Stars Over Castle Hill: A Joss and Braden Novella

by Samantha Young

  His brows creased together as he stared at me.

  “What is it?” I said.

  Braden gave a slight shake of his head. “Looking at you … the way you are right now in this cab, the look on your face … it … I just got the strangest sense of déjà vu.”

  “Maybe we’ve been here before in another life,” I cracked, glad for a distraction.

  “Maybe,” he murmured, and just like that he was back to staring at me in that smoldering way of his.

  I looked away, pretending control, pretending indifference.

  However, it was hard to maintain the façade when Braden insisted on walking me up to my apartment.

  “I’ve got the cab waiting,” he said at the main door. “I’m only walking you up to your flat. Nothing more.”

  Sensing the futility of arguing with a man who was used to getting his own way, I let him do the gentlemanly thing.

  Even if the seemingly simple touch of his hand on my back made me want to rip his clothes off.

  “This is me,” I said, stopping at my door.

  Braden looked around the stairwell. “This is a nice building. In Morningside. Not cheap.” His speculative gaze returned to me. “You must be doing better with your books than you let on.”

  “I inherited money.” As soon as the words were out, I wondered why the hell I’d volunteered them.

  This man … oh, he was definitely a devil or something, managing to obtain information from me that I’d kept from everyone else.

  He raised his eyebrows but didn’t press the topic. Instead he moved his body into mine and I stepped back to avoid him. But there was nowhere to go as I found my back pressed to my door, Braden’s body touching mine.

  He leaned into me and I closed my eyes, my breath caught in my throat.

  And then I felt his lips on my cheek, and instead of relief, I felt disappointment.

  My eyes opened as he drifted back from me and his expression sharpened at whatever he saw in mine.

  “Fuck, Jocelyn,” he said hoarsely. “Do you even know what you want?”

  I shook my head.

  With a glower of frustration, Braden stepped back and turned away.

  My stomach dropped, realizing I’d messed up with all my mixed signals, and I fumbled for my key in my purse, turning to face the door in case the tears I felt building in my throat broke forth.

  But I felt the heat, the strength of one hand wrapping around my biceps, the other clasping the nape of my neck, and he was there, my body crushed to his as his lips covered mine. I dropped my purse, my keys, my wrap fluttering to the floor as I clung to him. The smell of him, the sexual dance of his tongue with mine, the feel of his warm hands gripping me tight it … It all overpowered me and I made a throaty sound I couldn’t control.

  Braden’s hand tightened on my nape and he groaned, the vibration of it surging through me, skimming down my body like hands teasing my nipples, whispering across my belly and sliding home between my legs. His kiss grew harder, more demanding—long, drugging kisses that stole my breath. We were panting and pulling at each other’s mouths like we couldn’t get deep enough, my nails digging into the fabric of his suit.

  When I became aware of his erection digging into my stomach, I was lost. My belly squeezed and I whimpered against his mouth. My need grew hungrier as Braden’s hand slid up my waist, brushing my breast and coming to a stop at one thin spaghetti strap of my dress. He broke the kiss, pulling back only an inch to gaze into my eyes. His own were dark, his lashes lowered over them, his lips bruised. I felt two of his fingers slide under my strap and then he froze.

  Frustration and something else warred in his expression, and then his hand dropped back to my waist and he leaned his forehead against mine.

  His grip on my waist tightened, as if he was afraid I was going to run away.

  “Braden?” I whispered.

  His eyes opened and he lifted his head, gently let go of me, and stepped away. “Gentleman,” he reminded me with a wry smile.

  But it wasn’t his usual controlled, cocky smile. It was slightly off-kilter.

  Like he couldn’t believe how explosive it was between us.

  If he hadn’t stopped, I don’t know what would have happened.

  I’d felt so lost in him, it wouldn’t have surprised me if I’d let him push my dress up and have his wicked way with me right in my stairwell.

  “Right,” I said, a little breathlessly.

  His eyes washed over me, and his expression turned pained. “Fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I need to leave.”

  I nodded, bending slowly down for my keys and purse, shocked by the trembles coursing through me.

  “I’ll call you,” he said, drawing my gaze back to him.

  Now the look in his eyes was fierce, determined. “Braden …”

  “I’ll call you, Jocelyn. And you’ll pick up.”

  I glared at him. “So goddamn bossy.”

  He gave me a slow, sexual smile that almost lit my underwear on fire. “Babe, you have no idea.”

  And on that note, he turned and sauntered down my stairwell and out of sight.

  “What does that mean?” I whispered, imagining handcuffs and whips.

  I shivered at the thought as I fumbled to let myself inside my apartment.

  I wasn’t into the whips idea … but handcuffs … and a bossy Braden in bed?

  Let’s just say I undressed and took a long, cold shower.

  After freezing my butt off, I calmed down and climbed into bed, feeling exhausted.

  My phone buzzed on my bedside table and I reached for it, almost afraid of it. The screen lit up and I clicked on the incoming text.

  It was from Braden.

  Are you free this Saturday?

