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.”
I grin. “He might. But do I want to know?”
I ask it as a rhetorical question, but as Tara and Amalie debate the awkwardness of knowing the boss’s sexual preferences, I can’t help thinking I don’t want to know. For real. Not for the ick factor – Tara’s point – or ze possible embarrassment – Amalie’s – but because imagining Bradley with a blow-up doll or calling up an escort service spoils the image of him I have in my head. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those things…
Who am I kidding? I totally think there’s something wrong with both of those things. At least for someone whom I’m not sure I like the idea of having a secret girlfriend.
I shake my head and Tara catches my eye. “What’s up? You look distressed.”
“I’m not distressed, but I think all of this talk about Bradley Walking-Sex is making me twitchy. Can we talk about something non-work related, please?” I give Tara a hopeful smile.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. “But don’t think we’re done talking about this. I have a mission for you and my challenge is to get you to accept it.”
“Your mission is for me to find out who he’s in bed with?” I ask. “What if it’s no one?”
“Well, zat would be a damn shame, as you say,” says Amalie.
I nod as if I agree and take another sip of my beer. But I can’t help thinking it wouldn’t be so terrible if Bradley Waring-Smith was sleeping alone. It wouldn’t be a bad thing at all.
Chapter Eleven
The fact that I text Tom about my plans but sneak out of the flat without telling Tara where I’m going pretty much says it all. I’m not sure what it is, but I do know Tara would have a lot to say and I don’t want to hear it, especially after our conversation in the pub with Amalie last night. Bradley Walking-Sex is not the thought or image I need in my head when I’m en route to meet him.
But dammit if it isn’t there anyway. To the point where I pull my phone out in desperation. There’s one person who can set me straight and even though it’s early in Atlanta, I’m banking on my brother being awake. Sure enough, he answers on the second ring. “Scarlett? To what do I owe the honor?” I hear Jasper’s smile in his voice.
My heart constricts with the force of missing him. We email a lot, but it’s not the same as Jasper’s deep voice closing around me like a hug. I fight to keep my tone light as I say, “Nothing. I just thought I’d ring to see how you were.”
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” Jasper is always proper at first and it makes me smile. For someone so smart, it’s incredible how socially awkward he can be. And yet, he’s in Atlanta living with my best friend and former roommate, Bea, so obviously his awkwardness only goes so far. “How’s everything in merry old England?”
“Fine.” I glance up at the sky. “Gray but not raining, so a banner day.”
“You called me at 8:30 in the morning to talk about the weather?” I can almost see Jaz from here, raising his eyebrows behind those dark-framed glasses of his.
“No, but I thought you’d appreciate remembering something other than sun and relentless humidity. One thing I will say about staying in London is I do have very good hair.”
“I don’t know how you lived over here. I’ve even had to resort to putting product in my hair after Bea started calling me Q-Tip head.” Jaz says ‘product’ the way other people swear. Personal grooming has never been super high on his priority list, let alone doing something with his floppy curls. I could have told him that would never fly in the steamy south, but Jaz is a scientist. He needs proof to slap him in the head like a peeved ex-girlfriend. He’d have accused me of exaggeration if I said Georgia in July is hotter than anywhere he’s ever been, but now he knows firsthand.
“Aw, poor Jasper. Next thing you know, you’ll have a preferred stylist.”
“The horror.” Jaz says this without irony. “Have you talked to mum at all?”
“She rang the other night, but I was still at work so we only chatted for a few minutes. I owe her a call back.”
“Bea said your hours are a bit much. Is your boss still driving you mad?”
This is the moment I could/should/would tell Jaz what I’m doing today. Including an admission about how maybe Bradley isn’t as bad as I thought. But I hear the conversation like it’s already happened. Jaz will get sarcastic. I’ll get defensive and be wound even tighter when I meet Bradley Walking-Sex. And goddamn Tara for that nickname. I blame her for the tone my words come out in when I say, “No more than you do. I can handle a little hard work, you know.”
“No one said you couldn’t, little sis. I just thought he was a wanker.” Proof that Bea is having a positive influence on my brother? Zero sarcasm and a tinge of…is that concern?
I sigh into the phone. “He is. Or was. I don’t know.”
“Uh oh. I know that tone and all I’m going to say is don’t shit where you work.” Jasper’s tone takes on an air of superiority now.
Which is what I need because it gives me something to focus on. “I’m not stupid.”
“Nobody said you were, but he’s your boss. No doubt you’ve discovered he’s human somehow and suddenly he’s taken on the luster of a shiny new challenge. Which, let me reiterate in case I was at all unclear, is not a challenge you should pursue.”
For all of Jasper’s faults – which are many – he’s incredibly astute. He just took my whole Bradley Walking-Sex crush and deconstructed it in three seconds flat. Not that I’d tell him that. “For fuck’s sake, I told you I’m not stupid.”
“And I’m telling you if you wanted someone to tell you what you want to hear, you would have called Bea. The fact that you called me means I’m right.”
