A Brit Unexpected (Castle Calder Book 2)

by Brenda St John Brown

  I let myself stare at the photo for another twenty seconds before squeezing my eyes shut and going back to Twitter. That’s exactly where my head doesn’t need to be going. Granted, Greyson and I have reached a level of ease with each other that I wouldn’t have expected, but it’s only going to last if we both remember our deal.

  Although for how different Scarlett and Grandmother are–talk about chalk and cheese–that they’re both saying I should pursue Greyson makes me wonder what they see that I don’t. I have a feeling that for both of them, they view it as an opportunity that doesn’t come along everyday.

  I click back on the link and look at the last picture of Greyson and me again. We look good together. Really good. And it’s not just Greyson lighting up the screen, it’s me too. It’s us together.

  Gah. I click my phone off and slip it under my thigh as if not seeing the picture erases the thought. For good measure, I dig my fingernails into my thigh and I’m starting to worry I might draw blood when the bedroom door flies open and Scarlett tumbles in saying, “Let’s see if she’s here. Maybe she doesn’t feel well?”

  Scarlett’s laugh floats on top of Caleb’s and…Greyson’s? “Hey. What are you doing here?” My words are directed at all three of them, but my eyes are on Greyson. Lady M’s words ricochet in my head: Still swooning. Greyson Vaughn brings it.

  Yes, yes, he does. Unfortunately.

  “You disappeared, Claire Bear. We got worried about you,” Caleb says.

  “You left with your grandmother and never came back,” Greyson adds.

  “And that’s never a good sign,” Scarlett says. “So we came looking for you.”

  “Michael saw Alexa’s interview on EN,” Greyson adds. He offers one of his slow lazy grins. “He was about to offer his opinion on what needed to be done and these two saved me from that, so I owe them a drink at the very least. Probably more. We didn’t mean to barge in.”

  Scarlett furrows her brow. “Um, I did. What are you doing up here anyway?”

  I look at Caleb when I speak. “Grandmother was being her usual self. I needed a break.”

  “You?” Caleb laughs. “But you’re always so easygoing.”

  I think of my conversation with Grandmother and roll my eyes. “Apparently not easygoing enough.” I turn my attention to Greyson. “What’s the plan for tonight then?”

  “I thought we were going out? I mentioned it to Mike and he didn’t object.”

  Oh God. The idea of going to Revolution is so unappealing right now. I pat the bed next to me. “Do we have to go out? Can’t you just stay here with me?”

  “You’re not inviting me into your bed, are you, Claire?” Greyson’s tone is playful, but his expression turns wary in the blink of an eye.

  “If I was, would you say yes?” I flutter my eyelashes and smile, but don’t wait for him to answer. “I saw the photos from last night and it made me think I like the idea of them being controlled.”

  Until I say it, I don’t realize it’s true. Because if someone takes a photo of Greyson and me looking at each other like we were last night, it will be a lot harder to write off as coincidence. And a lot harder to keep my head and heart where they need to be to get through this.

  “Fair enough,” Greyson nods. “Controlled how?”

  “A photo or two of us looking cozy in bed together should do the trick, shouldn’t it?” Not my best idea, but probably not my worst either. “Alexa won’t be able to argue whether or not that looks real.”

  “Yeah…no.” Greyson shoves his hands in his pockets. “Sorry, I may come across as slightly desperate, but I’m not stupid.”

  “I didn’t say…” I hate that my voice reverts to tentative and soft and I blame Grandmother. Again.

  “It’s one thing to ask you to go along with this, but I won’t ask you to put yourself in a compromising position.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Really? Because that’s not what you’re asking me to do indirectly?”

  “I’m not asking you to jump in bed with me.” Greyson’s voice hardens. “And you can save the righteous indignation. You’re being paid.”

  Whoa. He did not just say that.

  I straighten and swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand toe to toe with Greyson, jutting my chin out as I accentuate my words by poking him in the chest with my forefinger. “You’re the one who insisted I get paid, not me. So you don’t get to make asshole remarks and expect me to lie back and take it just because I’m working for you.”

