Canada Square (Love in London #3) (20 page)

I nod mutely.

“I've got to go,” I tell Digger. We stand together, both of us stepping back. It takes all the strength I have not to lean until my back is pressed against Callum’s chest. I don't think I've ever wanted to be held more than I do right now.

“Who's that?” Digger asks, pointing at Callum. He looks smaller now, wiry and thin. Almost petite in comparison.

“My boss...” I stutter, “Well, my ex-boss.”

“Callum Ferguson.” He offers his hand to Digger. There's nothing friendly about their handshake. Callum pulls his hand away, resting it lightly on my shoulder. Maybe I should be annoyed at this gesture, and the sense of ownership it conveys, but there's something so warm and reassuring about it. This time I allow myself to sink against him.

“Shall we go?” Callum asks me.

“We should,” I agree. Safe in his protection, I turn to my father. “It was nice to meet you.” I'm not sure if it was, but it seems the polite thing to say.

“You too, sweetheart.” He glances up at Callum to see if he's noticed the term of endearment. From the way Callum pulls me closer, I'd say he has. “I'd like to see you again.”

“Okay.” I breathe the words out, but they don't feel light. “I'll call you.”

Digger goes to kiss me, and I step back again, firmly into Callum's embrace. The strength of his muscles against my back flusters me, but the only way to pull away is to walk into my father’s arms.

Rock, meet hard place.

Eventually, my father gives up, and I relax out of Callum's grip.

“I'll see you soon, then.” Digger says, picking up his wallet and pushing it into his back pocket. “Say hello to your mum for me.”

I watch him leave, as he half-swaggers through the café. He's out of the door before we start walking, and if I'm honest I can't say I'm sorry to see him go.

A wind whips around us as we emerge into the plaza, lifting my coat like a trickster.

“Well, that was intense,” I remark as we corner the building.

“And that's an understatement.” Callum stops, reaching for my hand, and his gesture brings me to a halt.

“What?” I ask. He says nothing, simply tips my chin with his hand, his eyes searching my face. “I'm okay, honestly.”

“Will you just let me take care of you?” he mutters, his thumb rubbing my cheek. “For five fucking minutes?”

I lean against the brick wall at the back of the canteen, while Callum presses into my front. Though we are alone—except for the overflowing rubbish and recycling bins beside us—I still check guiltily for any observers.

“I don't need looking after.”

“Well, maybe I need it,” he shouts. “Maybe I need to take care of you. Maybe I need to protect you and know that you're okay.”

“But why?” I'm genuinely confused. I peer at him, frowning, and try to ignore the stench that carries in the wind from the bins beside us.

His expression closes down, and I think back to the lunch we had when I was working for him. When he told me about his wife, about the way she died, and the memory is like a punch in the gut.

There's a part of me that warms at the thought of his protectiveness, at the thought of him trying to take care of me. But at the same time, I can't help wondering if I'm simply his way of gaining forgiveness for himself.

A replacement. A chance at redemption.

I want to tell him I understand, that it's all going to be okay, but the words curdle in my mouth like week-old milk. Instead I wrap my hand around his neck, feeling the sliver of skin between his jacket collar and hairline, my fingertips caressing and teasing. Then I roll onto my tiptoes, lifting my face to his, and communicate the only way I'm able to.

This kiss isn't hard and hot like our last one, it's all silky lips and warm breath. But there's something so sweet and yearning about the way the very tip of his tongue touches mine that I feel my legs beginning to shake.

For one glorious, awestruck moment, I forget about my family, my job and every other shitty thing that's happened in my life and let Callum Ferguson consume me.

20

I spend the rest of the afternoon in a fog, working through my churned-up emotions. I’m terrified by the thought that somebody might have seen us kissing. Every time the door to the office opens, I expect to see Diana from HR standing there.

