Breaking Up with Barrett: The English Brothers #1 (The Blueberry Lane Series - The English Brothers) (2 page)

“Emily?” prompted Val. “
Anything
?”

Emily forced a deep breath, her heart heavy as she promised to examine her feelings more thoroughly later and decide, once and for all, what action they warranted.

“Well…” said Emily, trying to come up with something trite to appease Valeria’s curiosity without betraying her true struggles. “He always remembers to order me a glass of Riesling.”

“That’s something, I guess,” said Emily’s roommate. She walked along in silence beside her for a few minutes as fall leaves swirled around their feet. “But wait. You only drink beer at home. Do you even
like
Riesling?”

“Not really.”

Valeria glanced at Emily incredulously before her shoulders started trembling with laughter. “So the thing you like best about Barrett English is that he orders you the same drink every time, even though it happens to be a drink you don’t even like?”

“I guess so,” said Emily, giggling along with her friend, the silliness a reprieve from the hopelessness of her heart.

“That’s pathetic Emily,” said Valeria, unlocking the outside door to their walk-up. “But on the bright side, at least you’ll make three to four hundred dollars for your time tomorrow. How about we splurge on Chinese tonight?”

“Chinese on Barrett English,” said Emily, following her roommate up the stairs. “I like it. And let’s eat it straight out of the containers. I bet Barrett’s never done that in his whole master-of-the-universe life.”

***

At that very moment Barrett English, so-called Master of the Universe, was a force to be reckoned with. He stared at two of his four younger brothers with one eyebrow raised and his hands tented under his chin.

“You can’t do it,” insisted Fitz, Chief Compliance Officer of English & Sons, looking to Alex for help.

“Fitz is right, Barrett. Harrison’s going to dig in his heels.”

When Barrett sat at his massive cherry desk on the nineteenth floor of the newest, trendiest, most expensive office building in Philadelphia, he didn’t often take no for an answer. Frankly, Barrett rarely took no for an answer regardless of where he was sitting.

“You’re going to need his cooperation,” said Fitz, who had always been more of a rule-follower than Barrett, which Barrett both envied and considered a weakness. “You can’t just bulldoze your way into the situation, threatening an acquisition of the largest shipbuilding company on the east coast. J. J. Harrison still owns thirty percent of the company, not to mention the employees love him like a father. You force him out, you risk the employees walking, and you’ll be left with nothing but a shell of a company. You’re going to have to win him over.”

Alex looked at Barrett, then quirked his lips up, suppressing a grin at Fitz’s impassioned plea. Alex was the most easy-going of the five brothers. Both in and out of the office he had a perpetual smirk on his face which made him the target of all women everywhere. Again, a quality Barrett was grudgingly envious of, even as he turned his nose up at Alex’s shenanigans, which frequently caused uncomfortable romantic tangles for his middle brother. Barrett wasn’t interested in any of that. He was Barrett English. He didn’t have time for that sort of nonsense.

When he felt frustrated for female company, he called Felicity Atwell and they scratched each other’s mutual itch in the suite of an expensive hotel before going their separate ways. He didn’t require or desire more of an attachment than that.

Mostly.

He flicked his eyes down at his desk where he’d written a reminder to himself to call the sommelier at The Union League Club to ensure they had the Egon Müller Riesling icy cold and uncorked promptly at seven-o-five tomorrow night. There were twenty-four hours between now and then—they could have a bottle imported from Germany in that time, if needed. If Emily insisted on drinking that sweet slop, at least she should be drinking the best.

“I’m just saying, more bees with honey,” said Fitz, looking a little desperately at Alex. “Maybe Alex or I should…”

Barrett saw the silent message pass between his younger brothers. They didn’t think he could swing this deal because he wasn’t charming enough? He suppressed a snort. Charm didn’t get deals done. Strength and focus did.

“I’ll handle it,” replied Barrett tersely, sitting straight in his chair and picking up the receiver of his desk phone. “Anything else?”

Fitz shifted in the guest chair behind Barrett’s desk, glancing at Alex again. “Do you have a…a date for tomorrow? It would help keep things friendly.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Fitz, but I do.”