  “So you’d do this for free?” Greyson’s voice has the same hard edge as mine.

  If he’d asked me even ten minutes ago, my answer would have been yes. But right now… “Hell no. Not a chance.”

  “Point made. And it’s good to see the extent of your charity.”

  Greyson looks like he’s about to say more, but I cut him off. “My charity is reserved for the homeless, war veterans, and needy children. I’m sorry if I don’t have it in me to feel sorry for a Hollywood hottie who’s paying me to pretend I’m his girlfriend for the weekend.”

  Greyson’s mouth twists into what starts off as a grimace, but ends up resembling a smug smile when he says, “Did you just call me a hottie?”

  For. Fuck’s. Sake. My impulse is to turn around, flee the room, bury my face in my hands—anything that would save me from looking at the expression on his face. But I make myself hold my ground, pink cheeks and all. “It’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”

  “I haven’t heard it from you.” Greyson looks so damn expectant. Like we’re reading from a script and he’s memorized my lines too.

  But the problem is I don’t have the script. And now I’m so flustered the best retort I’ve got is, “Well, now you have.”

  Greyson doesn’t say anything for a minute and in the silence Scarlett claps her hands and says, “We should probably…”

  Caleb talks over her. “I’m going to go back downstairs and check on Grandmother.”

  A sure sign things are hella awkward? Caleb invoking Grandmother as an excuse for anything. He and Scarlett shuffle out with a few more mumbles each and when the door clicks behind them, I swear the silence in the room takes on actual weight.

  My every instinct screams to break it, to say something—anything—to smooth things over. But Grandmother’s words are still fresh in my mind and I clench my jaw so it stays shut. It takes some work, especially because Greyson doesn’t say anything either. He steps away and examines the periodic table above Jasper’s desk. His breathing is slow and even, his face so calm he could fool me into thinking he’s taking in an ocean view.

  I don’t know how long I stand there, but I feel my shoulders loosen about the same time I realize my teeth aren’t clamped together anymore. The silence in the room has become more of a summer quilt instead of a winter duvet, and Greyson’s hand, no longer a fist in his pocket, fiddles with some coins. I let out a long, low breath and say, “So.”

  “I’m not usually such a dickhead.” Greyson keeps his back to me, focused on the periodic table.

  “Could’ve fooled me. Kidding, not kidding,” I say as he turns around, a small smile on his face as he shakes his head.

  “Is now the right time to point out you’re not exactly Pollyanna yourself?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know what that means, but if it’s an insult, it’s probably too soon.”

  Greyson looks like he’s going to explain, but I see the minute he changes his mind flash across his face. Then he says, “I don’t think we should do this. I’ll make sure Michael sends you payment, but we should call it a wrap.”

  My heart sinks even as my pulse accelerates, which is a weird feeling. “What about Alexa? Obviously she’s not going to just go away.”

  “I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll call her after all? See if we can talk.” The way Greyson emphasizes talk makes it pretty clear what he thinks the likelihood of this is.

  Ten different thoughts fly through my head, but the one that comes out whe
n I speak is a shocker, even to me. “I had a boyfriend not that long ago. His name was Hugh and he was nice. I know nice doesn’t sound that great, but it is, especially after the fact. He wanted to take things between us to the next level, whatever that means. I don’t know what it means because I found a reason to end things. Now he’s engaged to someone else and they’re ridiculously happy. They were together something like two months and got engaged because they were that sure. He and I were together for six months and I didn’t even like him leaving a toothbrush at my place.”

  “That’s kind of harsh.” I appreciate that Greyson’s tone is matter-of-fact about this.

  “Yeah. I know. I’m weird, I think…” I trail off as if that explains it and hope Greyson lets it go because I officially have no idea why I’m telling him this.

  Nope. “Weird how?” he asks.

