Breaking Up with Barrett: The English Brothers #1 (The Blueberry Lane Series - The English Brothers) (3 page)

“I promise you I do. You ever known me to act stupid?”

“Can’t say I have, but there’s a first for everything.”

“Barrett’s between girlfriends. He needs a date for these things, so I help out. That’s all.”

“
Between
girlfriends?” scoffed Smith. “That would require a girlfriend or two.”

Emily sat back and asked as casually as possible, “Felicity Atwell?”

“She ain’t no proper girlfriend, Miss Em. But that’s all I’m gonna say about that. Mr. Barrett ain’t had a
real
girlfriend in years, come to think of it. He has lady friends from time to time, but never someone special.”

Emily sighed softly in relief. She knew every girl that every English boy had ever brought home, and Barrett hadn’t brought home anyone special for a long time. Still, something inside of her relaxed knowing that Barrett’s heart was free.
Not that it should matter to you at all
, she reminded herself, since she was determined to give him back the engagement ring tonight and tell him she wasn’t available for any further dates.

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” she said, ignoring the burn in the back of her eyes that declared how much she would miss seeing him.

“He got the skills to pay the bills.”

“But he’s got to be lonely,” said Emily quietly.

“That ain’t no cliché, child,” said Smith. “But ain’t it the truth.”

***

Barrett held the umbrella over the car and reached for Emily’s door so Smith wouldn’t have to come out in the rain. Once she was safely beside him, he knocked on Smith’s window, which lowered immediately.

“I’ll call.”

“That’d be fine, sir,” answered Smith with a nod, pulling from the curb to find somewhere close by to park until he was needed.

With Emily so close to him under the umbrella, Barrett could smell her perfume. She had been wearing it since she was a teenager, which made it the most distracting scent ever created: Shalimar by Guerlain. The first bottle Emily ever received had actually been purchased by Barrett for his mother for Christmas, then re-gifted to Emily on Boxing Day when Eleanora English decided she didn’t like the scent and realized she had forgotten to pick up a gift for the gardener’s daughter. Emily had worn it ever since, which meant that as an adult she wore a perfume inadvertently chosen by Barrett.

“It’s a dreadful evening,” he muttered about the rain, putting his hand on the small of her back and ushering her into the club. He savored the brief bit of physical contact with her, reasoning that the sidewalks were slippery so the contact was necessary, not gratuitous, despite the way his body tightened.

“Who is it tonight?” she asked softly, pulling away the moment they were inside the vestibule of the club.

“Harrison Shipbuilding. J.J. Harrison and his wife, Hélène.”

Her blue eyes turned to him in surprise. “His wife?”

Barrett had purposely omitted the fact that this dinner, unlike the others in which only other businesspeople were in attendance, would be more intimate and more social. “Yes.”

She stared at him with thin lips and wide eyes, finally moving her hands to the knot at the waist of her black raincoat. He noticed every slight shift of her body, memorizing the spare grace of her movements, quietly marveling at them.

“We don’t have our story ironed out enough to pass muster with a wife,” she protested.

“What’s the difference? J.J. and I are here to talk business.”

“And I suppose Hélène and I should be mute?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like you two are friends. Offer some smalltalk.”

“Barrett! She’s an older lady. They live for this stuff. She’s going to ask about the wedding, our plans, how we met. That’s what they do.”

She turned, and he took the coat from her shoulders, suppressing a groan when he realized she’d chosen the blue suit. Damn it, why in the hell did he ever have it made for her in the first place if he couldn’t bear to see her in it? He’d insisted the fabric match the blue of her eyes perfectly, but whenever she wore it, she was so breathtaking, it distracted him. He should have told her to wear the black instead.

She turned to face him and the hurt expression on her face clued him into the fact that he was glowering. He turned from her, handed the raincoat to the coat check girl, and then offered the claim ticket to Emily without a word.

He gestured toward the dining room, but she remained rooted, eyes large and annoyed.

“Our story?”

“Tell her whatever you want,” he snapped, frustrated for wanting what he couldn’t have. “I’ll go along with it.”

“Anything?” she asked with a hint of challenge in her voice.

“Within reason.”

