A Brit Player (Castle Calder Book 4)

by Brenda St John Brown

  Same, Max. Hard. Same.

  I squeeze his waist and grin up at him. “What do you say we go celebrate an engagement? And maybe we can find my boss while he’s in a good mood and broach the subject of flexible working.”

  “I like how you think, T.” Max grins back at me and we take a step to rejoin the party, hand in hand.

  Thank you so much for reading A BRIT PLAYER. I hope you enjoyed Max and Tara’s story. If you’re in the mood for something a little lighter, Scarlett’s story, A BRIT COMPLICATED, fits the bill perfectly. Enemies-to-lovers and Bradley Walking-Sex…how can you go wrong? Keep reading for a sneak peek.

  A BRIT COMPLICATED sneak peek

  Bradley Waring-Smith is a knobhead.

  A fact confirmed by him dropping my draft design docs on my desk with a big red Try Again scribbled across the top. Like I’m an underachieving high school student. He doesn’t even say anything as he strides away, his long legs carrying him back to his glass-walled office, where he surveys us all. We’re the peons and he’s lord of the manor.

  I clench my hands and resist screaming. Barely.

  “Scarlett St Julien, don’t you dare give in.” Tom pushes half of a Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate bar across the two-inch gap separating our desks. “It will only bring you the wrong kind of attention.”

  “You mean I’ll come across as angry as opposed to incompetent?” I take the chocolate bar and break off a square. “I don’t even understand why he moved me to this team if this is what I get from him. Do you know how long I spent on this design?”

  Tom does know because he’s sat at the desk across from me for the past two months since I’ve joined the workplace design team. He’s seen me go through what I call the Stages of Employment: Up Before the Alarm; Two-Coffee Mornings; Four-Coffee Mornings; Running late. Again; Attending the Company Picnic; and Organizing the Company Picnic. It’s kind of like the stages of grief but without inner peace at the end.

  “Read Brad’s comments before you lose it. They might not be that bad.” Tom’s a two-coffee morning kind of guy. I’ve hardly ever heard him swear.

  Which doesn’t make me the ideal colleague. “Do you believe that? Because scrawling Try Again across designs I’ve spent two weeks on is supposed to be fucking motivational?”

  “No, but you know when he does compliment your work he means it.” Tom smiles. He has a good smile, straight white teeth that glow against smooth ebony skin. Most of the time I can’t help smiling in reply.

  But today I won’t be swayed. “The distance between encouragement and downright demoralizing is pretty great. I’m not asking for praise here, just a speck of support.”

  Tom nudges the chocolate bar towards me again. “Have some more chocolate. It might make you feel better.”

  “It won’t.” I take another square anyway and flick through the sheaf of papers. “Tell me again how you’ve been his business manager for five years? You moved here for this company.”

  “Eh. New York isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Tom glances up at my expression and shrugs. “The truth is, Brad’s built an incredible company and even though he’s tough, he’s fair. You prove yourself and the world is your oyster as far as WS Consulting is concerned.”

  Proving myself obviously means something different than what I’ve been doing. But what? I’ve been working twelve hours a day, six days a week for the past two weeks and it’s not enough. I sigh and take another square of chocolate, eyeing Tom across his desk. “When I have a fat arse, I’m holding you responsible. Or him.”

  I twist around to glance at Mr. Waring-Smith. He’s on the phone, looking out over the street below, his back to us. I admire the pull of his dark gray suit jacket across his shoulders. Although Bradley Waring-Smith is a twat – my name-calling game is strong – he is something to look at. Black wavy hair, perpetual five o’clock shadow dotting his olive skin, dark brown eyes, and an undoubtedly killer physique beneath those tailor-made suits. He’s not movie-star handsome – his nose is a tiny bit too hawkish and he could use a brow trim – but he’s sexy as hell. If he had half a personality to match, I’d work my twelve hours a day happily.

  Because, of course, he logs all the hours I do and then some. I come in before eight, he’s already on the phone. I pack up after the cleaners have come and gone, he’s focused on the giant computer screen in front of him or scrawling in a notebook. Sure, he disappears to the gym most afternoons, but it’s probably the only time he sees daylight.

  It’s also the only time the office lets its collective hair down. People laugh, linger over the kettle in the kitchen, and talk about footie scores or weekend plans. From two to four p.m., we’re free to be human. Not that there’s an explicit rule against it, but it’s implied. WS is one of the top architectural and interior design firms in the U.S. and it’s not going to break into the London/European market with a bunch of slackers sailing the ship now, is it?