I roll my eyes, even though Jaz can’t see me. “As far as you’re concerned you’re always right. Speaking of Bea, how is she? She owes me an email.”
One thing Jaz loves more than being right is Bea, so he’s happy to be distracted, telling me about a kid in one of her summer school math classes who’s been giving her a hard time. I let him ramble until I turn onto Princes Street and see Cheapside in front of me. I interrupt him mid-sentence and say, “Hey, sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’m at the train station.”
“Of course. No worries.” Jaz is back to being all formal and posh again. “Have a great Saturday and remember what I said.”
“I remember everything you say.”
Jaz laughs. “As you should. But in this case, you really should. Whatever’s going on in that head of yours about your boss, you need to straighten it out.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I start to say more, but then stop because said boss steps out of the pizza place on the corner and leans against the concrete wall. And holy hell. To Jaz I say, “Gotta run. I’ll keep you posted.”
I don’t even wait for his reply before tossing my phone back in my bag and slowing my pace so I can ogle. Bradley’s wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeve olive-green T-shirt. If he looks like walking sex in a suit, his casual look is an invitation to fuck, full sto
p. Even his hair, mussed and ruffled with the slight breeze, and the trace of stubble on his jawline amp up the hotness.
Jaz’s words ring in my head. Don’t shit where you work, indeed. I take another step towards Bradley and there’s one thing I’m sure of. Jaz should have used a different verb.
Chapter Twelve
“Um, hey.” I slow my pace a few steps from Bradley, who’s looking down at his phone.
His head snaps up and his eyes widen. It’s only for a moment, but enough to let me know he’s as caught off guard by my casual look as I am by his. And, okay, I tried – as in I dressed in tight jeans and a fitted black V-neck tank top that shows just a hint of cleavage, topped off by black suede strappy sandals with a three-inch heel. The sandals aren’t a great choice for the day I’ve got planned and no doubt my feet will be killing me later, but I once had a guy ask me to wear them and nothing else in bed and it still goes down as one of the hottest nights I’ve ever had. A bit of toe cramping is a small price to pay. My big leopard-print bag is slung over my shoulder and I carry a black cardigan over my arm because, even though it’s warm now, it could change in an hour.
“Scarlett.”
Bradley doesn’t say anything else, even though I give him a beat or two before saying, “Are you good to go?”
He nods. “Are you sure about this?”
If that doesn’t feel like a loaded question, I don’t know what does. But I nod and make my tone light when I speak. “The World’s Largest Tea Party doesn’t come around every day, so I hope you’re not backing out on me, sir.”
“I wasn’t going to back out, but I thought it would be gentlemanly to give you the option.”
“Gentlemanly?” I sound confused because I am. Tom is gentlemanly. My dad is, too. Bradley? Not so much.
His brow furrows and he says, “If I’ve led you to believe otherwise, then I owe you an apology. I realize some of my remarks may come across as brusque, but I…”
“Please. It’s okay. Can we just…” I throw my hands up because I’m not even sure what verb to use. Chill? Relax? Stop taking this all so seriously? All of the above?
“I’m sorry. Perhaps this isn’t a good idea after all.” Bradley turns his shoulders as if to leave and I’m tempted to let him. Like Stella-McCartney-sample-sale tempted.
But there’s something in his expression that makes me shake my head and say, “I think we should go. I mean, we are talking about the World’s Largest Tea Party, after all.”
Bradley smiles and this time I’m sure I see relief flicker across his face. “Good point. And I can’t think of anything more British than that.”
“Exactly. Come on. I told Tom we’d be there by three.”
If Bradley thinks it’s odd that I’ve invited Tom, he doesn’t say. In fact, he doesn’t say anything until we’re on the DLR train heading out of London. Then he asks, “Will we go by Olympic Park on this train? I’d like to see the stadium.”
I shake my head. “That’s on another line, but you should try to go to an event over there. It’s worth a visit.”
“You do get around the city, don’t you?” Bradley asks.
I shrug. “I visited London loads when I was growing up, but I’ve never lived here before and I want to make sure I see everything I can while I’m here.”
“Are you planning on leaving?”
“No, but you never know.” I try not to smile, but it doesn’t quite work. “I mean, doesn’t WS have luxury accounts all over the world? By this time next year I could be in Hong Kong or somewhere.”
“Indeed. You know, I admire that you know what you want and pursue it, but I’m not quite sure why you want this particular thing.” Bradley says this like he’s expecting me to whip out a spreadsheet with reasons, rankings, and pivot charts. He also looks like he expects me to sell him.
Lacking the former, I run with the latter. “I think luxury accounts require a certain aesthetic, which my background in fine arts has given me. I’m an artist first and that’s something I feel our higher-end clients can appreciate. Not that it isn’t relevant for workplace design, but I think the level of artistry is different.”
“But if you miss being in fine art, why are you working in interior design at all?” Bradley’s tone is neutral.