Her lips parted, and his eyes darted to them. He forced himself not to linger, cutting to her gaze again instead—to the same eyes that always dismissed him at the end of the night after he handed over the money she’d earned.

“I really don’t care,” he added. “As long as it’s appropriate and plausible.”

Her glossy, pink bottom lip slipped between her teeth for a moment. He hated it when she did that. Hours later, at home in his penthouse, it would take several scotches to forget what she looked like biting on that lip—how it made his blood rush south like a teenager in love.

“Appropriate and plausible. How romantic.”

He took a deep breath and sighed. Was it his imagination or was she being more contrary than usual tonight?

He glanced at his watch. The Harrisons would be here in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes alone with Emily Edwards. One thousand, two hundred seconds of Emily all to himself.

“May I buy you a drink while we wait?”

Her lips were still pursed and sour as she turned toward the lounge area, leaving him to follow in her wake.

“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Hélène Harrison. “What a charming beginning! Simply
charmant
!”

Emily had just told Hélène that she and Barrett had grown up on the same road, a stone’s throw away from each other, and yet they’d never dated until this past year when they ran into one another at Penn. Emily smiled politely, sipping her Riesling, feeling pleased with herself, then hiding a cringe at the sticky sweetness of the wine.

Why hadn’t she told him she preferred a good microbrew beer over wine? The only time she’d ever drunk Riesling was the summer her cousin Daisy had visited. Fitz English, in a gesture totally and completely out of character, had stolen three bottles from his father’s wine cellar in an effort to impress Daisy. Along with Alex and Weston, the five of them had gotten drunk as skunks on the trampoline near the pool, much to the disapproval of Barrett who came out around midnight and told them to keep it down or they were going to wake up the whole neighborhood. Emily barely recalled the walk back to the gatehouse at two o’clock in the morning, and had nursed a killer hangover the next morning. No doubt Barrett remembered as well, forcing her to drink the sweet, syrupy stuff as a reminder of the night she got soused, and a precautionary measure against further untoward behavior.

She glanced over at him, deeply engaged in conversation with J.J. Harrison who had his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Barrett with something that strongly resembled distaste. Despite the care she’d taken getting ready tonight, Barrett had grimaced when she took off her raincoat, and it had hurt her feelings. They’d headed over to the bar and sat in veritable silence side-by-side until the Harrisons had arrived, and after introducing Emily as his fiancée, he’d barely glanced her way again.

Her hurt feelings coupled with the fact that Emily was breaking off their fake engagement at the end of the night, made her uncharacteristically reckless. She vaguely considered her Darcy-Elizabeth theory and wondered what reaction a little needling of Barrett would produce. Warming to the idea quickly and ignoring the warning bells going off in her head, she formulated a quick plan: Operation Poke the Shark.

Downing her entire glass of wine in one gulp and flashing her most brilliant smile, Emily gestured for the older woman to lean closer in confidence. “Hélène, that’s only how we
met
. There’s so much more to the story.”

Emily swallowed nervously, hiding it by keeping her smile plastered to her face. She looked over at Barrett, who continued to talk business, and although she knew it wasn’t professional and she knew Operation Poke the Shark could (and likely
would
) backfire, leaving her humiliated, a lifetime’s worth of longing wouldn’t be denied. She’d never be this close to Barrett again after tonight, never have this sort of access to him. It was her last chance to figure out who Barrett was and if her hunches about him were founded in anything besides a lifelong infatuation, and completely one-sided. Despite the potential for awkwardness between them, she simply couldn’t let this one-time opportunity slip through her fingers.

Taking a deep breath, she summoned her courage and stared at Barrett’s hand for a long moment before reaching for it with trembling fingers and raising it to her lips.

Distracted by the scent of soap and starch, she lingered over the warm skin on the back of his hand, letting her lips drag softly together to meet in a soft kiss. Barrett’s low baritone ceased abruptly and when Emily looked up, he’d turned his attention completely to her. His eyes were wide, deep and dark, anchored somewhere between shocked and furious.

Almost void of bravery, she mustered her last bit of spirit and gave him the sexiest grin she could manage, while keeping her voice from wavering. “Shall I tell it, darling, or will you?”