  Confused, I lay there, knowing that if I didn’t answer one way or the other, I wasn’t going to get any sleep. The truth was I knew what my answer would be. Braden unsettled me, but I was pushing through the fear, because as much as he unsettled me, I craved our next encounter.

  Yes. What did you have in mind?

  A few seconds later, he replied.

  Dinner. I’ll pick you up at 7. Do you like French?

  My lips twitched as I fought the desire to reply with something dirty. But I’d warned him against it, so I had to play fair.

  Sounds good. See you then.

  Closing my eyes, I was surprised when I got another text from him.

  Night, babe. xx

  Feeling the endearment deep in my chest, I didn’t reply. I laid down the phone and flipped over onto my side, fighting the sudden desire to burst into tears.

  It had been a long time since I’d been anyone’s babe, or baby, or sweetheart.

  I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.

  The Dates

  We stood on Haddington Place looking down the steps to a basement shop. After having met Braden for coffee, he’d insisted we take a stroll down Leith Walk. Next thing I knew, he’d stopped us here. We were confronted by green double doors, to the left of which was a large window. It curved with the wall and was made up of many little square panes by green-painted wooden frames. Above the window was a black sign with “McNaughtans” painted in traditional gold lettering.

  “What is this place?” I looked up at Braden to find him staring at me.

  I found him doing this a lot.

  Since our opera date two weeks ago, we’d been on one date to the French restaurant. We were now on our third date. Braden was keen, interested in me, and he didn’t mind showing it.

  He was also hilarious, intelligent, confident, and kind.

  Sexy as hell, too.

  And although he had yet to do more than brush a kiss across my lips since our last encounter, he had not ceased in saying incredibly suggestive things to me throughout our dat
es. I was beginning to think he was a tease. And I was beginning to think it was a deliberate strategy to get me so sexually frustrated, I’d throw myself at him. At least I hoped that’s what it was. I actually couldn’t work out why we hadn’t had sex yet.

  “You’ve never been here before?” Braden quirked an eyebrow at me, seeming surprised.

  “No.”

  “You? The writer? The lover of books? The wielder of words? The mistress of the pen? You’ve never been to McNaughtans?”

  I rolled my eyes at his teasing. “No. I’ve never punched a man, either. That doesn’t mean I won’t.”

  Braden chuckled and nudged my shoulder with his. “McNaughtans is the oldest secondhand and antiquarian bookshop in Scotland.”

  I felt sheepish. “Shit.” I stared down at the shop front. “How did I not know about this?”

  He shrugged and grabbed my hand, leading me downstairs. “It’s also an art gallery.”

  For a moment all I was aware of was the warm strength of Braden holding my hand. My fingers wanted to tighten, hold on. Thankfully, before I could do that, the rich, musty smell of books overwhelmed me. I stopped in the store, and stared.

  Old wooden floorboards and wooden shelving lined the walls; little narrow doorways led to more books, more bookshelves. Everything about the space was quaint and bookish. Deliciously bookish.

  It was a special place.

  Sensing my diverted attention, Braden released me and I gravitated to the nearest bookshelf. My eyes traveled over the old leather- and cloth-bound books, widening when I saw how old some of the editions were.

  Books are amazing.

  Obviously.

  But old books … There was something extraordinary about picking up an old book and knowing that someone a hundred years before you were born had read it. An old book was a story within stories—it belonged to the story within its own pages but it also belonged to the story of all of the people who’d read it, all the people whose words it had made an impression upon.

  I don’t know how long I meandered around the store, my fingertips trailing along the shelves. It must have been a while because I was startled to a stop by a hand on my waist. Braden’s deep voice rumbled in my ear and just like that, the spell the books had cast over me was broken by the visceral one Braden was casting. “It seems it was a bad idea to bring you here.” His lips brushed my ear.

  I felt the heat of his body behind mine and a surge of tingles caressed my breasts. The need to lean against him and have him touch me was so strong, I was breathless. What the hell was this guy doing to me?

  “I like it here.” I stepped away from him, shooting him a smile over my shoulder.

  Braden stared down at me as if he were trying to work me out. “Yes. But I pale in comparison to this, right?”

  I smirked and shook my head. “You don’t need me to stroke your ego, Mr. Carmichael. You know you’re interesting enough to hold a person’s attention.” I stopped, staring at an 1843 edition of The Pathfinder.

  “Your attention, Jocelyn?”

  At the sudden seriousness of his tone, I looked over my shoulder at him. The searching expression in his eyes made my heart speed up. It seemed he was feeling me out, creeping up on me slowly, but with every intention of eventually delving inside of me and discovering all my secrets.

  No one had ever shown such interest in me before. It was at once thrilling and scary.

  “You have my attention,” I admitted with a shrug. Before he could reply, I gestured around us. “How did you know about this place?”

  To my relief, he accepted the subject change. “I’ve lived in this city my whole life. Plus, I used to bring Hannah here.”

  “Hannah?”

  “Ellie’s sister.”

  I frowned. “I thought Ellie was your sister so …”

  He laughed. “We have a modern family. Ellie is my half-sister. Hannah is Ellie’s half-sister.”

