Canada Square (Love in London #3) (19 page)

“It's that easy?” There's still a hint of amusement to her voice. “You think you can just turn attraction on and off like a tap?”

I turn and stare at her. “I don't have a choice. It doesn't matter how much I like him.”

“There's always a choice, Amy. Don't kid yourself, there's no black and white here.”

I groan loudly, closing my eyes so tightly I see stars floating behind them. “But I want there to be. Because I've no idea what to do about this.”

“Do you like him?”

I picture Callum's handsome face, and his strong body. Just thinking about him is enough to make me feel dizzy.

“Yes, I like him,” I say, finally. “Much more than I should. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do about that.”

19

I manage to avoid Callum until Wednesday morning, when a project review meeting is arranged. Collecting the current data, I rapidly form it into a presentation which I hope will be enough to reassure the partners that everything is going to plan. My desk is cluttered with papers, as well as a vase of flowers that Charlie sent on Monday as some kind of peace offering. Though I reluctantly accepted the roses, I haven't quite accepted his apology yet.

Glancing at my watch I notice it's almost ten o'clock. The meeting is supposed to last for an hour and a half, which works out well as I'm due to meet Douglas for coffee at one. I can't quite bring myself to call him 'Dad'. I'm not sure I ever will.

Though Mum offered to come to join us, I turned her down. I figure a busy coffee shop in the middle of Canary Wharf is as safe as it gets, and I'm nervous enough about meeting him. She'd only make things worse with her fussing.

I'm still thinking about my family when I walk into the conference room. Distracted, I plug my laptop into the audio-visual system, playing around with the mouse until my presentation is on the screen.

Then I feel my hackles rise.

Callum walks in, followed by the rest of the technical team, and his eyes immediately catch mine. They're dark and narrowed, the shadows beneath them prominent, and his pale, chiselled beauty is hard to ignore. Flustered, I look away, feeling heat spreading across my face.

“All right, Amy?” Paul, one of the technical engineers, nods at me. I flash him a weak smile in return. I hate the way I react in Callum's presence.

When I sneak another glance, he's still staring. My heart stutters in my chest.

The catering staff come in, wheeling a trolley laden with coffee and biscuits. There's an immediate dash for the sideboard as the team fill white porcelain mugs with coffee, playfully fighting over the chocolate chip cookies.

When I walk over and take a cup, Callum's immediately beside me. He dwarfs me, his expression unreadable, his lips drawn into a thin, pale line. “You okay?”

I nod, because I can't find any words. Silently, I pour out two coffees, adding a splash of milk to his before passing it over. His fingers touch mine, warm and rough, and the sensation is enough to make me jump. I'm too damn jittery for my own good.

“Have lunch with me,” Callum murmurs. “We need to talk.”

“I can’t.” I half turn away, staring down at the rising vapour. “I’m meeting somebody.”

“Who?” Is that a hint of jealousy I can hear? I’m not sure why but the thought gratifies me.

“My dad.”

I hear his loud inhalation, followed by an ominous silence. He’s still holding my arm, and I’m in no rush to pull away. A hum of conversation comes from the rest of the boardroom as the partners indulge is small talk. None of them seem to notice that I’m standing here in the corner, hemmed in by Callum’s imposing body.

“You’re meeting that man? Alone?”

“In a café,” I correct him. “Surrounded by people.”

He’s staring down at me with a quizzical expression on his face, two vertical lines prominent between his eyebrows. I fight the urge to smooth them, aware that I have my hands full—literally and metaphorically—with him and my coffee cup.

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Who are you, my father?” I joke.

Slowly, he shakes his head. “No, Amy, I’m not your dad. I’m not the sort of guy who goes around scaring girls so much that they run into my office almost screaming. I’m just a… friend who’s concerned about your safety.”

I yank my arm out of his grip, and coffee sloshes over the side of my cup. It lands on my white shirt, staining it brown, and I sigh. “You know what, I’m so sick of this. First Alex and then you. I’m not some little kid who needs shielding from the big bad wolf. I’m a grown bloody woman.”

