as she murmurs and sinks down, pulling the duvet up over her shoulders. Knowing hungover Scarlett like I do, I’m pretty sure she’ll be sound asleep by the time I’m finished and it will take the four horsemen of the apocalypse to wake her.

  Thank God, because the only things I’ve unpacked so far are my robe and the clothes I threw on yesterday. I have to rummage around in my open suitcase on the floor to find something to wear and, while I’m at it, I decide to hang up the most wrinkled things, scraping the closet door open with a wince. Scarlett doesn’t move, though, her breathing deep and even. I debate drying my hair, but I’m not sure she’d sleep through that, so I pull it up into a wet ponytail, pull a zip-up sweatshirt over my capris and T-shirt, and softly close my bedroom door.

  For the time I’ve spent in the cottage today, I’ve been focused on the most direct path from the kettle to my bed, but now that I’m up, I realize it looks a lot more lived-in than yesterday. Claire’s sneakers are by the front door and a packet of crackers is open on the counter next to an empty glass. Judging by the crackers and Claire’s closed bedroom door, I wonder if she’s succumbed to feeling hungover too, even though she didn’t seem too bad last night.

  Then again, Scarlett expected me to be feeling worse than I do, so maybe none of us are very good judges while under the influence.

  I lift the sleeve of crackers from the table and glance at the nutritional info. One cracker equals twenty-four kcal? What the hell is a kcal? Is it the same as a regular calorie? I debate it for far less time than I normally would and grab a few crackers. As I take a bite, the flavor makes my mouth water and I reach for a few more. In my mind’s eye my mother shakes her head in that way she does, but I ignore it. I declare special hangover dispensation – and I can always run tomorrow.

  With a final glance at my closed bedroom door, I slip out of the cabin. The rain is lighter than I expected, based on how it sounded falling through the trees outside my bedroom, and it’s warmer than I thought it would be too. I start for the castle; my instinct is to go to the kitchen because it’s the only place I really know. But I’m not hungry for real food yet and I don’t want to have to make small talk with this Emma person, so instead I head down the other path.

  It’s quiet aside from a bird or two and twigs snapping in the brush. Compared to Atlanta, where the steady hum of traffic on the street outside, people walking by talking, and the occasional siren is the soundtrack of everyday life, the silence feels almost oppressive. I strain my ears to listen for a car or voices, but nada. It’s easy to imagine getting lost here, not necessarily in a good way.

  My imagination kicks into gear and I contemplate turning back towards the castle, small talk with Emma be damned. Just as I’m about to turn around, I see the tennis court before me – and Jasper, his back to me, painting a sign under the awning of a wooden building that must be the clubhouse.

  My first instinct is to turn around. Leave before he can see me and I find out exactly how dumb our conversation was last night. But then I remember it was him who Scarlett mocked, right after she said he was a little green this morning, and I think maybe it might be okay if I make a joke straightaway.

  Of course, I can’t think of anything even remotely funny and I’m still standing there staring when he turns around and says, “Hey. What are you up to?”

  I take a few tentative steps forward. “Just out exploring after Scarlett kicked me out of my bed.”

  Jasper smiles and it’s the kind of smile that lingers on his face when he speaks. “Little sis can’t handle her wine, can she?”

  I take another couple of steps until I’m at the gate of the tennis court. It would be weird to talk through the gate so I slip through. “She, uh, said you weren’t exactly feeling your best either.”

  “No, definitely not.” Jasper looks down and shakes his head, still grinning. “So, how much of an ass was I last night? Tell me the truth.”

  It’s my turn to grin. This Jasper – the self-effacing, easy-going, slightly disheveled guy – is the Jasper I hooked up with that weekend in Atlanta. It makes me feel more confident instead of less and I say, “On a scale of one to ten? I’d say about a seven.”

  He throws his head back, laughing. “Ouch. That bad? Really?”

  “Do you remember the conversation we had when you stayed in Atlanta about the proper way to eat corn on the cob?” I ask and he nods once, then starts shaking his head as I continue. “Twice as bad. At least.”