“W-what? Tell wh—Emily, what are you talking about?”

“Our story, Barrett,” she insisted, brushing his skin with her lips again as her stomach flip-flopped not only from her reckless daring, but from the contact—from the heat rising from his hand, warming her lips.

His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. “I’m sure our guests—”

“Want to hear every word!” exclaimed Hélène, finishing off her second gin and tonic and leaning forward excitedly. “Two such attractive people so obviously in love.”

“Hear that, darling?” asked Emily, amazed that she hadn’t backed down from his scowl yet. She laced her fingers through his before setting their joined hands on the table.

He stared at her in disbelief, his breathing noticeably shallow. “I, um, I—”

Feeling marginally more confident at the doorstep of a flummoxed Barrett, Emily grinned at Hélène. “Barrett’s a tiger in the boardroom, but a lamb in the…”

Hélène’s eyes widened, and for a moment Emily wondered if Barrett would break her fingers, he gripped them so tightly. She looked down at his white knuckles and concealed a pained grimace with her brightest possible smile.

“…jewelry store.”

“Oh!” said Hélène, her eyes flicking to the large, high-quality fake diamond on Emily’s finger. “You’re
wicked
, Emily!”

“I’d like to hear more about the softer side of Barrett English,” said J.J. Harrison, relaxing for the first time all evening as he put his arm around Hélène and beckoned the waiter over to serve another round of drinks.

“J.J.,” said Barrett in a strangled voice, “we could let the ladies chitchat and retire to the bar to finalize—”

“Nonsense,” said J.J., finishing the rest of his scotch. “Tell us all about Barrett, Emily. How the shark won the fair maiden’s heart.”

“Well, Barrett a—and, um…” started Emily, then sputtered, distracted by an unexpected, new development. Barrett’s fingers loosened as his thumb started idly stroking the skin of Emily’s hand. She glanced down, caught totally off-guard by the small movement, even a little bewildered. It was so slight, so subtle, but it felt so…
intimate
that her breath hitched. She flicked her gaze up to Barrett’s face. His eyes were as dark as a stormy sea, focused on hers with searing intensity. Oh, Lord, he was furious with her. Furious? Or something else altogether? She wondered with a growing awareness that spread through her gut like molten lava—

“Emily?” he prompted, his voice softer and lower than she could ever remember hearing it. “Our story?”

“I…” she started, but her voice faltered, and he raised an eyebrow as the tables turned, seeming to enjoy her sudden discomfiture. Glancing down at their hands, his lips tilted up in a knowing smirk, and his eyes, which told her he had finally surrendered to her little game, took on the steely glint of challenge.

“Tell them, Emily. Tell them how I asked you. Tell them what I said when I asked you to be my wife.”

His thumb still stroked softly, and his fingers flexed to grip hers closer, making her heart race painfully. His eyes were dark and intense, focused completely on her like a predator sizing up its prey for dinner. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat; she’d never had Barrett’s focused attention quite like this. She felt the heat of his gaze in every fiber of her being.

“Emily?” prompted Hélène.

Emily plastered a smile on her face and turned to the older woman.

“It was a Sunday,” said Emily softly.

“A Sunday morning,
darling,
” added Barrett.

Emily’s breath caught. She was deeply aroused by Barrett’s touch, by the low, provocative tone in his voice when he called her “darling.” She’d never, ever seen this side of him. The moment she’d pressed her lips to his hand, a flip had switched, charging the very air between them, changing the rules they’d been following for the past few months. Operation Poke the Shark was up and running it seemed, and Emily knew enough of his fiercely competitive business nature to know that if she was going to bait him, he’d not only take the bait, he’d devour her too. If she was honest, it’s exactly what she’d wanted—to force her Mr. Darcy to show her some emotion.

The Harrisons stared at her, eagerly awaiting her story. She swallowed, desperately trying to ignore the way Barrett’s thumb was making her so hot she could barely focus.

Think, think, think. An engagement story. Think, Emily!

“Um. Well. We’d decided to visit the Japanese House and Garden, b-because Barrett had never seen it.”