Alex leaned forward. “But it’s not Emily Edwards, is it?”

Barrett bristled, settling the phone slowly back into its cradle and staring at Alex with cold eyes. “Say what you want to say, Alex. I’ve got more important things to do.”

Alex put his hands up. “Emily’s a great girl. We all like Emily.”

Fitz nodded carefully, his eyes direct and cool. “And we’re all quite fond of Felix and Susannah, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Alex.

“Of course,” said Barrett, drily. He raised an eyebrow. “So…?”
“You could bring Felicity Atwell or any of the other girls you met at Penn.”

“Not interested. They’d read into it on a personal level. Could get messy.”

“And Emily won’t?” asked Fitz, something flickering behind his eyes. “Read into it? Get messy?”

Oh.
Barrett understood. They were concerned Emily would form an attachment to him and she’d get hurt at some point, causing potential awkwardness with their beloved gardener and housekeeper. Well then, they underestimated Emily.

She may have started out as the gardener’s daughter, but she’d attended U Penn, just like the English brothers. She was smart and beautiful and an even match for any of the girls Barrett had met at Penn. And okay, Emily might not have a trust fund, but when she dressed up like any other high society girl, laughing her soft, throaty chuckle at all of the appropriate times? He didn’t care if her bank account was next to empty, and he couldn’t give a crap that she grew up in the gatehouse. It was so damn distracting, he was almost grateful for her outstretched hand at the end of the night. It acted as a wake-up call, reminding him she had reluctantly agreed to work for him, and they
weren’t
actually dating, no matter how much the fantasy had taken root in his heart.

Besides, he was eight years her senior. He remembered her in pigtails waiting for the school bus as he’d driven himself to college. And he was self-aware enough to note that while Fitz was full of heart and Alex was a veritable Casanova, Barrett was considered stuffy and reserved, while Emily was—as she had always been—young, bright-eyed, warm, and engaging.

Sitting beside her, he’d searched her face surreptitiously as the weeks slipped by, looking for any sign that she might be interested in him—that she saw beyond his stern manners and business dealings, that she could see him as someone other than the oldest English brother, or worse, “the Shark.” Alas… Emily was polite and professional, on-time, accommodating of his schedule, and so breathtakingly beautiful, it made his heart hurt. But as far as he could tell, and regardless of the growing—and completely ridiculous—feelings he had for her, she gave no outward indication she was interested in him romantically. And anxious not to thrust the nature of his true feelings upon her, possibly risking the generations-old relationship his family had with hers, he remained silent.

“No,” answered Barrett. “She won’t read into it, and it won’t get messy.”

“Just don’t crap where you eat, Barrett.”

“Screw you, Alex. You’re in no position to talk. How many girls have we had to quietly pay off now? And there was that charming situation with the video tape.”

Alex flushed, but Barrett could tell it was less out of embarrassment than pride. Barrett rolled his eyes at his little brother.

“I’m all about business, boys. And I can guarantee you—without any shadow of doubt—that Emily’s all about business too.”

“Business?” asked Fitz, eyebrows furrowing, sensing some ethical quandary, no doubt.

“The Edwardses have always worked for the Englishes.”

“So she’s
working
for you?”

“She’s not on the payroll,” said Alex, their Chief Financial Officer.

“It’s under control, Alex.”

“Oh, I’ll just bet it is,” said Alex, giving up the argument. He stood and pushed his chair back under the lip of his oldest brother’s desk, turning to leave.

Fitz hesitated, and Barrett could see the moral dilemma taking place in his brother’s head. There was a reason Fitz was a natural at compliance. Following the rules was innate to him. Almost always.

“Fitz,” said Barrett in a more gentle tone, mostly reserved for family gatherings and out-of-the office social occasions. He leaned forward, capturing his brother’s blue eyes, so much like his own. “There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”

Fitz took a deep breath and surrendered, bracing his hands on the front of Barrett’s desk to stand and follow Alex out of the room.

As soon as they were gone, Barrett swiveled in his chair, looking out over Philadelphia as he tightened his jaw then released it. It
was
under control, wasn’t it? Of course it was, despite the fact that Barrett had been captivated by Emily Edwards for almost as long as he could remember.

