Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1)

by Brenda St John Brown

  “Oh.”

  “I texted Sarah, too. She’s pretty easygoing, but I’m not doing a runner on her, I promise.”

  My mind cycles through possible scenarios. Brinley showed up right after I did. Which means Alastair asked his mom to take Sarah sometime after he left the Swan with Two Necks, but before he knew I’d be here. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your plans. All the more reason not to break open the whiskey.”

  “Plans?” Alastair’s brow furrows.

  “Well, if your mom is having Sarah, I assume that means you have something to do that isn’t conducive to a ten-year-old?” Which could be almost anything. I don’t know much about kids, but I do know ten is too young for most of the fun stuff.

  “Uh, yeah.” Alastair shoves his hand through his hair. “I was going to ask you to dinner, actually. I called the Swan, but Donna said you’d stepped out, so I left a message for you to ring me back. If you did I was going to ask you to dinner.”

  “You were?”

  “Unless you have other plans? I figure you don’t know anyone in town so maybe…” Alastair lets his voice trail off.

  Right. Of course, he didn’t mean it as in he was Asking Me To Dinner. He’s being polite in the same way he’d be polite to his agent or Rex, possibly Jed. And that is relief I feel. I swear.

  I take a deep breath so my voice is steady when I say, “That’s really kind of you, but you don’t have to do that. In fact, the whole reason I’m here is to talk to you about the music video. Once we nail down some specifics I’ll have a ton of work to do, so don’t worry about me. I’m sure you have a million other things to do with an unexpected free night.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t have anything else to do. I’d like to have dinner with you, if you’ll agree to it.” For the first time, Alastair’s hand is still, shoved in the pocket of his shorts instead of twisting through his hair, and his green eyes are soft.

  Oh.

  “Uh…” I should say no. Sensible me knows it. Impulsive me – who doesn’t get much air time these days – knows it. Instead I say, “What were you thinking?”

  “Depends what you’re up for. We could go into Glenhurst.” Alastair pauses. “Or I could make spag bol.”

  My first thought? Spaghetti Bolognese is so far off my standard meal plan it makes my lunchtime soup look virtuous.

  My second thought? Spaghetti Bolognese was the first thing Alastair ever cooked for me. He admitted later it was the only thing he could make well and he was hoping to use it to woo me.

  My third thought? It worked. Many times.

  That association alone is why I should opt for going into Glenhurst and having a working dinner at a restaurant. In public. So why the next words come out of my mouth is anyone’s guess. “Is it still the same recipe?”

  Alastair nods. “Combination of sausage meat and beef mince with lots of garlic and fresh basil.”

  My mouth waters and I nod. “I haven’t had spaghetti in a long time.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you. You lived on the stuff once upon a time.”

  Correction: we lived on spaghetti and we always had sex while the sauce simmered. Alastair always said the longer it took, the better. The memory of it makes me clench my thighs together.

  Which is exactly what I don’t need. The memory feels like a kick-in-the-teeth reminder about why the hell I’m really here. And it isn’t to think about sex. Or to eat. I give Alastair a tight smile and say, “I’ll be living on pasta again if we don’t nail down the specifics about this video. Amy is on board to shoot, but she thought you’d want to have some creative input. And we need to confirm a timeline because I have an event coming up at the end of next week, which would be perfect for the premiere. But it means we need to work fast, so you’re going to need to give me a realistic picture of your schedule, too, so we can maximize Amy’s time. I can come back up if I need to, but we can probably do most of this electronically.”

  I pull my phone out and scroll to my calendar, as much to look at dates as to stop myself from talking. Judging by the way Alastair’s looking at me, he sees my deliberate shift to work speak and is ready to call me on it. I hope he doesn’t because it’s not like I can tell him that remembering our sexy spaghetti nights turned me on. Or that I’m suddenly wondering if that was his intent and I don’t know what to think about that. At all.

