Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1)

by Brenda St John Brown

  Instead of…this. I stand at the gate of Alastair’s drive. At least Ziggy is nowhere in sight as my feet crunch on the gravel. The VW is in the barn, so I’m pretty sure Alastair’s home. Dammit. I swallow three times as I walk up the two stairs leading to the back door. My heart pounds like I climbed to the top of the Empire State Building. Twice. Then I dart my hand out of my pocket and rap quickly on the window pane.

  Ziggy comes barking and sliding across the tiled floor of the kitchen, and even though he’s on the other side of the door, I take a step back. And then another one as Alastair follows Ziggy into the kitchen. Shirtless. Sweating. Wearing only a pair of low-slung shorts, his hair damp and wavy around his face.

  Wow. This version of Alastair is oh-my-God hot. And, note to self, a dramatically improved version of Cornell University Alastair. In college, he was fit, but his frame was more lean runner than this – which is lean runner discovered free weights. He has six-pack abs and his arms are so well-defined there’s an indent between his shoulder muscles and his biceps. For all I know, everyone has that, but I’ve never seen it looking quite this good.

  He snaps his fingers at Ziggy and pulls open the door. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you. I went for a run and I’m finishing my workout.”

  I nod and it takes me a good twenty seconds to say, “Yeah, of course. Sorry. I probably should have called first or something. Or something.”

  Alastair grins. “Do you want to come in? I have one more set to do and then I’m all yours.”

  That conjures up images of a shirtless, muscular Alastair doing things I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about, so I focus on Ziggy instead. “Depends. Does he work out with you?”

  “He ran with me, so he’s tired. He probably won’t try to bite you if I leave you two alone for five minutes.” Alastair’s grin widens and he steps out of the doorway so I can enter the kitchen.

  I feel myself fighting a grin and I step in, making sure to keep away from Ziggy. “I really don’t like dogs.”

  “I know, but I feel like Ziggy will win you over if you give him a chance.” Alastair points to Ziggy and says, “You, behave. Don’t scare Remi.” To me he says, “Make yourself at home. If you fancy a cup of tea, the tea is in the penguin cookie jar, compliments of Sarah. I’ll be back in five.”

  He walks off and I gape at his back, which is as muscular as his front and makes me think I need to get a hold of myself before Alastair comes back if I have any hope of being professional. And after this morning’s fiasco, I need to get back on track. I take a deep breath and look down at Ziggy, who’s sprawled on the tile floor. I haven’t moved since I walked in the door, but that doesn’t mean the second I do Ziggy’s not going to spring into action.

  I take one small step. He doesn’t move. Another. Same. Okay, this is good. I slide my cardigan off my shoulders and I’ve got it halfway down my arms when Ziggy raises his head, looking at me with way too much interest for my liking. If he springs up to attack, I’m trapped in the sleeves of my sweater. I won’t be able to fend him off.

  I give him my best glare. “Stay.”

  Ziggy’s ears go back. Is that submission or aggression? I can’t tell, but I don’t like it. I want him to be asleep and ignoring me like he was the other day when I was here. Is that too much to ask?

  Apparently, yes. As I pull one of my arms free from the sleeve of my cardigan, Ziggy’s ears go back up and his mouth opens slightly. Oh God. I can’t see his teeth, but I know he has a lot of them. All dogs do. I glare at him some more and say, “No.”

  It’s my best stern voice, which gets a single thump of his tail on the tile and him sitting up a little straighter. He looks interested, like he’s getting ready to pounce. Shit. I quickly pull my other arm out of my sweater and hold it in front of me. Like a bullfighter facing a bull, but a lot less confident and holding a flimsy black sweater. So not like a bullfighter at all, but I can always throw the sweater over Ziggy’s head and run while he can’t see.

  I take a deep breath because although that’s not a solid plan, it’s something and it makes me feel better. I give Ziggy one more glare and say, “Stay there.”

  Then I begin inching towards the door to the living room. Best case scenario, I’ll be able to close the door between the dog and me. Worse case? I’m not sure because at that minute, a thump reverberates through the ceiling, sending Ziggy scrambling to his feet and me backwards until I’m pinned against the counter with Ziggy coming towards me wagging his tail.

