Copyright © 2019 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: February 5, 2019
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Maid in England/ by Brenda St John Brown
1. Fiction 2. Romance 3. Contemporary
Summary: A second-chance romance about a woman working with her reclusive rock-star ex and finding herself falling for him again.
Cover design by Croco Designs
Developmental Editing by Bev Rosenbaum
Copy Editing by Brianna Lebrecht
Created with Vellum
Praise for Maid in England
“Fresh and romantic, with the perfect amount of simmering tension.”
- Lauren Layne, New York Times best-selling author.
“Smart, angsty, sexy and romantic, MAID IN ENGLAND is an absolute must-read.”
- RC Boldt, author of HE LOVES ME…KNOT.
Looking for a smart, funny, fresh second-chance romance that’s low on the angst meter but still packs an emotional punch? MAID IN ENGLAND is a must read!
- Ramblings of a Daydreamer Book Blog
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Meet Bea and Jasper - where the Castle Calder series began!
A BRIT ON THE SIDE - CHAPTER 1
HAPPY NEW YOU
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Does anyone plan on being dateless at thirty-five? I mean, nuns do. Probably. But for the average mid-thirties woman being dateless without even the prospect of a sexy hook-up is a little bit sad. Add in the awkwardness of talking dating options with my twenty-two-year-old assistant and I can almost feel my ovaries shriveling as we speak.
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure I understand.” Vera chews the end of her pen.
“I need a date for my birthday party in two weeks, and it would go a long way with my mother if I had a date to my cousin Bea’s wedding, too. But I have zero time right now to meet someone. So I’m hoping you can help.” I give Vera a smile that I hope looks less plastic than it feels. I know it doesn’t hide the way my cheeks flame, but desperate times, right? “I don’t know what the options are. Should I go online? Is there some sort of speed dating thing I can do? Basically, you’re out there, so I’m asking you – how do I meet someone?”
“Um, normally I meet people in the pub.” Vera shrugs a little. “Or through friends.”
“If I had a friend to set me up, I wouldn’t be asking.” My tone comes out snappy. I take a drink of my breakfast protein shake – chocolate today because it’s Monday; it’s a little chalky but way better than Thursday’s blueberry flavor – before continuing. “Can you take a look and see what my options are? Please? I need someone who can attend a party and a wedding. That’s it.”
Vera lets out a long breath and nods slowly. “You could always post something on MatchMe. High-powered entertainment industry publicist seeks date. Must be tall, dark, handsome, and rich?”
“I’m doing okay money-wise, so we can drop rich.” I smile for the first time since we’ve been talking. “How about something like, ‘Sugar mama seeks boy toy?’”
“Yeah, and we’ll put it in the Gumtree online personals, too, so we make sure we get only the top choices.” Vera grins, but then her expression turns serious. “But, if you don’t mind my asking, why do you need a date at all?”
I study Vera’s face that’s years away from being declared over the hill. She has zero wrinkles and I bet she’s never touched hair dye in her life. She’s young and carefree by the fact of her age alone. And so am I. For two more weeks. It’s not like a switch automatically flips, but I can sense a shift already. People joke about my dark brown hair coming from a bottle. My mother not-so-subtly hints about it being increasingly difficult to have a baby. Facebook ads for comfortable shoes appear in my newsfeed. Although, honestly, I am so there for the Ugg slippers. Give me fuzzy slippers over stilettos any day of the week.
To Vera I say, “I’m turning thirty-five. Jed is throwing a party for me and the guest list is a who’s who of the London glitterati. If I walk into that party alone, my single status becomes the thing people talk about. I may as well take out an ad in the Daily Mail now: ‘Remi Cooper, Regrets Only – Dateless On Her Big Day.’”
“But you never bring a date to anything,” Vera says.
The fact that Vera uses the word ‘bring’ instead of ‘have’ is one of the reasons I love her. Another reason is her British accent. Yes, I’m surrounded by Brits all day, but it’s still a novelty for this New York girl. “That’s fine when I’m twenty-nine. But at thirty-four, it’s a little bit sad. Trust me.”
“Well, I still don’t get it.” Vera rises from the couch. “But if you want a date, we’ll find you a date. Any special requirements?”
“No one in the business.” My words come out without hesitation. That’s how I ended up dateless to begin with. My credibility as a publicist hinges on maintaining an impeccable reputation, so even a casual hook-up with a has-been is too risky. I sigh. “I want a nice guy. Someone who won’t embarrass me in front of my mother or my business partners. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you?”