  Chapter Twenty

  While Alastair makes sauce – with not a singular sexual overture, much to my dismay delight – I’m pretty sure it’s dismay – we outline a plan for making the music video. It’s more or less what Amy proposed, except Alastair wants Ziggy in the video. “A man and his dog is great, but your most powerful song is “Pleading” and I don’t see how Ziggy fits into that,” I say.

  Alastair stands at the stove stirring the meat as he dumps canned tomatoes into the pot. “The man is bereft for the first half of the song. Who better to comfort him than man’s best friend?”

  Ziggy lays in the middle of the kitchen floor – Alastair let him in after he showered – and I point to him. “Is he? Your best friend, I mean?”

  “He’s pretty great, but not much of a conversationalist.” Alastair grins. “He’s been good for Sarah, though. She helped nurse him back to health when we found him here, so she’s very attached.”

  “He’s pretty mellow for a rescue dog, isn’t he?” He hasn’t moved since he flopped down on the kitchen floor.

  “Are you asking as music video producer or as a dog lover?” Alastair’s grin widens. Which is totally unfair because the more easygoing he is, the more attractive I find him, and I really, really don’t want to find him attractive anymore. “You’ve come a long way in a short time. I think Ziggy is winning you over.”

  “A dog lover I am not, but I think Ziggy might be as harmless as you say he is.” I narrow my eyes at Ziggy, who snores. “Though now that I’ve said that, he knows I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security and he’ll bite me in the leg.”

  “He would never. Trust me.” Alastair holds my gaze as he speaks and I’m pretty sure we’re not talking about Ziggy anymore.

  God, his eyes are green. I always loved Alastair’s eyes and I can’t make myself look away. Which is bad. Very bad. So the fact that my phone blares with an incoming call is probably a blessing, even though it doesn’t feel that way in this moment. I look down and when I see Rex’s name on the screen I slide to answer out of habit as much as to hide the flush rising in my cheeks. “Hey, Rex. What’s up?”

  “How do you feel about Len Grantham as your date for your birthday?” Rex asks.

  I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to switch gears. I can barely remember who Len Grantham is with my head full of Alastair. “The Vaze guy? Isn’t he, like, twenty?”

  “Nineteen, actually. But you could play the cougar, darling.”

  “No. I’m not doing that.” My God. “Sorry, not sorry.”

  “Well, Vera’s having zero luck and I met with Grantham today. He’s aiming to be the next Calvin Harris, so he’s looking for exposure.” Rex lets out a long breath. “You’ve only got a little over a week, plus the guy needs time to get a tux.”

  “You can get a tux in a day.”

  “That’s not the point and you know it.”

  I do. This is a big party for Tompkins Payne Cooper and my date needs to be suited and booted since I’m the guest of honor. Aloud, I say, “I’ll work on it from my end, too, okay? I don’t think you need to panic yet.”

  “Speaking of panic, how’s it going with Wells?” Rex chews something on the other end of the phone.

  Confusing, thanks.

  “Is Vera keeping you stocked with donuts?” I ask with a glance over at Alastair. He’s turned back to the stove and it doesn’t look like he’s listening, but I would be if I were him.

  “Did you know Krispy Kreme has a Reese’s donut now?” Rex asks through what is obviously another bite. “It’s amazing.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

&
nbsp; “Yeah, yeah. Not that you’d know with those cardboard bars you eat instead of real food.” Rex’s voice is clear now. “I’ve got to run, but think about Grantham. And text me about Wells.”

  Rex hangs up before I can say anything else and as I put the phone down on the table Alastair says, “Is everything okay?”

  “That was my business partner, Rex. He wanted to talk about my birthday thing next week, but it’s nothing that can’t wait.”

  “What birthday thing?”

  “They’re throwing me a party and the guest list is pretty much the who’s who of the London entertainment scene.” I bite my lip. “It’s going to be a nightmare.”

  “So you’re looking forward to it then?” Alastair laughs.

  My stomach swoops. We really need to have a word about that laughing thing.

  I can’t help smiling in reply. “I’m looking forward to premiering your new music video at the party, if that counts. Once we agree on the dog. Or not.”

  Another laugh. Dammit.