  I know a wagging tail isn’t always a sign of a friendly dog. There are tons of articles that tell you what the height of the tail wagging really means and there’s only one kind that means the dog is happy. I’m pretty sure this is not that kind, so I screech, “Sit.”

  Ziggy sits.

  Thank you, Jesus.

  His tongue lolls out of his mouth and his tail is still moving back and forth on the tile, but he’s sitting. I’m so relieved I close my eyes and let a little laugh escape. Only to feel a nose nudging my thigh, and when I open my eyes, Ziggy’s right there. His mouth is open and he’s…licking my jeans?

  “Eeew. What are you doing?”

  Ziggy takes this as encouragement and does it some more, which makes me think I must not have done a very good job using my napkin at lunch. I shake my head at him and say, “No. Stop it. That’s gross.”

  I’m not sure Ziggy understands the latter part of my command, but he must hear his fair share of no because he stops immediately and sits at my feet, looking up at me like I’m the Dalai Lama and he’s my most devout monk. The analogy makes me smile and I murmur, “We’re a long way from inner peace here, my friend. A long way.”

  More tail tapping, which I’m starting to think is the happy-dog variety after all. If he was going to bite me, he would’ve done it already and he doesn’t look smart enough to be secretly plotting my demise. Still, I’m reluctant to take my eyes off him. Or let go of my sweater, which is still in front of me ready for flinging, if necessary. But… “I’m going to make a cup of tea. I have to put this down. Are you going to be good?”

  He doesn’t understand a word I’m saying, judging by the way he cocks his head to the right. I slowly lift my cardigan up on to the counter, waiting to see if Ziggy makes any sudden movements. He sits there, looking alert but stationary. I’m just starting to turn my back on him to reach for the kettle when there’s a knock on the door and Ziggy starts barking again.

  I turn towards the door and all thoughts of Ziggy fly out of my head. Except the one that wishes he was my biggest problem. Because standing on the other side of Alastair’s kitchen door is his mother.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brinley Wells is a tall, imposing woman with dark blonde hair and a figure of someone half her age. Alastair definitely got all of his best features from his mom’s gene pool. Thank God he didn’t get her imperious stare.

  Which she gives me as she pushes the kitchen door open. Ziggy careens up to nuzzle her leg and she doesn’t glance at him as she snaps her fingers and points to the floor. Ziggy falls like he’s been tasered and for the first time I feel some empathy for the dog.

  I paste on a smile and say, “Brinley. What a surprise. How are you?”

  She nods slowly, looking me up and down. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a black tunic top, too, although I bet Brinley’s clothes cost twice mine. “Remi Cooper. I heard you were in town.”

  Of course, she did. For a second, I forgot where I was, but I’m sure Brinley knew I was in Fenchurch before I even finished my first glass of wine at the Swan with Two Necks. I force my smile wider. “I heard you were, too.”

  “I’m surprised to see you at Al’s.” Brinley raises her eyebrows in a silent question, but I find it hard to believe she doesn’t know exactly why I’m at “Al’s” and has already formed an opinion about it. Probably not a favorable one, if history is any indication. Brinley was never mean to me, per se – we only met twice in person – but more than once I heard her ask “Al” if
he was still dating “that girl,” so obviously she was looking forward to welcoming me as her future daughter-in-law. When hell froze over.

  Aloud, I say, “We have some business to discuss.”

  Which, now that I think about it, will probably involve Brinley if she helps take care of Sarah. Alastair didn’t know I was coming, so her being here can’t be related, but it makes me stand up straighter anyway.

  Brinley notices and half-smiles. I swear she half-rolls her eyes, too, as she says, “Well, I don’t want to interfere. I was stopping by to collect Sarah’s uniform for tomorrow.” Her eyebrows arch. “You do know about Sarah?”

  I nod. “I was really sorry to hear about Liam. He was a lovely guy and I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”

  “No, you can’t.” Brinley’s face falls and for a second her emotion is so stark and raw it takes my breath away. Then in the next breath her veneer is back and she says, “I’ll pop up and grab Sarah’s things. Is Al upstairs?”