  “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. Because, as I recall, you eventually said you could see my point about the merits of eating a cone-shaped object in a circular pattern.” A smile still plays around his mouth, which gives me confidence to step forward until I’m standing next to him.

  “The fact you still remember your exact argument is probably the most alarming part of this whole conversation, to be honest.” I point at the sign. “What are you doing?”

  He doesn’t answer me. In fact, until I look directly at him, he doesn’t say anything at all. Once my eyes meet his, he says, “There’s a lot I remember about that weekend.”

  I swallow and pray my voice doesn’t squeak when I speak. “Do you?”

  “I always wished we kept in touch. I mean, not through Scarlett, but…”

  “Me too. I mean, except…” How do I say except for the fact you’re my best friend’s brother and I never told her about you? I don’t, obviously. Instead, I amp up my smile and say, “Except we didn’t. But we can catch up this summer, right?”

  “Sure. Right.” Jasper’s smile wavers like maybe he expected me to say more.

  But nope. Nope, nope, nope. I’m not going to make things eternally awkward between us on my second day. I’m not. I turn to the sign, my smile stretched thin. “So, what are you doing? You don’t strike me as the artistic type.”

  “No, but…” Jasper waves towards the sign with a flourish. “I am painting the rules of the court, which sounds far more noble when you say it that way, yes?”

  “Rules of the court as in ladies must carry a handkerchief at all times and men’s shorts must be an exact shade of white?”

  “I wish. Regrettably, it’s more mundane things like, ‘Persons must use tennis equipment on the tennis courts.’” Jasper points to the sign, which actually does say that. “We had a few kids a couple summers ago who used the tennis court for everything but tennis. And while my father admired their inventiveness, the people actually trying to play tennis were not so appreciative.”

  This time when I smile, it’s genuine. “The Brits take their tennis seriously, do they?”

  “As the birthplace of Wimbledon? Of course.” Jasper grins. “Plus, it absolves us from liability to have the rules posted. Health and safety, you know.”

  I glance at the sign and read rule number eight. “Players are limited to one hour on the court at peak times. Do you, like, have a waiting list and everything?”

  “You joke, but when we’re busy, this court sees a lot of action. People sign up at breakfast and plan their day around their court time. I mean, imagine if you signed up for a three o’clock court time and when you got here, you didn’t get the court for another hour. You’d be annoyed.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be signing up to play tennis on my vacation, honestly.”

  “Right. The whole hand-eye thing.” Jasper says this easily as if this was a conversation we had two days ago instead of two years ago.

  But coupled with his earlier remark, it makes me take notice. As we’d walked through Piedmont Park that weekend we explored Atlanta together, past a group playing Ultimate Frisbee, I’d made a joke about how I couldn’t catch to save my life. In fact, if my life depended on it, I’d be dead in less than sixty seconds. We’d both laughed and Jasper swore he’d never make me play anything where catching was required.

&nb
sp; In the grand scheme of things, it was a casual conversation, certainly not memorable, except for the flirty tone and the way we accidentally-on-purpose jostled against each other. Obviously we both remember it, which makes me wonder exactly how much more of that weekend Jasper remembers. I’d ask, except, well, I scolded myself earlier and was pretty damn clear about it.

  Instead I say, “I’ve improved a bit, you’ll be happy to know. I’m not quite as dire as I used to be. Now I’d probably live for two minutes if my life depended on playing a sport involving a ball.” Thanks to Theo and his quest for us to find a sport we could enjoy together, I can actually play a decent game of tennis. Whether I’d choose to play willingly is another matter altogether.

  Jasper’s eyebrows go up. “Impressive. I think I might have to see it to believe it.”

  “Is that a challenge, sir?” I put on my best scowl.

  “Are you taking it as one?” Jasper scowls back at me, but he can’t hide the smile lurking behind it.

  “I think I might be, in fact.” I point to the sign. “Obviously our match couldn’t exceed one hour, so I’d have to beat you quickly.”