He clearly remembered the day, twenty-four years ago, when Felix and Susannah had brought their newborn daughter up to the main house to meet the English family. She’d been this tiny perfect person with bright blue eyes and fuzzy light hair covering her otherwise bald head. Like most other eight-year-olds, Barrett wasn’t very interested in babies, especially since there’d been a new English baby brother in his life every other year since he was born. But from the beginning, Emily was different.

First of all, she was the first baby
girl
he’d ever seen, and it surprised him how much more delicate and soft she looked. Weston and Emily were right around the same age, but Weston’s face was always knitted intensely, as though he knew he’d have to fight for his place among four older siblings. Weston’s bellow was loud and demanding, whereas baby Emily lay quietly in her mother’s arms, wrapped up in a pale pink blanket, taking in the world with those cerulean eyes from the warmth of her snug nest.

Susannah, noticing his quiet interest in her daughter, had asked Barrett if he wanted to hold Emily. Barrett had nodded eagerly, sitting on the silk brocaded loveseat beside her. Susannah had gently transferred the little girl to Barrett’s arms, and he’d stared down at her, dumbstruck, for several long moments as their parents visited. His father had even opened a bottle of Champagne, and the four adults had toasted baby Emily while Barrett held her carefully, reverently, on his lap. Fitz and Alex wrestled in the corner, Stratton quietly looked at a picture book on the floor, and Weston—predictably—started bellowing from his cradle for attention. But, Barrett was in his own world where nothing else existed but the little girl in his arms, who locked her brand new blue eyes on his and held on.

“Ridiculous sentiment,” he muttered, swiveling his chair back around and picking up the phone. “Get Lox and Ravers now. I want to go over the Harrison numbers once more before I leave today.”

“It’s seven o’clock, sir.”

“I don’t care if it’s midnight. Get them here.” He hung up the phone.

Barrett clenched his jaw, forcing her blue eyes out of his mind, as he’d done a million times before, and opened up a new spreadsheet. He’d learned long ago the only antidote to useless longing was hard work, and there was
always
more to do.

Emily stood in front of her closet, staring at the two outfits Barrett had sent to her soon after she’d agreed to play fiancée for him several months ago: a Givenchy couture black, silk cocktail dress that cost more than two months’ rent, and a light blue custom-made Chanel suit that cost
three times
more than two months’ rent. It was hands down the most expensive thing in Emily’s apartment.

She almost always chose to wear the black dress, mostly because the one time she’d worn the Chanel, Barrett’s eyes had darkened appreciably like she’d done something wrong, which made no sense at all since he’d purchased the suit for her to wear in the first place. Honestly, she loved it. It hugged her size eight curves on top, but sucked her in at the waist and fell to a flattering but tasteful line across her thighs. Not to mention, the fabric color was such a close match to her eyes, it was almost unreal how blue they became when she wore it. But, he’d looked so displeased after the first time, she hadn’t worn it again.

She huffed, taking the beautiful blue suit out of the closet, watching as the clear cellophane from the dry cleaners rustled lightly over it.

“I don’t feel like black tonight. I’m wearing the suit, and I don’t care if you like it or not, Barrett.”

She pulled on her white cotton underwear and simple Playtex bra—it’s not like she could afford La Perla to go underneath—and, keeping with the propriety of being Barrett English’s fiancée, she pulled on some nude pantyhose with a scowl. A cream silk camisole covered her simple bra and tickled the skin of her stomach. Barrett had sent one pair of size seven black patent leather Coach pumps that were boring, but comfortable, and she slipped those over her feet, remembering the awkwardness of his proposition.

It was several months ago in late-Spring, and Emily had been sitting on a bench outside of College Hall at the University of Pennsylvania, where she was a first-year doctoral student, when she heard him say her name.

“Emily Edwards?”

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun to see Barrett’s handsome face come into focus. “Barrett?”

“Yes. Hello. I thought that was you. I was here for an endowment meeting. Decided to stroll the campus for a few minutes before heading back to the office.”

Stroll the campus.
She grinned up at him. Barrett English always spoke like someone much older than his thirty-two years, but she sort of liked that about him. It was part of who he was.