My raised voice causes the room to quieten. Alarmed, I glance over my shoulder to see everybody staring at us. A blush steals its way up my neck, staining my cheeks in the same way the coffee stains my shirt. Perfect.

Callum steps smoothly around me, clearing his throat. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Of course I trust you to present your findings.” His lips are so close to my ear that I can feel his breath warming my skin. “This isn’t over,” he whispers. “We’ll discuss it later.”

I shrug my shoulders and wrap my jacket around me to cover the stain, knowing that I’ll be at the café long before Callum realises I’ve left the building. That’s one of the good things about being an intern, nobody really notices when you’re not there.

* * *

I spot Digger as soon as I walk into the café. He looks out of place. His jeans and t-shirt stick out like a sore thumb among the sharp suits and tailored dresses of the city workers. He’s sat at a table near the centre of the room, almost as if he knew Alex and Callum would prefer us to be in full view of the surrounding diners. Making my way through the maze of tables and chairs, I step over laptop bags and huge designer purses, finally arriving at the empty chair opposite him.

A shyness descends over me when I get there, my fingers grasping the metallic back of the chair, looking at the scars that pockmark his face. Shrapnel, I remember Mum saying. The debris of a shattered bomb lodged in his skin.

“Amethyst.” He gets up as soon as he sees me. The chair scrapes across the tiled floor. “You’re here.”

“Hello,” I say softly. My voice sounds unfamiliar. It’s tremulous, almost vibrato. We wait for an awkward moment, both mute, both staring. Then he gestures at my chair.

“Do you want to sit down?”

I nod and all but collapse into the seat. Even though the café is full of people there’s a feeling of isolation. I don’t know if it’s fear, or anticipation, or something else entirely that’s making me feel so skittish.

Sitting in front of me is a man I thought was dead. The man who gave me life. The father who squeezed my tiny bones until they snapped. I’m not sure how I am supposed to feel. Elated or frightened?

“Can I get you something to eat?” he asks. It’s one of those cafés where you order at the counter, no waitress service here. To be honest, it’s little more than a glorified canteen, but for some reason it’s popular among the city crowd. “And a coffee, maybe?”

His voice is quieter than I remember, but then I’ve only actually spoken to him once. Somewhere between that first meeting and this, he’s become larger than life in my mind. A shadow that remains long after the sun goes down.

“Just a coffee please,” I reply. “I’m not very hungry.”

For the first time I see him smile. It takes ten years off his face, making him look almost boyish. That’s when I notice his resemblance to me—or maybe my resemblance to him. He has the same dimple in his cheek, and his eyes crinkle just like mine.

“I’ll grab us a couple of cakes, in case you change your mind.”

While he’s gone I whip out my phone and send a text to Mum to let her know I’m okay. I consider texting Alex, too, but then I remember just how angry he was at the weekend. We haven’t spoken since our argument because I know how long it takes him to calm down. When I slip my phone back into my bag, I notice a movement, as someone comes to claim the recently vacated table behind me.

A second later I realise exactly who that someone is.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper urgently.

Callum shrugs and pulls the plastic lid off his cup of coffee. “I was thirsty.”

“There’s a coffee shop in our building,” I point out. “You didn’t need to walk all the way over here for a drink.”

He licks his lips languidly, and I follow the movement of his tongue. Then he raises the Styrofoam cup to his mouth, his eyes on mine. “I like the view better here.”

“Are you spying on me?” I ask. “Did you follow me here? Because that’s just…” I lose my train of thought. Instead I watch the way he holds his cup, remembering how I felt when he held me. His hands are big and strong, it’s very distracting.

“I want to make sure you’re safe,” he answers.

I wrack my brain to think of a reply but come up with nothing. A slow, ragged breath escapes my lips and I offer him a half-smile. “Thank you.”

He nods, looking over my shoulder. My father is back, sliding a tray full of coffee and cakes onto the stainless steel table, the legs beneath it wobbling. I twist back in my seat as he speaks. “I didn’t know how you took it, so I’ve got some milk and sugar here. Is that okay?”

Glancing one last time at Callum, I turn my back on him and look at my dad. It takes a moment for me to collect my thoughts enough to answer.