  “My music video is going to premiere at your birthday party? Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of a party in your honor?”

  “Um, no?” Now I laugh, too. “This whole thing was Jed’s idea. I didn’t want the party, so the less attention on me, the better.”

  “Isn’t your job publicity?”

  “For other people. I like being behind-the-scenes. In fact, if you came as my –” I stop. Just in time.

  “If I came as your what?” Alastair knows what I was going to say. Hell, I’m pretty sure Ziggy knows what I was going to say.

  I have three choices. I can pretend I didn’t nearly ask Alastair to be my date for my party, which will keep tonight on a professional level. I can ask him with the emphasis on the party, which might still keep tonight on a professional level. Or I could ask him with the emphasis on coming as my date, which has the potential to turn it into something else.

  I know what I should do. But then the smell of the spaghetti sauce reminds me what I used to have. What I used to miss, and I’m starting to admit part of me still misses.

  “If you came as my date. To my birthday.” I’m glad I’m across the kitchen because my blood roars in my head as I speak and I think surely it must be loud enough for Alastair to hear.

  “If I came as your date to your birthday?”

  The focus would be on the fact that the reclusive Alastair Wells is at a very public event and my thirty-fifth birthday would be a distant second. But that’s not the most compelling reason. “I think I’d like that very much.”

  “Then I’ll come.” Alastair shrugs as he dumps a load of chopped herbs into the pot like my invitation is no big deal.

  And maybe to him, it’s not. To him this is about work, not us. Because, obviously, there isn’t an us, except in the past tense. “That would be amazing. We can invite your agent if you want, or Luanna Parker?”

  Alastair gives one quick stir of the pot before setting the lid on softly. He leans against the counter as he says, “You can invite whomever you fancy, but I’m coming for you.”

  Thud. That was my stomach dropping to my knees. “For me?”

  “I owe you for the whiskey, right?” Alastair grins.

  Double thud. Actually that was my stomach dropping to my knees, although it feels decidedly different the second time. “It was like one hundred pounds. You don’t owe me that much.”

  “That’s not the only thing I owe you for.” He shoves his fingers through his hair. It’s wavier now than it was earlier, which I like. “I thought a lot about our earlier conversation during my run. I was a jerk back then.”

  “I thought we agreed we were both jerks.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to make it up to you somehow.”

  For the hundredth time tonight, I think about what an idiot I am. I thought Alastair was trying to seduce me when the truth is, seeing me has stirred up regrets and old feelings and the pervasive one on both fronts is guilt. He’s looking for forgiveness, not reconciliation. Which means the only thing I can do is retreat back to my safe place and stay there. I plaster on a smile and say, “Well, let’s start blocking out this video so I can go back to Amy with a plan because that will go a long way.”

  Alastair nods and I’m not imagining the way his gaze freezes because his lips do, too. I’ve seen that look plenty and I hate it now as much as I did twelve years ago, but I don’t say anything conciliatory because what would I say? I’m sorry I thought this was about sexy spaghetti? I’m sorry I more-than-half wanted it to be?

  Nope, nope, and nope. Because in order for me to say either of those things, I’d first have to choke out a heartfelt ‘I forgive you.’ And, worse, ‘I forgive me.’

  Yeah. Sexy spaghetti or not, that’s doubtful. On both counts.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Alastair’s spag bol is as good as I remember. Less good? The tension between us that ratchets up over dinner – which we eat in a record seventeen minutes – because we’ve pushed away the notebook I’ve been scribbling in and all that’s between us now is stilted conversation and awkward pauses. I’m pretty sure I might explode if I don’t get out of his kitchen. Out of his house. Out of his sight.

  I lick my fork and place it down on my plate. It sounds like a church bell hitting the china plate and I wince. “That was delicious.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Alastair’s gaze stays on my fork, not my face.