But it sets off warning bells for me. Because there’s nothing like the boss questioning your commitment to your job. Even if it doesn’t look like that’s what he’s doing. He looks curious, which might be worse. I hold my hand up and put on my brightest plastic smile. “You know what? I’d love to have a conversation about my career choices and my future at WS during office hours, but I shouldn’t be pitching you for a promotion on a Saturday afternoon. In fact, let’s say all work talk is off limits unless it’s gossip. Then I’m all ears.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate because I don’t know any gossip.” Bradley doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds like he knows what I’m doing with my rapid 180-degree change, but he goes with it. “So, if you don’t want to talk about work, what do you want to talk about?”
Note: I’m tempted to challenge him to a game of Never Have I Ever. But he is my boss and even I can’t go there. I say, “I don’t care. You choose.”
The look Bradley gives me is worse than if I’d suggested Never Have I Ever, but I make myself stay silent. Part of the whole real London project is talking to real people and he may as well start with me.
As the train lurches out of Canary Wharf with Bradley still silent, I’m beginning to wonder if his solution is to not talk at all. He hasn’t said a word for two stops and I don’t know whether I should try to fill the gap or pull my phone out of my bag and scan Instagram. Or check Twitter for mentions of Claire and Greyson because she won’t do it herself and it’s fun to tease her. Or warn her, but that’s definitely less fun. Like the time…
“I went out this morning and got three different types of Victoria sponge cake to try.” Bradley’s voice sounds like a kid telling his mum he tried his best to clean his bedroom and he’s waiting for the interrogation to begin.
I grin. “Did you like it enough to have three pieces or were you trying to find one you liked?”
“More the latter. It’s very sweet.” Bradley shakes his head. “It’s cake, so it’s supposed to be sweet, I know, but I don’t think it’s for me.”
“Please tell me you like cake or we’re going to have to abandon this plan right now. I suspect the World’s Largest Tea Party is going to have more cake than you can even imagine.”
“I like cake, don’t worry. And even if I didn’t, I’d choke it down for you.”
“For me?” The words are out before I manage to clamp my mouth shut. Which isn’t soon enough because Bradley’s expression goes full deer in the headlights.
His tone remains cool. “You seem very committed to the World’s Largest Tea Party. I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you.”
I should know better. I should, I should, I should. Bradley and I are barely over our earlier awkwardness. But I lower my lashes and voice anyway and say, “Well, thank you. I appreciate you indulging me and my sweet tooth.”
Bradley doesn’t respond until I look back up at him. Then he holds my gaze and says, “It’s my pleasure.”
Oh.
Well.
The words on their own are innocuous, but there’s a reason he didn’t speak until I looked up. Because that smolder in his expression? H-O-T. I know how to do this back and forth flirting game better than anyone and I’m flustered. And speechless.
Because yesterday I thought maybe Bradley was flirting with me, but today, with that expression and that tone, he is, for sure. Judging by the way his eyes widen, he’s as stunned as I am.
And the only thing I can do is gape at him and not say a word.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time we make our way to Greenwich Park, things between Bradley and I are back to normal. Ish. Meaning I’ve regained my power of speech and he’s not made another overture towards me. We’ve talked ab
out pets – we’re both Team Dog – as well as the merits of smartphones, and conversation between us has been fine. Fine except for the awareness I’ve developed of Bradley himself.
His arm brushes mine and it tingles. I stumble in front of the Vietnamese restaurant and his hand meets my back to help me regain my balance. I turn to make sure he’s following me and notice my mouth is level with his chest. As we follow the Tea Party signs, I see that our strides are perfectly in sync.
Which would mean nothing if I also wasn’t focused on his lips and those eyes and the curve of his cheeks. Bradley Waring-Smith is a striking man. I swear, he’s even trimmed those errant eyebrows. Dammit.
What I should do is respond to Tom’s text when it comes through because there’s nothing like a sensible colleague to put my head straight. Instead I scan his text and say to Bradley, “Tom and his friend are here. Do you want to try to meet them somewhere?”
“Will you judge me if I say no?” Bradley asks.
I raise my eyebrows. “Judge you? Why would I judge you?”
“I’m not sure, but it seems in keeping with what I’ve come to expect from you.” Bradley says this without malice.
Note: a sudden sinkhole right now would not be unwelcome. Preferably one that forms right where I’m standing. “Wow. That’s, um, pretty unflattering.”
He shrugs. “It’s not like your judgments are wrong. You’re quite astute.”
Not making me feel better, even with a compliment thrown in. “How do you think I judge you, exactly?”
“You think I work too much. That my interpersonal skills are lacking. That I’m difficult and demanding and my priorities are skewed in the wrong direction. Did I miss anything?”
Wow. Talk about astute. But if my assessment paints Bradley in a bad light, it looks even worse reflected back at me. “And you think I’m judgmental, not serious enough, incompetent, and more than a bit self-centered.”
A Brit Complicated (Castle Calder Book 3) Page 6