“You’re skipping so much, Emily,” he scolded, lifting their hands and letting his lips linger on the back of her hand just as she’d done to him a few minutes ago. She concealed a gasp by reaching for her full wineglass, the muscles inside her body rousing themselves, flexing from the erotic sensation of his lips on her skin. She perceived the low rumble of a chuckle against her hand before he continued in a low, taut voice. “It was one of those lazy mornings when you wake up late because you have nowhere to be. Nowhere else you
want
to be.”

His tone was so smooth, so suggestive, for a moment she almost felt like she could search her brain to actually find the memory of waking up beside him, his naked chest pressed up against her back as the light filtered in through his bedroom. She’d never been in Barrett’s bedroom, but she imagined it was impersonal and perfectly appointed with a massive bed and crisp white sheets.

Something about envisioning his cold, austere bedroom gave her a jolt of spirit, and after a healthy gulp, she placed her glass back down on the table, turning to him to lick her lower lip before biting down on it slowly.

“You made me brunch, Bee,” she purred, letting the fantasy embolden her.

His eyes widened slightly at the nickname before he turned to the Harrisons who were wide-eyed, focused on every word. In a theatrical whisper that made Emily’s lips quirk up at the same time her toes curled, Barrett confided, “She is
insatiable
in the morning.”

“Oh!” sighed Hélène, fanning herself. “Oh my!”

“Now who’s wicked?” asked Emily, her eyes widening at his unexpected innuendo. She uncrossed her legs under the table and shifted just slightly to press her thigh up against Barrett’s. She watched his nostrils flair and she grinned at him with satisfaction. “After brunch—”

“What does an English make for brunch?” interrupted J.J., a curious smile playing on his face.

“Blueberry pancakes,” blurted out Barrett, and Emily chuckled softly looking up at him with surprised eyes.

Blueberry pancakes were her favorite.

***

At first, Barrett had been furious with her for pulling a stunt like this. He swore he wouldn’t pay her a dime for tonight’s debacle, as he tried to redirect the conversation back to business. He’d been making progress with J.J., his light threats doing their work on his quarry’s head. But then her lips had touched his hand, shooting a direct line of heat to his groin, and he was—for the first time he could remember—so distracted by something other than business, he’d almost been speechless.

She’d caught him totally off-guard with her antics, and as much as propriety ranked high on Barrett’s list of musts, it had taken him several serious minutes to talk himself out of hauling her out of her chair, thrusting his hand into her silky blonde hair and forcing his tongue into her mouth. By the time he’d gotten himself under control, there was no turning back. The Harrisons wanted a story.

But, two could play her game, and it wasn’t lost on him when she started stuttering, her bravado faltering as he rubbed slow circles in the soft skin of her hand. He’d smirked at her then, relieved that if they were going to play, the field was at least level.

Just now, her bright blue eyes had lost the artifice of their shenanigans for a moment when he mentioned blueberry pancakes. They were her favorite, and he had no idea how he knew that, but he did. Likely, he’d watched surreptitiously some time or another when she chose them at the Boxing Day buffet, or overheard Susannah remind Felix to get the ingredients for her birthday breakfast. He’d catalogued it in the corner of his mind reserved for Emily.

He shrugged. “They’re your favorite.”

“Yes, they are.”

He pushed his leg meaningfully into hers, fully aware that she’d uncrossed her legs and her thighs were lightly spread, confined only by the narrow lines of her blue tweed skirt. He sipped his scotch then dropped his unoccupied hand to his lap, wondering what she would do if he slid it over, slipping it onto the warm skin of her thigh.

“And after pancakes?” prompted Hélène.

“Barrett doesn’t dress like this on the weekends,” said Emily, turning up her nose a little.
Hmm. She doesn’t like the way I dress for business?
Something else to catalogue in the “Emily Corner.” “He just wears jeans and a shirt. He walks around his apartment barefooted.”

“Like a Polo model,” said Hélène, fawning a little.

Barrett felt a flush of heat in his cheeks. He knew he was good-looking. He certainly used it to his advantage now and then, but he hated when it upstaged business dealings. Surprisingly, Emily chose that very moment to squeeze his hand lightly, as if she knew it bothered him.

“Naw. He’s just Barrett. Barefoot in the kitchen making blueberry pancakes for his lazy fiancée.”