  “Nor can you use a cricket bat, thinking it will give you an advantage.”

  I grin, reciting rule number four. “Proper footwear is required.” I point to my sandals. “I need to unpack my sneakers before I can beat you.”

  “Trainers, please. You’re in Britain now.” Jasper takes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest. “As for you beating me, that remains to be seen.”

  “Name the day and time and I’ll be there, trainers on.” I put my hands on my hips. “Unless, you know, you don’t think you’re up to it. I understand if you’re not. Some people have a thing about being beaten by a girl--”

  “I am not one of those people, thank you very much. In fact, if you win, I’ll take you to dinner, my treat.”

  My head screams date, but I stop the thought in its tracks. Well, I try. It’s still clamoring for my attention as I say, “And if you win?”

  Jasper’s eyes lock on mine and I feel my stomach flutter at the intensity of his gaze. His voice is low when he says, “I’ll take you to dinner, my treat.”

  Date incoming.

  Date incoming.

  This time I can’t stop the thought from taking flight, flinging itself around the corners of my brain like a bird in a cage. And when I open my mouth, it escapes. Dammit. “That sounds like a date.”

  “It could be.” Jasper bites the corner of his lip in a way that makes me want to touch him. “If you want it to be.”

  Do you want it to be?

  It takes all of my willpower not to ask. Every last bit. Instead, I raise my eyebrows and force myself to sound casual. “We’ll see, I guess.”

  “I guess we will.”

  Cue another intense gaze, but this time I have to look away. “So when shall we have this epic match of ours?”

  “Well, here’s the thing. You’re either going to have to find your trainers now or we’ll have to wait until Monday. The Fisher party’s going to take up the whole weekend.” Jasper’s tone is impossible to read.

  You don’t owe him anything, you know.

  There’s that bird in the cage again, but this one is familiar. It’s the same one that kept score with Theo. I take a deep breath. Jasper isn’t Theo. And he’s not acting like him. In fact, he’s still acting like Atlanta Jasper.

  So I’m not sure why the words that come out of my mouth are, “I don’t want to wake up Scarlett, so Monday it is.”

  His face falls. Just a fraction, but I see it before he rearranges his mouth into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No skiving off from the Fisher party to get some extra practice in.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” I smile, too, and I’m about to say something about the Fisher party, but Jasper turns back to his paintbrush and I feel like I’ve been dismissed. “Okay, um, I guess I’ll let you get back to it. I should probably go find some food before dinner starts anyway.”

  Jasper nods. “Good idea. Lou won’t like you in her kitchen if you’re not helping.”

  He dips the brush in the yellow paint and turns toward the board. I shove my hands in the pockets of my hoodie and say, “Okay, well, I’ll see you when I see you, I guess.”

  “Sure. See you when I see you.” He doesn’t look away from the board.

  I wait another few seconds before I shuffle off, my sandals slapping against my heels as I start back along the path. I almost look back, but I don’t. Because what if Jasper’s looking after me?

  Or worse, what if he’s not?

  Chapter Seven

  The next time I see Jasper, it’s Saturday afternoon, I’ve got flour in my hair and chocolate smeared across my collarbone from a mishap with the mixer as I helped to make brownies. I’d feel self-conscious if not for the fact he looks worse, the front of his T-shirt dotted with red that looks suspiciously like blood and one leg of his plaid shorts covered in dirt. As he walks into the kitchen, Lou stops him. “You can’t come in here like that. Go wash yourself up first.”

  Jasper shoves his glasses up his nose, leaving a streak of dirt on his face. “Please. I’m begging you. If I don’t eat something, I’m going to die.”

  Scarlett, who’s been in the hot kitchen as long as I have, yet somehow looks like she stepped out of a Cosmo country living spread, says, “Are those vile kids still rolling down the hill?”

  “They moved on to the playground, where one of them decided to try to jump from the rope bridge to the slide and cut his leg. Of course, the mother’s been drinking Buck’s Fizz all day, so when I went to get her, she was no help and I ended up hauling the kid back to Mum, screaming the whole way,” Jasper says.