Vera raises an eyebrow. “Trust me, I go out with enough wankers for the both of us. I’ll find someone decent for you.”
“Thank you.” I smile and reach for my phone on the coffee table, as much to signal the end of this conversation as to move on to topics I’m not mortified to discuss. “I have yoga here at noon today, if you could take my calls for that hour. Also, I’ve got that meeting with Rex this morning. He’s flying in from New York and should be here soon. Could you make sure we have donuts? They always make him more agreeable when he’s cranky from jet lag.”
“They’re already in the kitchen.” Vera smiles. “I’ll report back on what I find later.”
“Thank you. You’re a godsend.” I call after her as her sandals clack on the hardwood floor down the hallway.
Vera’s “office” is really a corner of the kitchen in the back of my house. She used to sit i
n my actual office off the living room until she asked to move so she could get some steps in while she works. We moved the desk into the kitchen and she gets her ten thousand steps in as she paces, juggling the fragile egos of my clients. It’s a win-win.
It also gives me free reign over the rest of the house, which helps when I’m working because I tend to be all over the place, leaving notes and ideas everywhere in a very particular order. My former assistant decided one day she’d “help” me straighten up and stacked all of my scribbles into a neat pile.
It was all I could do not to fire her on the spot.
Of course, working in a proper office would alleviate that problem, but I love my house in Highgate. Yes, it’s Zone Three on the London tube, which means it’s a suburban yummy-mummy territory, but even Jed, my London-based business partner, agrees it’s been good for business. I never do a first meeting here – I’m not stupid – but if a client passes the weird test, often having them come to Highgate makes our meetings more productive. Most of my meetings take place right here on my comfy gray couch, strewn with velvet orange pillows, and everyone seems to like it that way.
Speaking of pillows…I glance at the one I picked up off the floor this morning. Yep, Jessica Martin definitely left make-up on it. Although it’s no wonder. She was hugging it like a life raft as she tried to explain why she couldn’t do the European concert tour we’ve been helping to broker for the past four months.
I make a mental note to add that to the agenda for my meeting with Rex. He’s the Tompkins part of the Tompkins Payne Cooper Public Relations agency and has a way with the Jessicas of the world that I never will. Of course, I’ll also never be a gorgeous six-foot-two gay black man either. The two things may or may not be related.
I also need to talk to him about this damn birthday party because, between him and Jed, he’s the more reasonable partner by far. I can tell him that turning it into a capital-E Event is making me wish I never agreed to it at all. Telling Jed on the other hand? He’d give me that disapproving look of his and I’d cave like I always do. I should probably examine that a little more closely – acting subordinate was fine when I was twenty-four, but it’s not doing me any favors at thirty-four – a hard truth I’ll think about later.
Now, I perch on the edge of my sofa and pick up the pen and paper from the coffee table and scrawl Jessica and birthday party across the page. Things need to be decided like:
Entertainment?
Photography?
Young Royals?
I smirk to myself at the last one. It’s not that I think the young royals want to celebrate my birthday as much as I think their presence would kick things up a notch or three. If we’re making this event into a Big Deal, they add instant cachet. Of course that makes my lack of date feel more dire, too. I have incredible faith in Vera, but I’m not sure she can magic up someone suitable in less than two weeks.
Then there’s the wedding. When my cousin, Bea, asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, I was thrilled. Bea’s mother is my mom’s sister and I’m the token cousin in the wedding party. Considering my own sister didn’t ask me to be in her wedding two years ago – only Kappa Kappa Pi girls, sorry, sis – I might have gloated a little. Plus, Bea’s fiancé’s family owns a castle-turned-hotel up in the Lake District that looks spectacular. And it will be a lot more spectacular without my mother asking about my love life, or lack thereof, all weekend. Vera, dear God, work your magic.
I’m taking the last sip of my breakfast shake when I hear the pounding on the back door. All thoughts of both my birthday and Bea’s wedding fade as I listen to Vera and Rex exchanging excited hellos. It makes me happy that there’s genuine affection between them. Although Vera’s my assistant, she pulls double duty whenever Rex is in town.
I don’t get to think about this long because in the next minute Rex strides down the hallway, his voice booming. “Where are you, darling? Don’t make me drag you from your bed.”
I roll my eyes as I smile, meeting him in the middle of the polished hardwood floor. “As if. I can’t remember the last time I slept past eight, never mind ten.”