  I turn to Tom, who’ s back to his keyboard. “So, proving myself? How does that work? Because I thought I was doing that.”

  Tom stops typing and looks at me like he’s trying to decide how honest he should be. “Review the notes he’s made on your designs, then ask for a meeting so you can discuss his comments and how they align with your vision. Brad moved you up to the workplace design team and gave you responsibility for the meeting rooms because he thinks you’re capable, but if you incorporate his feedback at the expense of your unique perspective, then what’s the point of having you on the team? He could have done it himself and next time around he will.”

  Well. Tom decided to be very honest. Ouch.

  He lowers his voice. “Look, you have a real opportunity here. Take it.”

  I let out a long breath. I know Tom’s right. But every fiber of my being protests Bradley’s approach. I’ve read books on management and have had other bosses – including my own mother – but none have made me as frustrated as Bradley Waring-Smith. It’s not like I’m fifteen and cowed by authority. Hell, Bradley Waring-Smith is less than ten years older than me. I’ve slept with men older and more powerful than him. But they weren’t men I wanted to impress.

  Which is the crux of it. Even if I don’t earn his praise, I want Bradley Waring-Smith’s respect. Or at least enough of his respect to get promoted. I pick up the sheaf of papers on my desk. I’m going to follow Tom’s advice to the letter, which means cooling off and addressing these suggestions one by one.

  Starting with ignoring the red Try Again at the top and diving into his actual comments, which, after an initial scan, focus on aesthetics like materials and practicalities like cost and supply. His comments, though red-penned and plentiful, are straightforward, and by the time I’ve gotten through the whole document I’m nodding in agreement.

  A fact that doesn’t escape Tom, who grins at me when I look up and says, “Feeling better, Snow White?”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony. The shoe fits.”

  “Which dwarf are you today then? Dopey?” Tom and I almost have a script for this and, while I usually play along, now I need to focus on other things. “Never mind. Question for you, where would you get silk from if you were the one sourcing it?”

  Tom goes straight into work mode. “A lot of people would go to Peregi because they’ve got the name recognition, but I’d check out the Textiles Co. over in Shepherd’s Bush. They’re not as upmarket, but they’re competitive and they’ve got an incentive scheme. What are you using it for?”

  “I think it will add a certain flair as a wall covering in the conference rooms.” Tom opens his mouth but I continue. “Especially if it’s hand painted.”

  “You’re going to paint silk?” Tom asks. “That sounds expensive. What makes it a better option than wallpaper?”

  “Clients come in expecting a level of luxury and if we take them to meeting rooms with flowered wallpaper and rosewood tables, t
hey’re going to go somewhere else. I know I would.” I glance at my computer screen. “The WS logo is green and white. Not my favorite color combo, but when it’s cream-colored silk with leaves and blossoms, it’s not so bad. Plus, it’s very Japanese, which lends itself to more interesting furniture and accessories.”

  Tom nods. “Is that how you’ve positioned it in your design brief?”

  Well, no. And having talked it through, I see what my original was lacking. I still don’t think it warrants a red-penned Try Again, but what I’ve got could be a lot better.

  I stick my lower lip out a little in a pout. “Don’t you dare say ‘I told you so’ or I’ll tell Tara you lurve her.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Tom’s tone is guarded and I’m not sure if it’s because he thinks I’d do it or he doesn’t like me teasing him about his crush on my roommate in our open-plan workspace. At the pub on a Friday night is one thing, and I immediately look around. No one’s listening or paying us any attention that I can tell.

  “I wouldn’t. I’m just being hateful.” I give a simpering smile. “Please accept my apologies.”

  “On one condition.” Tom raises a brow. “You and your gorgeous roommate come to the protest march tonight.”

  “The protest march?” I know what he’s talking about. I’d have to be deaf and blind not to. Social media is in an uproar about the contracts the U.K. government has with a company that’s taking a lot of heat for human rights violations. Six p.m. outside Downing Street. “I won’t be done with work by then.”

  “This is important. Make an exception.” Tom raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Why? I mean, I think the whole thing is terrible, but it’s not my problem.” I shrug.

  Tom stares at me. “Not your problem? Please say that again so you can hear how self-centered that sounds.”

  “You know I didn’t mean it that way.” My words come out in a rush and I feel the pink rise in my cheeks. Talk about acting like a knobhead. “I’m not that awful.”

  “Prove it, Snow White.” Tom gives me an evil grin and he taps his fingers on his desk.