  “I don’t know how to let someone else in. I’ve never even really had a serious boyfriend.” I shut my eyes and shake my head, keeping them shut as I continue. “It sounds really sad when I say it out loud.”

  “No sadder than me thinking I can call Alexa and somehow we’ll sort this out.”

  I don’t know Alexa Gayle, but yeah. Maybe that thought—that Greyson and I are alike somehow, even if it’s just how bad we are at relationships—is what makes the next words come out of my mouth. “Do you want to get out of here and have a drink?”

  Greyson’s expression turns guarded. “I thought you said you weren’t up for going out? I’m not sure—”

  “I don’t think either of us are up for that. Go grab your coat and meet me out front in five minutes.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not far. I promise we won’t even leave the grounds.” My voice is more certain than I feel because this is not part of the deal. In fact, I’d say it’s got potential to blow the whole thing up in spectacular fashion.

  “Are you going to lock me in a hidden closet somewhere and leave me there until I agree to be your sex slave?” Greyson raises an eyebrow at me. “Because if that’s the case, we might be able to work something out without the closet.”

  “In your dreams, sunshine.” It’s odd to recognize Greyson’s de facto slide into flirtation for what it is—a defense mechanism. “Are you going to join me or not?”

  “Did you just call me sunshine?” I nod and Greyson says, “Fine. I’ll meet you out front in five.”

  I wait until I hear the door of the apartment click shut before pulling out my phone to text Scarlett. Escaping to the clubhouse for a drink with G. If my grandmother asks, tell her we’ve gone out. XX

  I have no doubt Grandmother will ask and I almost send Scarlett another text to apologize, but sod it. Scarlett can take care of herself and I’ve got provisions to find. I don’t know what tonight’s going to entail, but I’m certain it’s going to require alcohol.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It’s only by sheer luck I’m not spotted leaving the castle with a huge duffle bag hoisted over my shoulder, a duvet spilling over the side. Greyson paces on the top step but stops as he hears the door creak.

  His brow furrows. “Where are we going again?”

  “The clubhouse.” I motion for him to walk with me as I pass him. “There’s a heater down there, but it’s not very good.”

  It’s barely functioning, if I remember correctly, but it doesn’t matter. The clubhouse is far away from the main castle, Grandmother and Michael, and a Wi-Fi signal. It’s also pretty much forgotten at this time of year because the weather is too cold to play tennis and the ground is too wet to set up croquet. Which means it’s perfect.

  It’s also perfectly disorganized, which I realize as soon as I flip on the switch. The clubhouse is Jasper’s domain and usually he keeps it pristine, but last summer’s preoccupation with Bea shows up loud and clear in the tennis racquets stacked haphazardly in the corner and the croquet balls everywhere. Like they’ve been dropped and left where they fell. Over my shoulder I say to Greyson, “Be careful. There are a lot of bits and pieces laying around.”

  He follows me in and shuts the door while I plug in the electric radiator and move the tennis net from the sofa to a shelf. “Why are we here again?” he asks.

  “Because I don’t want to see my grandmother or your grandfather, and I took pity on you and invited you to my secret lair so you don’t have to see them either.” God, there really is stuff everywhere. I kick a few croquet balls out of the middle of the floor.

  Greyson laughs. “Your secret lair is a store room. You realize that, right?”

  “It’s actually a clubhouse.” I yank the duvet from my duffle bag, followed by a bottle of wine and two plastic tumblers. “I spend a good bit of time here in the summer, but it’s only my secret lair in the off season. Too many people around otherwise.”

  “You’re funny,” Greyson says as I hand him the bottle of wine and a glass.

  “Pour, please. And I assume you mean funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha.” I brush off the cushion of the couch and drop down, pulling the duvet over my legs and patting the seat next to me. “Have a seat. It will warm up in here eventually.”

  Greyson pours a glass of wine and hands it to me before pouring himself one and setting the bottle on the floor. He settles onto the sofa beside me and pulls the duvet halfway across his lap then says, “I meant you were genuinely funny. Although peculiar works, too, and not in a bad way.”