  At my raised eyebrows, he explained, “Ellie’s mum Elodie got pregnant by my dad with Ellie after my parents divorced. Then my dad left Elodie and Elodie eventually married her husband Clark. They have a daughter, Hannah, and a son, Declan. Technically not blood-related to me, but I consider them my brother and sister as much as Ellie is.”

  I felt a pang of envy and gave him my back so he couldn’t see. “So Hannah is a reader?”

  “Yes. She’s twenty-two now. An English teacher,” he answered, his voice deep with affection. “As soon as Abby was born, Hannah began instilling a love of books in her. She brings Abby here now.”

  “What?” I smiled curiously at the way he shook his head, as if in disbelief.

  “Sometimes I wonder where the years went. It doesn’t seem so long ago that Hannah was Abby’s age and I was Hannah’s age, leading her around here by the hand.”

  “It goes fast,” I agreed, feeling regret and unable to give it a source.

  “Still plenty of time to make the best of life, though.”

  Our eyes locked.

  Braden’s were heated, determined, and they were telling me exactly how he wanted to make the best of life.

  With me.

  Under him.

  Or maybe over him.

  But definitely inside me.

  Sexual flutters stirred low in my belly and dragged my gaze away. “We will not pollute the oldest secondhand bookstore in Scotland with eye fucking.”

  “Well!”

  I tensed at the unfamiliar voice and the indignant tone.

  Braden stood before me, looking over my shoulder at the owner of said tone, and his lips were pressed so tight, I knew he was dying to laugh.

  Slowly, I turned around to face a man around Braden’s age. Half-moon glasses were perched on his long nose, and he glared at me over them.

  “Children visit this store, madam. We do not condone that sort of language in here.”

  Madam. Ouch.

  “I’m sorry.” I winced. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  “See that it doesn’t.” He harrumphed and disappeared around a bookshelf.

  Braden stepped up to me, barely containing his mirth, as he turned to face me. “Naughty Jocelyn.” He grinned cheekily and stepped around the corner.

  I hurried after him. “It’s not funny. Now I have to buy something.”

  He chuckled. “Says who?”

  “My conscience. I dropped the F-bomb in an establishment that is pretty much a sanctuary of the written word at its finest.”

  This only made him laugh harder.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you need to grow up?” I said with little seriousness. His grown-up mischievousness was extremely appealing.

  “And why would I do that,” he bent down to whisper in my ear, “when this is so much more fun?”

  I shivered and pressed a hand to his chest. “Stop.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why?”

  “Do I?”

  “You’re overwhelming.”

  “Good.”

  I stepped away. “Let me look for a book without distraction, okay?”

  Ten minutes later I tapped the glass front of a locked book cabinet. “Those!”

  Braden, who had been perusing the shelves on the other side of the room, eyed the books. “I’m guessing if they’re in a locked cabinet, they aren’t cheap.”

  “But it’s Spenser’s Faerie Queene. In six books. 1897. I want.”

  “Careful,” he brushed his thumb over the corner of my lip, “you’re drooling.”

  I grinned at him and something flared in his eyes. “Would you please just get the assistant?”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “The F-bomb incident,” I said.

  I could hear him chuckling all the way through the store.

  A warm feeling filled my chest at his
amusement. A feeling I stubbornly refused to analyze.

  “You?” the man with the half-moon glasses said as soon as Braden led him to the cabinet.

  “Me. Sorry about before. How much for the Faerie Queene?”

  “It’s quite expensive.” He put his hands on his hips. “Why? What do you know of it?”

  Amused by his inquisition but not wanting to show it, I kept a perfectly serious expression. “It’s one of the longest poems in the English language, and it is an incomplete epic poem. It was published in two halves at the end of the sixteenth century and is allegorical. The poet Edmund Spenser was shown favor by Elizabeth I because it was thought to be based on her and pretty much describes her as the shi— wonderful. She gave him a pension for the rest of his life because of it.”

  The man stared at me a moment and then broke into a wide grin. “A wee bit, then.”

  I shared a grin with Braden as the man took a key out of his pocket and opened the cabinet.

  “For all six books, you’re looking at fifteen hundred pounds.”

  It was a lot of money.

  I stared longingly at them. I’d studied the Faerie Queene at university. It was a favorite.

  What the hell. “I’ll take it.”

  He raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he removed gloves from his back pocket. I watched as he put them on and carefully removed the books from the cabinet. “Let’s take these up front to the cash register.”

  After I’d paid and the books were carefully wrapped and boxed up for me, Braden and I left the store without even taking a peek at the art gallery.

  We were quiet a moment, and then Braden laughed.

  Confused, I stared up at him. Whatever he saw on my face made him laugh harder.

  “What?”

  He shook his head.

  “What?”

  “You.” He laughed. “Fifteen hundred pounds to redeem yourself for saying ‘eye fucking.’ I knew a woman who once tripped into the Mac counter at Harvey Nichols and ended up buying every product they had to balance out her embarrassment, but fifteen hundred pound books for a swear word?”

  “I love these books,” I defended.

  “You’re fucking adorable,” he said.