  “He was finishing a workout when I came by and suggested I make myself a cup of tea.” I give Brinley a sheepish look. “I was navigating my way around Ziggy when you knocked.”

  Brinley looks at the dog splayed on the floor. “Ziggy?”

  “I’m a little scared of dogs.” Admitting a weakness to Brinley seems like a bad idea, but I can’t think of a lie.

  “Does Al know this?” Brinley’s brow furrows.

  “Yes. I’m pretty sure he thinks it’s ridiculous.” I point to Ziggy. “In this case, he may have a point.”

  “This one is a big softie.” She snaps her fingers and Ziggy comes to her side. This time when he nuzzles her, she strokes his head and scratches behind his ears. I swear, Ziggy pretty much purrs as she says, “But that’s not very thoughtful. I raised him better than that. As you know.”

  Oh, I do. The first time I met Brinley and Brian Wells, they were so formal I considered stabbing myself in the leg with the salad fork so I could have an excuse to leave. The only thing worse was that they expected the same demeanor from Alastair and he tried his damnedest to comply, pulling out my chair for me at the chic restaurant we went to, refilling my wine glass when it was still half-full, laughing at all my jokes – even the super lame ones. On the surface, it was lovely, but it made me realize how much I loved the Alastair who would snatch the last roll from the basket, so he could butter half and give it to me. And jibe me about my attempts to retell a joke I inevitably got wrong. And tease me about the late-night fried chicken sandwiches I’d get from Pauly’s but split them with me every time.

  I clear my throat and say, “It’s fine. I lived to tell.”

  “Well.” Brinley’s lips purse. “I assure you, Ziggy is harmless. As for that son of mine…”

  I can tell by the look on her face that she’s not going to finish that sentence and I’m glad. I don’t know what she knows about how things ended between us, but I sure as hell don’t want her take on it. And diving into the dirty details with his mother? One hundred times worse than my conversation with him earlier.

  I turn and reach for the kettle as I say, “How’s Brian? Is he still working for that tech company?”

  “He’s living in Los Angeles now.” Brinley’s lips purse. “We split up when I came back to the UK to help with Sarah.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” Alastair said his mom lived in the village and helped take care of Sarah, but I assumed that meant his father didn’t help with his granddaughter. Not that he was living four time zones away.

  “Sometimes these things are for the best.” Brinley shrugs. “Brian was always a bit of a twat.”

  I choke out a laugh because she’s not wrong. But hearing her say it is one thing I would have never expected. “Does Alastair see him at all?”

  “Not really. He has a young family now, you see.” Brinley’s lips purse. “He hasn’t seemed to have had much time for his old one.”

  Yikes.

  “That’s too bad. I’m sure –”

  “I’m sure Brian is doing exactly what he wants to be doing. As am I.” I don’t dare respond, based on the look on Brinley’s face, so she continues, “Have you met Sarah yet?”

  “No.” I haven’t been invited to meet her and I doubt I will be. I’m also having serious doubts I want to continue this line of conversation because Brinley’s always struck me as the type of woman who delights a little bit in others’ weaknesses. My surprise over Sarah isn’t a weakness, but that doesn’t mean Brinley can’t turn it into one. I don’t try to segue as I say, “I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. Would you like one?”

  “No, no. I really only have a few minutes and I need to pop up and get Sarah’s things.” She strides across the kitchen floor. “I’ll dash up and be out of your hair.”

  Before I can point out that if anyone’s intruding here it’s me, Brinley pushes through the kitchen door and her feet pound on the stairs. I hear her and Alastair talking, but I can’t make out their words. Through a closed door and a floor away, they sound friendly.

  “That’s new,” I murmur.

  Ziggy raises his head from the tile floor. Shit. I’d kind of forgotten about him while Brinley had him under her command. Now that she’s gone, his attention has turned to me again. Dammit.

  I snap my fingers and give him my best glare. “Stay.”