  “You or him?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid it will be me if I have to go back out there.” He turns to Lou. “Please don’t make me face them again until I’ve eaten. I’ll wash up in the produce sink and I promise to be careful and not contaminate anything.”

  Lou rolls her eyes. “Use the sink next to Bea. I’ll get you a plate. Ploughman’s okay?”

  “Cheese and bread? Sure.” Jasper moves towards me. “I’d probably eat liver at this point.”

  “Ew.” I grimace and stick my tongue out. “I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry enough for liver.”

  “Never say never.” Jasper turns on the tap. “So what’s your Fisher horror story? Or haven’t they scarred you yet?”

  “Bea’s serving tonight, so that’s not a fair question right now,” Scarlett says.

  Jasper’s eyes widen as he looks at me. “That’s a big leap. I didn’t think you’d worked in a restaurant before?”

  “I haven’t, but Claire hurt her knee. She’s fine to stand, but she can’t go back and forth to the kitchen all night,” I explain.

  Jasper turns the tap off and turns to Scarlett. “I thought Emma was coming in?”

  “She is, but she’ll never work the dining room. And the only other person is Will and he’s on the bar,” Scarlett says as she dumps a pile of potato peels into the compost bin.

  “So it’s you, Bea, and me for the whole Fisher party tonight?” Jasper asks.

  “You know Mum will be there to help out.” Scarlett shoots me a grin. “Besides, have a little faith. I think Bea will be fine.”

  I’m about to agree with her, but Jasper says, “The second the Fishers realize she’s never waitressed before, they’ll eat her alive.”

  “So we make sure they don’t realize,” Scarlett says.

  But three hours later when I’ve got three bowls of broccoli-stilton soup going cold on the counter and my hand is under the cold water because I’ve burned it, I’m not sure Scarlett, Jasper, and entire Royal Navy could protect me against the Fishers. Jasper was right; they are vile. Even the adults. I observed them from afar last night; since they’d prearranged a cold buffet with Mrs. St Julien to allow for varying arrival times, I’d helped Lou with the prep in the afternoon and then had a free pass the re
st of the night, which I spent playing Fuck, Marry, Kill with Claire and Scarlett over a glass of wine in the cabin. Unlike the first night, we kept it to a single glass in anticipation of today and good thing. I can’t imagine dealing with these people hungover.

  I’d pay actual money to be back on that couch right now, even sans wine. Instead, I turn off the tap and dry my hand on my apron, going for attempt number two with the soup. If Angela Fisher says one thing about having to wait, I guarantee I’m going to tell her exactly where she can shove her waiting. The thought makes me smile, and I push past my mother’s voice in my head, though not before I hear it anyway. Nice girls don’t speak like that, Beatrice.

  I make a face and pick up the soup. Nice girls don’t break off their engagements to their perfectly nice fiancés either. “Are you okay, Bea?” Claire calls. She’s taken up residence by the stovetop--aka hob--where she’s stirring soup, sautéing vegetables, and making gravy while perched on a stool, leaning heavily on her left leg.

  “I’m good. Just trying not to end up wearing this,” I say.

  “Well, if you’re going to spill it…” Claire grins and I nod as I push the door.

  If I’m going to spill anything, I’ll aim right for Angela Fisher. She sits at the head of the table, swinging her long blonde hair and snapping her fingers at her kids, who are running amok through the dining room. She also snaps her fingers at any of the staff walking by who catch her eye and, unfortunately, it’s me who’s caught her eye most often.

  Now, when I bring over her soup and set it in front of her, she holds up her glass. “More Prosecco when you get a moment?”

  I nod and deliver the rest of the soup – one to ninety-year-old Mr. Fisher, whose birthday weekend it is, and one to a teenage girl who’s already declared it’s the only thing she’s eating tonight. Then I go back for Angela Fisher’s glass and head for the bar, setting it down a little too hard in front of Will, the barman from the pub down the street, who apparently works here when the St Julien’s have a lot of bookings.