Beauty and the Brit by Poppy St. James

CAMRYN

Imanaged to keep my phone turned off all weekend, and now I’m back at work on Monday morning without knowing whether Anna or Sterling tried to contact me.

I almost caved a thousand times. Not that I would have contacted him. But I stood at the kitchen counter, my finger poised over the power button to my cell for a long time on Sunday. The pull to know if he’d tried to contact me was so strong. Would there be a text from him to say he was sorry? Would there be an explanation that, after facing all the women, he decided he wanted to get back with Rebecca after all?

It was better not knowing. For now, at least.

Navigating my way through mass department e-mails and other things of nonimportance, I stifle a yawn as I try to unclutter my in-box. The comforting morning ritual, paired with a steaming cup of coffee, makes me feel halfway human again. A long weekend spent sulking wasn’t healthy. My work gives me purpose, so at least there’s that.

I’m still wondering if Anna’s going to be brave enough to show her face here today. And I have no idea what I’ll do if she does. It’s not just that she quit on me to pursue the client—she was my friend, and she knew the depth of my own feelings for him.

At a few minutes before eight, Anna enters the office. Rather than the confidence she radiated on Saturday, holding her head high as she strutted past my table, today she wears a subdued expression.

“Hey,” she says sheepishly. She enters the office but stays near the door.

My gaze lifts to hers, but my fingers remain on the keyboard. My hope is that this is quick and painless, that maybe she’s just here to pick up her belongings.

“Can we talk?” she asks.

I tip my chin. “Sure. Say what you need to say.” It’s not going to change a darn thing.

I have too much respect for myself to be like Hey, you betrayed me? That’s cool. I may forgive her in time, but the trust is gone. And friendships without trust are like bachelorette parties without alcohol—they’re not something I want any part of.

“I got caught up in the excitement of the event. I mean, really, that’s a compliment to your skills as a publicist.”

When she gives me an awkward smile, I think I throw up in my mouth a little, but I keep my expression neutral, still willing to hear her out.

Since I don’t say anything, she presses on.

“The idea of marrying a multimillionaire, and not to mention that he’s hot and British, I just couldn’t let all that pass without at least trying. I hope you understand that.”

Now I’m just starting to get mad. Not once has she said she’s sorry. These are all flimsy excuses.

I take a deep breath, making sure my voice is calm and in control. “I have work to get done, Anna. Is there a point to all of this?”

She shifts her weight from one high-heeled foot to the other. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not mad.”

At this, I almost laugh. And not because it’s funny, no. I’m talking a full-on maniacal Disney-villain laugh, because she’s clearly insane.

“Mad?” I rise from my desk. “Let’s see. You deserted me at a work event to try and pick up a guy. A guy, despite all the mitigating factors, you knew I had feelings for. So, no. Mad doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Her mouth opens and she takes a step back.

“I’m not simply mad. I’m furious at your behavior, disappointed at your lack of apology, and quite honestly, floored that you had the gall to show up here today asking if I was mad. We’re done, Anna. And not only that, but we’re done working together too.”

“You’re firing me!” she cries, her voice rising in disbelief.

“No, I’m not firing you. That was Olivia’s call. It turns out, when you want to keep a job, you should, I don’t know, do what you were hired for and not flake out on the people who are counting on you.” I’ve crossed the room so I’m now standing directly in front of her with my hands on my hips. “Good-bye, Anna.”

With an annoyed huff, she spins on her heel and storms away, making a disgruntled noise as she goes.

I heave in a breath, my knees trembling despite how composed I might have seemed.

Just then Sterling rounds the corner, his hands moving lazily together and apart in a slow clap. “That was bloody brilliant.”

My mouth twitches in a smile. It actually felt good standing up for myself. I don’t relish the idea of losing a friend, but as the saying goes, with friends like that, who needs enemies?

Anna and I have been close since elementary school, though these last few years we’ve grown apart. Somehow, I know life will go on and we’ll each lick our wounds and eventually get over it. Heck, maybe we’ll even laugh over this someday over cocktails, but I doubt it.

But I don’t have time to reflect on what just went down with Anna. Because Sterling is standing before me in a tailored black suit looking mouthwateringly, soul-crushingly, chest-achingly beautiful.

Stay strong, Camryn.

“Did you need something?”

“Aye. I came by to speak with you about Saturday.” He’s breathless like he ran the whole way here. And maybe he did. His office is across town.

My gaze drifts down to the red and green folders he’s holding at his side.

Unlike Anna, he’s not here to make amends. He’s simply trying to follow up on our project—the shared goal we had of getting him married off. It seems he’s made his selections.

My insides tremble at the sight of those folders in his hands.

The green folder is for those women he’d like another date with, and the red one holds the turndowns. It seems he followed directions well.

As hard as the words are to say, I force them out. “Come on in.”