  “You do realize that’s not a compliment? I thought you had more game than that.”

  “I normally have all kinds of game.” Greyson gives me half of a real smile. “But I don’t know what to expect with you. You flirt with me, then remind me it’s all an act. You lash out then pretend nothing’s happened. You tell me things about yourself, but only if I don’t ask. I can usually read people, but with you I’ve got almost nothing.”

  “Overall that doesn’t come across as positive.” I take a swallow of my wine, mostly to stop from saying anything else.

  “It’s not not positive.” Greyson sighs and for a second he looks exhausted, but in the next second it’s gone. He continues, “It’s that I’d know how to act if I understood you better.”

  I have to give Greyson credit. Most people would stutter or squirm after issuing that kind of statement. I would probably stutter and squirm. He sits there motionless except for the bend of his arm bringing his glass to his lips again.

  I make myself wait a full minute to respond and when I speak my voice is low. “But I don’t want you to act. That’s the whole point.”

  “So it’s intentional? You keeping me off balance?” He raises an eyebrow.

  I’m not even sure he and I are speaking the same language. Or else he’s incredibly thick, but I can’t make myself believe that. I try a different tactic. “When I was younger, I had a friend called Gemma. Her family lived next door and we were in the same year at school, but she was odd. She had this little notebook she took everywhere and if she wasn’t scribbling in it, she was reading something obscure and highbrow. When we were in primary school, no one took much notice, but in high school she got a lot of teasing for it. I remember one time walking home from the bus with her—we must have been in year nine or so—and a couple of the kids were walking behind us, calling her names. Two of the boys started circling around us and made a grab for her notebook. The bigger one got it and Gemma turned feral. She screamed at him and clawed his arm so hard he bled, but he dropped the notebook and she snatched it up and put it in her bra, which, of course, led to more teasing.

  “It was a long walk home that day and Gemma was a bit of a wreck by the time we got to her house. I was frustrated and mean, and told her that if she didn’t act so weird, they’d leave her alone. And she said to me, ‘But I’m not acting. This is who I am.’ I was full of fourteen-year-old disdain, but even I recognized she was comfortable with herself in a way I wasn’t. It takes a lot of self-confidence to shun the little boxes people try to put you in.”

  I’m not sure I’ve made my poin
t and even less so when Greyson asks, “What happened to her? Do you know?”

  “Gemma? She’s a junior reporter for the Guardian covering the arts. It’s probably the perfect job for her.”

  “Have you read her pieces?” There’s a hint of a challenge in Greyson’s tone.

  “Yes, some of them. Why?”

  “Do you think she waters down her opinion because she’s writing for the masses, speaking of boxes people try to put you in? The box with the money attached is the most restrictive one of them all. If she reviews a play and loathes it, is she allowed to say that outright? She has to justify her dislike. The actors were terrible. The story didn’t make any sense. The ambience wasn’t right. But she always includes some redeeming quality, even if in her personal opinion it’s manufactured, because if she doesn’t she gets raked over the coals for it by both the public and her employer.” Greyson’s lips are a thin line now.

  “Why do I have a feeling we’re not talking about Gemma anymore?” I ask softly.

  “Jesus.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Sorry. I was on my high horse, wasn’t I?”

  “A bit.” I let myself smile a little and then ask, “Do you hate it? Being an actor?”

  Greyson’s eyes widen and his spine straightens. “No. No, of course not. Why?”

  “You seem like you wish that part of your life could be separate from your real life, even though they’re one in the same.” I take another sip of wine so I don’t stick my foot in it by continuing.

  “I wish I could do a film, hell, I’d even do the promotion for the film willingly if after that I could fade into obscurity and do normal things without worrying about running into a reporter or a fan who wants a sound bite.” Greyson has the decency to look sheepish as he continues. “And I realize that makes me sound like a dick, so don’t feel like you have to hit me over the head with it.”

  “I would never.” I grin. “I’ll just remember it so I can bring it out at opportune times.”