  I glance at the wall clock. It’s only 5:30, which feels absurd. I haven’t eaten dinner at 5:30 since I was a teenager. But when Alastair asked if I was hungry, I said yes because the smell of sauce was making my stomach rumble. I should have declined dinner altogether and left because at least it wasn’t raining and I could have walked back to the Swan with Two Necks. Now the July sky has opened up – again – and it’s pouring. I’d be soaked before I reached the end of Alastair’s driveway.

  Which means I have to ask Alastair for a ride back or ask him for Amy’s number. Honestly, I’d almost rather take my chances walking.

  I shove my chair back. “So, should I help you clean up and then I can get out of your hair?”

  “Leave it. I’ll get to it later.” Alastair shoves his own chair back, still not looking at me. “I need to grab my wallet.”

  Before I can respond, he pushes the kitchen door and I hear his feet pounding on the stairs. I haven’t been out of the kitchen since I’ve been here except for a quick trip to the loo, and the room feels smaller than it did ten seconds ago. I let out a long slow breath, glancing at Ziggy – who was super energetic when the spaghetti was being served up, but has resumed his deep sleep on the tile – before pushing through the door myself.

  The difference in temperature is immediate. The room feels downright chilly after the heat of the kitchen, although a tabletop lamp is on, casting the room in a warm glow. I cross my arms over my chest and make my way to the fireplace and the photos displayed on the mantle. I saw them last time I was here, of course, but not up close. Now, I lean in to peer more closely at the photo of Alastair with his arm around a young brown-haired girl who must be Sarah. She’s cute and her smile is as wide as Alastair’s, which makes me smile, too. Moving along the mantle, there’s one of Sarah and Brinley dressed up in front of a Christmas tree, another of Liam and baby Sarah, and one of Alastair and Liam in Ithaca. I pick it up and bring it closer.

  I took this photo. It’s from the autumn of my senior year when my relationship with Alastair was at its best and he’d invited Liam up for Parents’ Weekend because it was clear Brinley and Brian weren’t going to come. My parents had a cruise booked, leaving that weekend, and I’d insisted they go, even though it was my last Parents’ Weekend. They’d been to the previous three and it was fun to have them there, but there are only so many times you can go to the same family activities in the student union.

  Liam came as the defacto parental stand-in and God, it was fun. We went to some of the planned events, but the spontaneous th
ings were the best. Like Alastair daring Liam to jump into Cayuga Lake despite the fact it was forty degrees outside. And the Saturday night that we got three pizzas and a bottle of Jack Daniels and played Never Have I Ever with my roommate.

  I’m deep in my memories when Alastair says softly behind me, “That was a fun weekend.”

  “It really was.” I turn around, photo in hand. “You must miss him.”

  Alastair nods. “I do, but he was in a lot of pain. The end was really bad.”

  “I can’t imagine.” I feel my nose twitch and turn quickly away to put the photo back. I only met Liam a handful of times. I don’t get to get all emotional over him.

  “He really liked you, you know. He was pissed at me when he found out we broke up.” Alastair sounds like he’s smiling a little.

  I glance around and sure enough he is, which makes my lips turn up, too. “I always thought he hooked up with my roommate Jill in Ithaca, or was I imagining that? She refused to kiss and tell.”

  “They had a few wild nights. Remember that night when he came up for your graduation and I convinced you to stay at my place?”

  “They hooked up then? I knew it.” I turn on my heel. Alastair’s closer than I thought he’d be and it throws me off balance.

  He reaches out to steady me, his hand gripping my forearm. It’s the first physical contact we’ve had in twelve years. I’ve had more suggestive encounters on the tube. It’s nothing. Less than nothing.

  So why does it feel like everything?

  My eyes fly up to meet Alastair’s. For the first time in hours, he’s looking at me with those intense green eyes. Drinking me in like I’m a glass of expensive whiskey. Like the things he said about how much he regrets the way things ended between us are true.

  My hand brushes his skin, my fingernail trailing over a line of his tattoo. I’ve been daydreaming about doing this and it’s better than I imagined it would be. His skin is softer. Warmer.

  “Remi.” Alastair’s voice is soft, but his tone is wary, because even though he touched me first, I’m the one crossing a line right now.