Rex puts an arm around my shoulder – his other hand already holds a donut – and steers me towards the couch. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”
“More billable hours?” I ask as I flop down on the cushion.
Rex grins through a bite of donut. I haven’t had a donut in years, but it smells amazing. “From your mouth to God’s ear.”
“I don’t think we’re doing too badly.” I pick up my notepad. “I got an inquiry the other day from a publishing house, which is outside of our normal wheelhouse, I know. But they have a debut author they want to push who sounds promising. I’m having lunch with the editor and agent on Thursday.”
“Um, no, darling. You’re not.” Rex lets out a long sigh, his smile fading.
“What do you mean I’m not?” I glance down at my notebook, but I know nothing about Thursday’s meeting is written there. “I booked that new steak place over in Mayfair. The editor and author are both male, so I know the steak place is a stereotype. But I did ask about dietary requirements.”
“Of course you did.” Rex offers a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Which makes my heartbeat ratchet up a notch. One of the reasons Rex is so successful in this business is because he’s unflappable. Client went off the rails in a huge way? No problem. Messy divorce? Handled. Client reveals himself to be a misogynist asshole? Well, admittedly, there’s not a lot of coming back from that, but the last time we dealt with that situation, Rex was the go-to guy because he was the only one who could talk about it without a murderous glint in his eye.
“So if I’m not going to lunch, what am I doing?” I grip the spine of my notebook a little tighter.
Rex takes the final bite of his donut and studies his thumb as he chews. In the minute it takes him to answer me, I think of at least five different possibilities. When he finally speaks, it’s slow and deliberate. Like he’s explaining multiplication to a five-year-old. “We need you to work on Alastair Wells.”
“Alastair Wells?” Of all the possibilities I thought of, that one didn’t even make the list. And with good reason. “I don’t think…”
“Hear me out.” Rex is too smart to let me finish that sentence. “This could be a huge win for us in the indie music scene. All you have to do is get his name out there and get people talking about him.”
And talk to him myself. I’d rather stick hot needles in my eye, thanks. Aloud I say, “Why? What’s the urgency?”
“Apparently he’s been doing pretty well as a songwriter, but his agent feels his talents are wasted there. When he does perform, he plays mostly pubs and small venues and has for years. Luanna Parker approached his agent about booking him as the opening act for the last half of her European festival tour. She heard him play at some tiny club in Liverpool and fell in love with his sound and vibe. But for her to be able to sell him as her opener, he needs to be a draw in his own right. Hence the request for us to help get him some real exposure.” Rex shakes his head like he can’t understand Alastair letting himself slip so far off the radar.
Frankly, I don’t understand it either. In most cases. In this one, though, I’m not surprised. I am surprised that Alastair’s a songwriter these days, but that’s what I get for not Googling him all these years, I guess. “Why me?”
“His agent asked for you.” Rex continues talking, but I only catch an occasional word.
His agent may have requested me, but there’s no way in hell Alastair is going to want to work with me any more than I want to work with him. And unless I want to spill the whole sad story to my business partners – Rex would be marginally okay, but Jed? No. Way. – I’m going to suck it up and do it. No matter how much I don’t want to.
“Where do I find him?” I cut Rex off mid-sentence.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s living somewhere by Glenhurst.”
“That’s not very h
elpful.” I raise my eyebrows.
“All I know is his agent said he lives in a small village and comes to London reluctantly.” Rex smiles again and this time it’s genuine. “She also said you might want to bring your wellies.”
“I don’t have wellies.” I don’t offer a hint of a smile. “I assume I can put them down as a business expense.”
“Whatever you need, darling. Whatever you need.” Rex laughs.
I join in, but my heart’s not in it. To think an hour ago, my biggest worry was finding a date for my birthday party and Bea’s wedding. Give me a party sans date anytime.
It beats the hell out of wellies with my ex-fiancé. Every. Single. Time.
Chapter Two
“What am I supposed to pack for the middle of nowhere?” To see my ex-fiancé, I add silently, staring at the suitcase on my bed as Vera flicks through the hangers in my closet. She wrinkles her nose at my bright purple bridesmaid dress, flicking the plastic tag I left on when I picked it up from the seamstress weeks ago. I’m not sure if it’s her reaction to the dress itself or the fact that she’s helping me pack. It’s not exactly part of her job description.
Then again, neither is finding me a date to my birthday party. I need to make sure she gets a raise. Pronto.
Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1) Page 1