Briony - April

← Previous Chapter: Chapter 5 /|\ Next Chapter → Chapter 7Nick is going to hate this. The country house turned hotel and restaurant that we’re being housed in by the production team is very quaint. Yet, as the late afternoon sunlight spills onto the thin, pale pink and cream striped walls of the dining room through several windows along one wall, even the cheerful interior can’t distract me from the irritation rising in my chest. I shift on the balls of my feet as I glance around the small, crowded area. As I suspected, all eyes are on me and Amelia, for what feels like the umpteenth time this week.This Substack is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Over the past two weeks, Amelia has found various ways to put herself in Nick’s line of sight. Unfortunately, more often than not, it’s put me in the crosshairs as well. I don’t know if she believes the way to a man’s heart is through an enemies to lovers trope, but she’s failing abysmally at the ‘to lovers’ part. As she shows up everywhere, with overeager eyes and sultry innuendos, all she’s managed to do is get Nick to vow to never work without a trailer again. To keep calm, I focus on the newly bloomed pink and white flowers in the garden outside, as Amelia continues to passive aggressively tell me why I should make her dinner. She’s not even assigned to this hotel. Why is she here? Strike that. Why am I still here? Lifting the dinner tray I set down on a nearby mahogany tabletop when she intercepted me to ‘ask a question,’ I take a deep breath. She works with Nick. Be cool. You’re a professional… “It just doesn’t make sense that you’re here to cook for just the one person. You’re taking up space in the hotel that could have gone to another paying guest,” she pouts in her gratingly arrogant tone. Ah. There’s the rub, as Nick would say. This isn’t her first time bringing up that fact. She’d better be glad Nick is at flight training today. If he’d heard that, he’d be livid. Lifting the tray, I quirk an eyebrow in irritation at the willowy blond dressed in yet another miniskirt and cropped green sweater. “As I said before, Miss Raglan,” I calmly respond. “I’m a privately engaged chef. Where I stay isn’t up for discussion. Now if you’ll excuse me.” As I try to go around her she blocks me once again. Smiling imperiously, she tosses her corn silk mane and looks down at me from the couple of extra inches she has on me. “Now, Brandy, there’s no need to be rude. I’m merely suggesting, since you’re taking up the space that could have gone to an actual guest, you could be of better service to the rest of us. If it’s a matter of money, I’m sure I can afford to pay you for your time.” The smile fades from my face. This tray is getting heavy, and if she doesn’t move, she’s gonna find herself nursing some bruised shins. “My name is Briony. Now, Amelia darling. Kindly step aside.” She shrinks back, a hand to her chest in horror. The way the tears spring to her eyes, you’d think I assaulted her. “How dare you speak to me this way? Honestly, Nicholas, your staff is being quite inappropriate.” My back stiffens when I notice the shift in the room, as all eyes swing behind me. There’s a distinct charge in the air, and ignoring the electricity that zings through me, I focus on taking a breath and remaining calm. The deliberate clip of Nick’s boots on the hardwood floor stops just behind me. I don’t bother to look up when I feel his warmth at my back. I can sense the annoyance coming off of him. Oh, brother. Heaving a sigh, I return the tray to the nearby table as I wonder how much he’s heard. Chancing a peek up at him, I nearly swallow my tongue. From the hard set of his jaw, to his windswept blond hair, and the hard blue orbs glinting down at Amelia, I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe again. Until I look at Amelia, who’s looking up at him just as dumbstruck, like this is part of a movie. She’d better wake up… “Briony, Miss Raglan. What seems to be the issue?” The irritation in Nick’s deep voice isn’t lost on me, but Amelia doesn’t appear to notice. As she points at me, like I’m a defendant in the Salem Witch trials, she cries out, “Your staff is behaving quite indecently! I merely asked her to also make me a bit of dinner, but she behaved as though it were perfectly beneath her.” Nick exhales quietly. “Why would you ask my chef to cook for you when there’s a perfectly good restaurant here for your use?” Amelia arches a blond brow. “I hadn’t realized there was anything wrong with directly asking the staff to do their job, Nicholas. Perhaps, I should have rung a bell first. Would that have been more to your liking?” My head whips around at that. Who is this chick, anyway? And, just what is she implying exactly? Nick runs a knuckle along my spine, and all of the spark goes right out of me. Yes. Wait, what? Since when do we do that? It must have had the intended affect, because when I forcefully exhale, he just as quickly drops his hand and continues to calmly address Amelia. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with making requests, and, when you’re addressing the staff, I doubt I’d have anything to say. Briony, however, is not staff. So, you have no need to address her at all.” Ah, just great. Nick heard quite a bit I guess. I grimace. If he gives me another lecture about not letting people walk over me, I’m suing her. I roll my eyes when Amelia scoffs, “Well, if she’s already cooking—” “Let me be clearer, Miss Raglan,” Nick interjects, his voice low enough that only the three of us can hear him. He steps closer to me, so that he’s brushing against my back, and I make like a statue. “Briony doesn’t work for you, nor does she work for the production company. She belongs to me, not anyone else.” A strangled sound gurgles in my throat as I mutter, “Well, not belongs-belongs. I mean slavery’s been over for like 160 years…in case anyone was wondering…” At Nick’s sharp intake of breath, I glance up at him. His gaze is completely focused on Amelia, and despite a small twitch of his lip, he doesn’t otherwise indicate he’s heard me. My gaze swings back to Amelia, and I immediately want to wipe that haughty look off of her face. It doesn’t seem to faze Nick, however, as he continues. “Briony is one of my closest co-workers. We work as a team, and she’s quite highly esteemed in my eyes. To disrespect her, or any member of my team, is to disrespect me. I think you should apologize, Ms. Raglan.” Her eyebrows and my own rise, though for different reasons I imagine. “For what?” Amelia loudly asks, taken aback. “How was I to know that you aren’t interested in sharing your staff-er, coworker’s labor? You paid for her to come all the way here. Did you expect everyone to know it was so that she could purely be in your service?” I suck in a deep breath and take a step towards her. How dare she insult Nick’s character that way? I’m opening my mouth when Nick’s hand grips my shoulder. I look up at him sharply, ready to go through him if need be to readjust her way of thinking. Yet, when I see his face has gone from unpleasantly annoyed to stone cold, I sigh. He’s livid, and I’m not even sure my teasing can fix it. Nick chuckles softly, and quietly says, “I am quite certain I didn’t ask your opinion, darling. So, just the apology, if you please.” Amelia shrugs, her nose in the air. “Well, whatever. I just figured if I wanted an American dish, who better to make it than an American. I’m sure I can find other staff to help me.” Nick nods sharply, his eyes never leaving her face. “You’ve survived this long without it. Now, please apologize.” Amelia looks around at the crew for support. They’re practically falling out of their chairs trying to catch the whole conversation, but a quick survey of the disgusted looks on their faces proves she’s on her own. She flings a dismissive hand in the air. “Whatever. I apologize, Nicholas. Alright?” Nick frowns. “Not to me, to Briony.” I look at him askance. Usually, he has a quick word with the offending person, and it’s resolved as a misunderstanding. If he’s going to start demanding apologies, he might be labeled difficult to work with. Doesn’t he care about his image? She blanches, her eyes skating from his face to mine, and back. “You’re not serious?” “Quite,” Nick grunts. Amelia’s gaze swings to mine, and as she takes a deep breath, I recognize something new reflected in her eyes. Anger. “I apologize, Briony. It won’t happen again.” “Thank you,” I say, sincerely hoping she means it. “What did you make for dinner tonight, Briony?” Nick asks. I glance at him in surprise, noting his frown with a raised brow. “Mint, radish and walnut salad, lemon, leek and coriander seared halibut, and grilled asparagus.” Nick nods and looks back at Amelia. “Have you dined already, Miss Raglan?” There’s calculation behind Amelia’s look of pleasant surprise. “Well, not yet, but dinner sounds lovely. After all, it is my last evening here.” Even as her lips curve up in barely suppressed victory, I’m rolling my eyes. Nick curtly nods toward the forgotten dinner tray. “With my compliments.” Turning to the group in the dining area, he raises his voice. “Sorry, about the interruption to your evening everyone. The first round at the Nag’s Head is on me tonight.” As a loud whoop goes up from the cast and crew, Nick takes me by the elbow and gently escorts me up the back staircase. When I open my mouth to crack a joke, one look at his stormy face has me firmly slamming my mouth shut. When he stomps past my room, and puts the key in his door, my brows shoot up. “What are you—” “Not out here,” he growls, pushing through the oak door. Oh brother..here it comes. Nick is about to step into his overprotective brother mode again, and I’ll have to sit through another lecture. When I was all alone in London and Evie and her parents took me under their wing, I made them my family. Even this guy by extension. Recent, troubling feelings aside, I know he’s overprotective because he cares about me. Is it only as a brother? Sure, I guess. A couple of moments a few weeks ago would suggest otherwise, but there were many more normal moments than the heart stopping, dry mouth, pearl clutching moments I’d experienced. Do I wish it was because he discovered some feelings of his own? I’m not sure. Is it a conflict of interest since he’s my boss? Absolutely. Yet, he’s also a friend. I get a pass when I tease him and annoy him to death. He gets a pass when he’s lecturing me about standing up