In contrast to his stiff conversation was the way he looked—easy, smooth, and ridiculously debonair. Her eyes flicked down for a second to check out the cut of his suit, which was obviously custom made, because it fit him like a dream. Navy blue and sharp, it was the perfect complement to the light blue dress shirt with bright white French cuffs underneath. Her eyes touched on his wrists where shiny silver cufflinks were engraved with BEE. Barrett Edward English. It was good the sun was so bright—he wasn’t able to see her pupils dilate with a lifetime’s worth of lust.

“I’m interrupting you,” he observed.

“It’s fine.” Emily’s eyes strained against the sun, narrowed to slits in an attempt to maintain eye contact. “Do, um, do you want to sit?”

“No. How are your parents?”

“Very well, thank you. And yours?”

“Fine.”

“Fitz, Alex, Stratton, and Weston?”

“All well, thank you.”

Her shoulder slumped in disappointment as their pleasantries found a dead end.

Why did she wish, every time she saw him, which wasn’t very often, that he’d loosen up with her? It’s not like she had a chance with him, so why did it matter? Maybe because they’d known one another forever, and yet, they didn’t actually know one another very well at all. What was it about Barrett that had always made her heart thump faster and her eyes widen with longing? And what would it take to get Barrett to be even a little bit playful? Was it even possible?

The sun was so intense, Emily couldn’t bear the glare anymore. She had looked down at the notes on her lap, blinking to clear her vision, hoping she didn’t appear dismissive as her pulse pounded in her neck.

The silence had grown thick and awkward between them, and she finally wondered if he was waiting for her to politely say “goodbye,” releasing him from her company?

“Well…” she had started. “It was nice of you to say hel—”

“Are you dating anyone?”

Taken off-guard, Emily had gasped, then scoffed lightly, looking back up to see if he was serious. Without a smile to soften the boldness of the question, it appeared as though he was. “W-What? Why are you asking?”

“I’m just wondering,” he answered, his blue eyes boring into hers.

Her heart had surged behind her ribs, racing like a prizewinner at Preakness. “N-no. Not right now.”

“Then I have a proposition for you.” His voice was businesslike and level, but the word “proposition” hung between them, loaded and—she guessed unintentionally—suggestive.
“Oh?”

“I need a—well, what I need is a woman to occasionally—”

“Barrett!” she exclaimed, a flush starting at her breasts and creeping steadily up her neck to scorch her cheeks.

“No, no! Nothing like that. Don’t be ludicrous, Emily,” he said, quickly moving to sit beside her. His thigh pressed against hers, and if anything was ludicrous, it was the jolt she got from that tiny bit of contact. She turned to find him looking at her seriously, and he searched her eyes as he added, “I don’t want any romantic complications.”

Her jaw dropped, and her eyes widened with offense. “Now you listen to me, Barrett English. My family may work for yours, but I am
not
that kind of girl and you have no right suggesting that we—”

“No! Damn it. I said it wasn’t like that. That’s not—I mean, I need a date. Occasionally. I need a woman to pose as my fiancée from time to time.”

She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d stripped out of his Armani suit and done the Macarena for her.

“Come again?”

He looked at his lap before seizing her eyes in the no-nonsense stare he must use for all of his corporate dealings, and she started to understand why his nickname was “The Shark.” His gaze was focused and unyielding, she found it incredibly exciting.

“Emily, let me be quite clear. I am offering you a job. I would like to pay you to occasionally accompany me to business dinners posing as my fiancée. I will supply one ring, two dresses, and one pair of shoes so that you are appropriately attired for such engagements. I will always have a car pick you up and drop you off at your apartment so your safety will never be compromised. I will not require anything untoward whatsoever. I just want your occasional company for the sake of appearances. That’s all.”

“You want to pay me to go on business dates with you?”

He nodded. “As my fiancée.”

Emily was so turned around by the course of their conversation, she took a brief glimpse over her shoulder to see if Alex English was hiding behind a tree, taping this exchange as some sort of family prank.

No Alex. Back to Barrett.

“Do you mind if I ask why?”