  Ziggy stays, but his gaze is still trained on me. I have the kettle in my hand, which I know I could use against him if necessary, but the rational part of my brain – the one fixed on his one big, dark eye looking all droopy and sad – is pretty sure it won’t be necessary. He looks more like a depressed teenager than a raging killer, if I’m being honest with myself. Plus, there was the recent licking thing. If he was going to take a chunk out of my leg, he wouldn’t have treated my jeans to the slobber treatment.

  “You’re not going to kill me, are you?” I ask Ziggy.

  He thumps his tail once, which I take as a no.

  “No biting either,” I say, shuffling two more steps towards him.

  Another tail thump.

  “I don’t like dogs, you know. I’m prepared not to like you either.”

  Ziggy thumps his tail two more times as I shuffle closer. I’m about two steps away from him when feet pound down the stairs and I hear Alastair’s voice behind me as he comes into the kitchen. Of course, Ziggy jumps up to greet his master, his whole back end wiggling.

  I turn around slowly as Alastair says, “Hey, sorry. I had to find Sarah’s jumper for my mum.” He looks at me standing in the middle of the kitchen floor with the kettle in hand. “Are you okay?”

  Telling Alastair I was seconds away from attempting to make friends with Ziggy is something he could absolutely take the wrong way. I’m scared of dogs. I’ve always been scared of dogs. So suddenly cozying up to his dog? Weird. Possibly inappropriate.

  I turn on my heel towards the sink, not looking back as I say, “Yep. Everything is fine.”

  I put the kettle under the tap and catch Ziggy’s one eye gazing at me. He wags his tail again and I give him a little eye roll because, at this point, I’m mostly glad he can’t talk.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brinley leaves in such a flurry of instructions for Alastair about Sarah’s schedule tomorrow – don’t forget she’s bringing a friend home, they’ll need to have eaten by six so the father can pick up the friend, and then Sarah needs to go right to the meeting for gymnastics – that by the time the kitchen door closes behind her, it feels like a tornado has passed through. Ziggy follows her out, which no one seems to find alarming. The kitchen doesn’t feel any bigger with the dog gone, which I note as sure progress on my part. After a few seconds of silence, Alastair says, “So, my mum hasn’t changed.”

  I disagree. E.g., twat statement. To Alastair I say, “Oh, I don’t know. She seems a little more relaxed?”

  “That’s my father’s influence. Or lack thereof.” Alastair points to the kettle in my hand, which I still haven’t managed to put on.
“Did you want a cup of tea or should we go right to the hard stuff?”

  “The hard stuff?” I glance at the clock on the wall and put the kettle on the counter. “You realize it’s three in the afternoon and we have actual work to discuss?”

  “Yes, but I have a bottle of eighteen-year-old Glengoyne that’s phenomenal.” Alastair grins. “Remember that time we went and stayed at that cabin on Cayuga Lake and found that bottle of Jack Daniels in the cupboard?”

  “And I told you Jack Daniels was a cheap brand of American whiskey, not realizing the bottle at the cabin was a limited edition.” Not one of my finer moments. The bottle had been open, but Alastair and I both had a pretty liberal pour, which was wrong to begin with, but really, really wrong to do with a one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle of someone else’s liquor. “I felt so guilty about that I sent them a replacement bottle once I started working and we still exchange Christmas cards. I actually sent them a few bottles of real Scottish whiskey when I moved to London, although they paid for those.”

  “You sent them a replacement bottle? When?”

  “That first year. I sent it to them for Christmas, which was how the whole Christmas card thing evolved.” I smile a little. “Don’t worry. I signed your name, too.”

  We’d broken up three months before and I was still bitter, but it didn’t feel right to leave Alastair with all the ill will. I had enough of my own towards him for ten bottles of expensive whiskey.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” Alastair shoves his fingers through his hair. He’s put a shirt on, but the strands of hair around his face are still damp.

  “The chances of you running into them were pretty high, so it felt like the right thing to do.” I shrug and glance at the clock again. “I’m going to take a pass on the whiskey for now because I want to have a productive conversation before Sarah comes home.”

  “She’s staying with my mum tonight. That’s why she was here grabbing Sarah’s uniform,” Alastair says.