for myself. It was a fine arrangement until some butterflies moved in and complicated things. I just need to get a grip. Stop daydreaming, and focus on my job and the work I have to get done for the food trucks every night. I’ve been in Nick’s room plenty of times in the past two weeks, usually to drop off or collect his dining tray, laundry or other odds and ends. Occasionally, I’ll sit on the settee that runs across the foot of the large, dark wood canopy bed, as we run lines. The cream wallpaper with its leafy red climbing vines, adds charm to the bright room decorated with framed oil paintings and old embroidery. I still prefer my cozy cream and mint room, but with a couple of sitting areas, a large dresser with wardrobe, and private bathroom, Nick’s room is far larger than mine. So, why does his room seem to shrink when the door closes behind us this time? Nick escorts me to the armchair next to the desk. “Have a seat,” he grits out irritably. As soon as I stumble into the oversized chair, he storms over to the wardrobe, silently flings open the door and hangs his jacket. I know this music. Whoever speaks first is the loser, and I have no intention of losing. Not when it means another lecture about not caring about my own dignity. I can recite it alone thank you very much. I don’t need it in surround sound. Yet, when Nick tosses out a grey henley, a pair of motorcycle pants, and matching black motorcycle jacket with the same blue stripes as mine, I forget myself. Nick’s been riding longer than me, so if anything, the motorcycle kit he gifted me a couple of years ago matches his. I’m just surprised it has made an appearance on this trip since he doesn’t have a motorcycle. “What are you doing?” I ask, eyes bouncing from him to his kit. “What am I doing?” He quietly scoffs, slapping a hand on his chest. “Why did you let that girl walk over you that way?” I’ve gone and done it, now. I sigh. “Nick, it’s not a big deal. I was handling it. I’ve told you before, I’m perfectly capable of defending myself. I do just fine when you aren’t around, you know.” He frowns as he sits on the settee across from me, kicking off his leather boots and roughly peeling off his dress socks. “You call standing there holding a tray of food while Amelia castigates you in front of the crew, ‘handling’ it?” “I wouldn’t call it ‘castigating,’ per se,” I offer hesitantly. “She just has a love of airing what she thinks are grievances. I was fine.” Nick narrows his eyes. “So, she’s said something to you before?” I look at him askance. “Sure..but I’ve held my ground.” He jumps up, pulling his black sweater over his head as I will the heat rising in my cheeks to disappear. Relax. I’m like 99% sure he would never… “And, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” I add reassuringly, as he yanks his dress shirt out of his pants. “It’s certainly not worth ruining your reputation over.” His head snaps up, blue eyes ablaze as he quietly says, “I think that’s for me to decide. You’re always more worried about my reputation than yourself. Downstairs you were willing to go to war when you thought she insulted me, but for yourself…” Nick pauses, his eyes burning a hole through me as he deliberately speaks again. “No one is allowed to speak to you that way. I don’t care if it’s the King, Tom Trip, or the grand CEO of a magical entertainment company!” I take a breath, forcing myself to focus on the conversation and not the butterflies that seem to be a permanent part of my life now. “That’s wild considering you know all three of them, Nick, and especially since at least two of them have signed off on your checks. And, while those are some interesting choices, as your employee, I doubt I’ll be meeting any of them anyway. You don’t have to worry.” I venture a cheeky smile, yet, Nick’s scowl is fierce as he works his jaw. My brows shoot up when he silently swipes his pants and shirt off the bed and stalks into the bathroom. Slowly exhaling, I sink back against the chair. This is worse than the time with that handsy actor in Munich. Nick had the nerve to be upset with me for waiting until I was out of sight of the rest of the cast before smashing that guy’s hand with the edge of a serving tray. If memory serves, he pretty much said the same thing about not enduring anyone touching me without my permission, and telling him when I needed help. I was forced to sit through an hour long lecture that time. Fluffing my curls in frustration, I get up to return to my own room, vaguely nodding to other crew as I pass them in the hall. I’m not saying Nick’s wrong. I do bite my tongue, but it’s frustrating when the reason I do it is less to do with me and more to do with him. Heaving a sigh, I cross through my cheerful mint colored room to the cupboard, pulling out my own motorcycle kit. Over the years, I’ve seen Nick in a lot of moods, however, there have been a few new ones on this trip that leave me more confused than ever. Now I guess I have to add another. Non-verbal. Well, that’s a problem, I frown as I begin changing clothes. So, what do I do now?← Previous Chapter: Chapter 5 /|\ Next Chapter → Chapter 7Subscribe for new posts every week! Get full access to I'm Just Here For BOOKS at everblueauthor.substack.com/subscribe