“White, no sugar. That’s how I take it.”

My father slides the cup across to me, being careful to pull his fingers back before they can touch mine. I take a cake from the plate he offers, placing it on a napkin in front of me. Neither of us speak as we add milk—and in his case three sachets of sugar—to our coffee, using the white plastic stirrers to mix everything together.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Thank you for coming. I know this must have been a shock. Tina—your mum—told me what she said. That she told you I was dead.”

I bite my lip between my teeth, trying to remember the last time I felt this uneasy. Waking up next to Callum last weekend was a walk in the park compared to this. For reassurance I check that Callum's still there. He is, and it's enough to give me the courage I need to talk to this man who shares half my genes.

“She told me you died in Iraq. I thought you were a war hero.”

He flinches, as if my words have the power to sting. “I'm no hero,” he says. “But part of me did die out there. I wasn't the only one, a lot of us came home shadows of the men we were.”

I pick at the napkin in front of me, tearing off pieces and dropping them on the table top. “It must have been awful,” I murmur, more to break the silence than anything else.

“It doesn't excuse anything, Amethyst,” he replies shortly. “I know that.”

Finally I look up from the mess of tissue I've scattered all over the table top. “My name is Amy. Nobody calls me Amethyst.” I don't tell him how much I hate my name or how mercilessly I was teased about it at school. He wasn't there to protect me when I needed him, because he was the one I needed protecting from.

I give a little shudder, trying to erase the image of a baby with a broken wrist.

“Amy,” he says hesitantly, “either way it's a pretty name for a pretty girl.”

He seems so eager to please, desperate to talk with me. The little girl inside of me who was always so needy for a father stirs. “Thank you,” I reply.

“Tina says you're doing well at university, and that you've got a good job. Are you enjoying it?”

Behind me, I hear Callum shift in his chair. I'm desperate to look back again, to see what he's doing. Instead, I nod and try to hide my nervousness.

“It's a great opportunity,” I tell him. “I'm hoping it will help me get a good position when I graduate.”

“Have you always liked school?”

His question takes me by surprise. I pick up my cup, draining the dregs of my coffee before I reply. “I liked it until I was a teenager. After that...” I screw my nose up, remembering how awful it became after I was diagnosed with Scoliosis. For a year I had to wear a back brace and endure the taunts and jeers that only teenagers know how to deliver. It was only after I stopped growing—and no longer had to wear the huge, plastic molded contraption—that they finally calmed down. Even then, with one hip more pronounced than the other, and with posture that was always asymmetric, I still hated wearing tight clothes and swimsuits.

“After that?” he prompts.

“I didn't like it as much.” That's why I left school and took a job as a legal secretary, wasting three years of my life when I could have gone to college. That and the fact Luke thought university was a waste of time. What a fool I was.

“You spent a bit of time in hospital,” he prompts. “Your mum told me about your bad back.”

For the first time I realise Mum has told him a lot. How much time have they been spending together?

The next ten minutes pass as we make painful small-talk. I turn the questions onto him, asking about his life in Australia and his plans now he's back in London. Neither of us mention his PTSD or the way he behaved when he came back from Iraq, but the knowledge of it underscores every word we utter. By the time the huge white clock suspended from the raftered ceiling clicks over to one o'clock the conversation has fizzled out to single word answers. I'm not sad to see that my lunch break is over.

“I should go,” I say. “I need to get back to work.”

His face falls for a minute. “I thought we could go for a walk.”

The suggestion panics me, jolting me from the comfortable lull our conversation has created. It's one thing to talk to somebody you're afraid of when you're surrounded by diners, another to contemplate seeing them completely alone.

I'm not ready for that. Nowhere near.

I look behind me again, and Callum notices my wide eyes, his expression questioning. When I don't answer—mostly because I'm too busy trying to regulate my breath—Callum stands, rolling his napkin into a ball and dropping it into his empty cup. “Amy, I didn't realise that was you.” His voice is over-loud and thick with brogue, as if he's hamming it up for effect. “Shouldn't you be back at the office by now?”