  My lips twist with the effort not to smile. Damn Tom and his ideals. And the fact that he’s been nice to me from the minute I walked in the door and doubly nice since I took up residence across from him. He’s senior to me, part of Bradley’s inner circle, and way more competent than I’ll ever be. He could make my life hell, but he hasn’t. He wouldn’t. Because of course he’s also a better person than I am in at least ten different ways.

  Eleven, counting tonight’s protest.

  Dammit.

  I flick my phone on and text Tara. Hey, what are you doing tonight? Want to come shout at the PM with me and Tom?

  I hear her phone ding across the room and she glances up, nodding as she catches my eye. Two seconds later her thumbs up comes through and I sigh.

  I glance up at Tom and nod. “Looks like we’re going to a protest march. I guess it’s good I wore flats today.”

  “Almost as if it were meant to be.” Tom’s smile widens.

  Finally, I laugh. In the long list of things that are meant to be, this is so not one of them. It’s not even on the list.

  CONTINUE READING…

  RIVAL HEARTS

  Britain’s most-eligible bachelor has met the girl of his dreams. Too bad he’s her worst nightmare.

  Stefan Cane has snogged and shagged his fair share of gorgeous women. Yet he’s spent the last three months trying to forget the woman he shared a fleeting kiss with at the Jingle Ball last year.

  Now he’s back in the tiny English village, staying across the street from her pub, The Blue Dog. The same pub he’s about to put out of business.

  Possibly.

  Probably.

  According to his endless spreadsheets, bloody definitely.

  That’s not the goal of the pub renovation reality show he produces, but the truth is, his job depends on him getting his project done, on time and on budget. Even though the village isn’t big enough to sustain two pubs and Stefan knows it.

  Lucy Maclaren knows it, too. She told him that at the Jingle Ball. Right before that kiss he hasn’t been able to forget. The one he desperately wants to repeat.

  How is he supposed to do his job when he’s more worried about his so-called rival? Worse, how is he ever going to win her heart when the only thing she wants to see is his backside leaving town - preferably as soon as possible?

  Acknowledgments

  Book number 10

  How did that even happen?? I’m not sure what compelled me to go back to the world of Castle Calder. Maybe it was wanting something familiar when it felt like the world was spinning out of control. Maybe it was knowing that I could find my happy place in a love story set here. But whatever the reason, I’ve LOVED being back in this world and I’m already working on the next book.

  I have a quick list of thank you’s, because this whole publishing thing definitely takes a village!

  Stina Lindenblatt, Marie Landry and Serena Bell, your feedback was so helpful. Thank you for helping me to make this story shine.

  LaVerne Clark, your developmental edits were super helpful. And such a relief!

  Brianna Lebrecht, thank you for fixing my commas forever and always.

  Frauke Spanuth of Croco Design, I love this cover and your vision for this series! Thank you so much.

  All of the members of Brenda’s Book Babes who have cheered me on and cheered me up, you are my favorite place on the internet.

  And thank you to my amazing readers. I still can’t believe people I don’t know and am not related to read my books. (Not that people I’m related to necessarily read my books, but that’s a whole different thing.) You make this job worthwhile and thank you for your enthusiasm and support.

  Finally, a big thanks to my husband and son. There’s no one I’d rather go through a pandemic with, and thank you for talking me off many a ledge when I wasn’t sure I could finish this. You make me smile every day.

  About the Author

  Brenda is a displaced New Yorker living in the English countryside. She’s lived in the UK long enough to gain dual citizenship, but still doesn’t understand Celsius. However, she has learned the appropriate use of the word “pants”. And how to order a proper bacon bap/barm/buttie. Because, well, bacon.

  Brenda writes contemporary romance to make you giggle and swoon. When she’s not writing, she enjoys hiking, running and reading. In theory, she also enjoys cooking, but it’s more that she enjoys eating and, try as she might, she can’t live on Doritos alone.

  I’d love for you to subscribe to my newsletter. Or if you fancy, I share lots of fun stuff in my reader Facebook group, Brenda’s Book Babes.

  I’d love to hear from you! Find me online here:

  brendastjohnbrown.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Brenda St John Brown.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition: June 23, 2021

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  A Brit Player/ by Brenda St John Brown

  1. Fiction 2. Romance 3. Contemporary

  Summary: A second chance romance about a woman meeting her first love again and the secrets between them.

  Cover design by Croco Designs

  Developmental Editing by LaVerne Clark

  Copy Editing by Brianna Lebrecht

 

 

 
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