Breaking Up With Barrett, The English Brothers #1

Chapter 2 (2/2)

"Another day another dollar, eh, Smith?" said Emily, ducking under Smith's umbrella to take a seat in the back of the custom-fitted town car.

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, Miss Em," said Smith, taking his seat behind the wheel.

"Damned if you do and damned if you don't," she answered, cracking her window for fresh air as Smith pulled away from the curb in front of her apartment building.

"Don't bite the hand that feeds you, now."

Emily grinned. She'd been playing this game with the English family chauffeur, Reginald Smithson, since she was a very little girl when he used to call her "L'il Miss Em" and she'd occasionally help him wash the cars on the odd, lazy Sunday.

"Put your best foot forward."

"You win," said the older black man, chuckling and flicking his gaze up to Emily in the rear view mirror.

Emily leaned forward until her chin rested on the windowsill between the front and back seats of the luxury town car. "Still not mentioning these dates to Mom and Dad, right Smith?"

"I'm not one to stir up trouble, Miss Em, but I sure hope you know what you're doing."

"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.