I head back to my desk, sliding into the rolling leather chair while Sterling takes the seat across from me. He sets both folders on my desk. The red one is about five inches thick, bursting with head shots. The green folder looks like it could be empty for all I know.

“I tried to reach you all weekend,” he says, his voice soft.

I press my lips together, trying not to say something that involves the words screw and you. Be professional, Camryn. Just get through this.

“I’ll get this handled.” I reach for the green folder but Sterling flattens his palm against it, holding it in place.

“I just don’t understand what happened,” he says.

Inhaling deeply through my nose, I try to calm down. But after dealing with Anna, my tolerance for bullshit is practically nonexistent.

“What happened was I’m an idiot. I have a job to do, and I let my emotions get in the way of that. It won’t happen again.” My tone is cold, and if I could pat myself on the back for sounding so aloof, I would.

Sterling’s eyes are dark, stormy, and conflicted. “I was falling for you.”

“And see, that’s where I call bullshit. I saw you and that girl Rebecca. Your ex.”

His dark brows draw together, and his perfectly kissable lips part as his expression changes to one of confusion. “What exactly did you see?”

What did I see, exactly?“There was a dress on the floor. And I heard moans.”

He nods, not denying it.

“Why didn’t you just admit to me from the start that you weren’t over your ex?”

“I had no idea you saw that. The only thing I knew is that your friend Anna threw herself at me, and then you were gone.”

I look down at my hands. “I saw, Sterling. And then I left, because I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Let me explain a few things to you,” he says, his tone precise. “For some strange reason, my ex, Rebecca, was allowed through the screening process, which made little sense to me because I had previously communicated to you that I had no interest in her. As in, none.”

He leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of my desk. I look up, and his dark eyes are filled with regret.

“She came in, stripped out of her dress, and turned on a sexy video on her cell phone. It was a desperate and shameless attempt to get under my skin. I opened the door, wanting her to be removed, but when I found the security guard gone, I went in search of someone to help. I knew Rebecca wasn’t leaving without a fight. And the last thing I wanted was to be in the same room with my naked ex, and have you walk in on that and assume the worst. Which is apparently what happened.”

My windpipe threatens to close. Dear God . . . I thought they were in there doing the deed. My eyes wouldn’t let me look.

“And that was after I’d been proposed to eight times, and asked for my credit score, my blood type, all about my bedroom proclivities, was willing to have my palms read…”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly. It was quite a morning.”

“So you didn’t sleep with Rebecca?”

“God, no.”

I take a deep breath. “Was there anyone nice and normal who you liked?”

“There were a few who seemed like nice girls, but no, I didn’t like any of them. It turns out, I’ve already given my heart to someone else.”

I swallow, so badly wanting to believe he’s talking about me, but I won’t let myself go there just yet.

“And to top it all off, you were gone. Nowhere to be found.”

“I’m sorry about that. I thought you were in there with Rebecca. And after what we shared Friday night . . .” My mouth goes dry, and I can’t continue.

“I understand. I get it. It was just a really tough weekend to get through. I thought you weren’t speaking to me because of the whole Anna thing. And I want you to know, I had no interest in her whatsoever. Even less after I realized how little she values loyalty and friendship.”

“It was a difficult weekend for me too,” I admit.

Losing Anna was unexpected. But spending all weekend mourning the loss of the fragile foundation I’d built with Sterling was worse.

“I want you to know that Friday night meant everything to me.” His voice is steady, but soft.

I can’t look up and meet his eyes. I don’t trust myself.

Instead, I stammer, “No matter what happened between us, I vow to see this through till the end. I’ll be a professional and won’t let anything get in the way of you getting what you want—a wife.”

“You really are an amazing woman, Cami.” He smiles at me fondly with that guarded tenderness I’ve grown to love.

I motion for him to hand me the green folder. “I’ll get dates set up for this week with your finalists.”

“Sure,” he says, handing me the folder before turning to leave.

I draw in a long, slow inhale as my frayed nerves threaten to riot and send me into a tailspin. I’m thirty minutes into my Monday, and so far I’ve fired Anna and then had Sterling tell me that he didn’t lay so much as his little finger on Rebecca, and I believe him. I just do.

I stare at that folder for a long time. Then I set it aside and attempt to finish the e-mail I was writing.

Forget it. I abandon the email. Knowing I won’t be able to concentrate until I see what’s inside, I grab the folder from my desk.

Slowly, I open it and find the picture’s turned over, so only the back side of the glossy photo paper faces me. With trembling fingers, I lift one corner and flip it over.

For several seconds, I just stare at it blankly, my brain struggling to comprehend.

It’s me.

The photo is one of me. Taken when I sat across from him and his mother in the booth at that ice cream shop, a dot of whipped cream on my lower lip and a smile in my eyes. He’d snapped it with his cell phone, and I never thought anything of it.

But now it feels like everything.

Except . . . what does it mean?