“I don’t trust that many people, Emily, but I trust you.”

She didn’t want it to matter that he’d said that, but it did. It was a rare show of feeling from Barrett, she sensed, and the direct way he had said it made her heart lurch with hopefulness. She looked down at her lap, finding it easier to compose herself when she wasn’t looking into his searing blue eyes.

“Don’t you have a dozen women you could ask to do this? I mean, in
your
world?”

He shrugged beside her. “It could get messy. I don’t want messy. I prefer neat.”

And that lovely surge of happiness had evaporated into thin air. Of course. He was an English, and she was an Edwards, and he was merely hiring her to do a job. Further, he was basically saying he had no romantic interest in her and never would, so she was a perfect choice for non-messy, fake-fiancée employment.

Though Barrett had never been more than a far-reaching fantasy, it still hurt Emily’s feelings a little that he should be so frank about how unappealing and unsuitable she was. She sensed he wasn’t purposely trying to hurt her, but it did make her decision to refuse him easy, because she knew in her heart that even though she wouldn’t be messy for
him
, he could be potentially messy for
her
.

“I don’t think so, Barrett. I’m a first-year doctoral student. Even over the summer, I have to keep up with my studies. I tutor undergrads. I’m interning for one of the professors this summer. I don’t, you know, I don’t really date much. I’m working on my—”

“I’ll pay you a hundred dollars an hour for your time.”

Emily’s jaw dropped as her lungs emptied like the wind had been knocked out of her. For a struggling student, that was an unthinkable amount of money for occasionally sitting next to him at dinner. She had stared at him for what seemed like an eternity before taking a deep breath and raising her hand to him. “Where and when?”

His lips twitched as he gave her a brief, inscrutable smile, then took her hand and shook it, causing a delicious current to trail from her palm to her wrist, up her arm and down her back, tripping the pulse in her neck.

“I’ll be in touch,” he had said, looking down at their clasped hands for a long moment before pulling his away.

Since then, Emily had been on seven dates as the future Mrs. Barrett English, always at The Union League Club, always with different business associates of Barrett’s and always wearing the “engagement” ring Barrett had sent her via courier before their first date with the incredibly romantic note attached that read:
It’s paste, but it’s good paste. Don’t lose it. –B

Twisting her light blonde hair up into a chignon for date number eight, Emily looked at herself in the mirror. From the respectable distance of her station while growing up at Haverford Park, she’d had a front row seat to every English family soiree, every important social gathering at their Blueberry Lane estate, and a close-up look at every girlfriend brought home by the five handsome brothers.

Emily had learned how to dress, speak and act to fit in with the English family, who, when they encountered her, treated her like an almost-forgotten second or third cousin, of whom they were vaguely fond but unconcerned. Though she wasn’t formally invited to any of their social events, with the exception of Boxing Day and the annual Summer Party, living on their property in close daily contact with the family had afforded Emily a certain education on how to fit in with the upper crust of posh Haverford. That was another reason that Barrett had chosen her to act as his fiancée: he knew she could pull it off.

Emily dusted some blush on her pale cheekbones and brushed some mascara on her light lashes, then swiped a bit of pale pink lip gloss across her lips. Subtle. Understated. Perfect. And all for him. Not that Barrett would notice or care.

As she pulled on the light blue tweed skirt, adjusting the gold link belt that accented her trim waist, she considered the question Valeria had asked yesterday and the very real feelings it had forced Emily to recognize.

Being “engaged” to Barrett wasn’t just a job anymore. Emily loved being Barrett English’s fake fiancée, which was not just inconvenient, but pointless. Because despite her deepening feelings, heart flutters, and silent longings, Barrett had made it clear from the start she held no romantic interest for him. Falling for Barrett was not only one-sided, but a recipe for heartbreak.

Emily looked at herself in the mirror, buttoning the Mother-of-Pearl buttons on the perfect-fitting cropped jacket, then running her hands slowly and regretfully over the beautiful material before grabbing her purse and heading for the door. She had looked at the situation from every angle, but regrettably had come up with only one feasible solution.

Before her feelings for Barrett developed any further, she needed to “break up” with him.

***

“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.”