There’s some respite from my nerves at four o'clock when Charlie walks in, his right hand raking through his mop of blond hair. “Hello, stranger.” He perches on the corner of my desk and takes my calculator, tapping at the rubber buttons. “Long time no see.”

I lock the screen on my keyboard and slump into my chair. Though I hate to admit it, he's a welcome distraction to the maelstrom in my head. One of the best things about Charlie is that everything is simple with him.

“I've been too busy convincing my boss I'm not a coke-head,” I tell him. “Telling the truth is exhausting.”

“Oh, don't be like that.” He pouts. “I said I was sorry.”

Rolling my eyes, I pick up the 200g bar of Dairy Milk I found on my desk this morning. “Yep, nothing says I'm sorry like a bunch of half-dead roses and a petrol station chocolate bar.”

“It was Sainsbury’s Local, actually,” he says, snatching the bar from my hands. “Why haven't you eaten it? Is there something wrong with my chocolate?”

“I wasn't in a chocolate mood,” I say, taking it back. Running my thumbnail along the seam, I rip the packaging open, then offer it to Charlie. He snaps off a row, stuffing four squares into his mouth, and for one blessed moment it renders him silent.

“So,” he says, his mouth full. “Did the big bad boss let you off?”

“Do you care?” I ask. “Because it didn't look like you gave a shit when your skinny arse was sneaking its way out of there. I could have been in a lot of trouble you know?”

“But you aren't,” he says simply. “And if you were, I would have come clean. I'm a jerk, but I'm not an arsehole.”

I raise an eyebrow. “There's a difference?”

Before he can answer, my phone starts dancing on the table like a man on hot coals, buzzing furiously. Callum's nickname is on the screen, and I immediately feel guilty. I’m lucky it's Charlie here, and not Caro Hawes or Diana from HR, they'd be able to read me like a book.

“Just a text,” I say lightly. “I'll read it later. No biggie.” Of course, I'm desperate to find out what Callum wants. Will he mention the kiss, or will he apologise again? The thought of him regretting it makes me feel sick.

“I've got a meeting in ten minutes, anyway,” Charlie says, looking at his watch. “The monthly Health and Safety board. Somehow I've been elected as the student representative.”

“Great,” I reply, my mind still at the back of the café.

“So, um, there’s something I wanted to tell you.” He shifts on the desk, knocking off my note pad. Cursing, he bends down to pick it up, his hair flopping into his eyes. “A few of us are going out for Caro's birthday in a couple of weeks. Dinner followed by some clubbing.”

As soon as he says her name my stomach drops further. At this rate it should reach the ground floor in five minutes.

“Sounds nice.” I wait for him to invite me, already trying to think of excuses why I can't go. A night out with Caro Hawes doesn't sound very appealing.

“She's hired out a private room at a Japanese restaurant in Soho. Sushi followed by karaoke or some rubbish like that.” He looks up at me, a sad expression on his face. “But it's really small. She wanted to invite you but there are already too many of us.”

“Of course she didn't want to invite me,” I say with a low voice. “She hates my guts.”

Charlie doesn't try to deny it, instead he shuffles the business cards lined up by my keyboard. “I just thought you should know, in case you wondered where we are on a Friday night.”

Slowly, I lick my dry lips. “Everybody's going?” I ask.

“Well, not everybody.”

“All the other interns,” I clarify. “They've all been invited?”

Charlie nods. “And a few of the partners. Caro's dad's footing the bill.”

It's pathetic, because I really don't want to go, but the fact I haven't been invited is humiliating. All the other trainees plus a host of partners will know I'm not there.

Then another thought grabs me, and even though I shouldn't ask, I can't help myself. “Is Callum Ferguson invited?”

His answer does nothing to calm my churning stomach. “Yes, and Jonathan Cooper. I think all the technical partners are going.”

By the time Charlie leaves my mood has plummeted. Luckily, I remember the text from Callum. I unlock my screen, a smile playing at my lips as I read his words.

Can I take you to dinner tonight?

It takes me thirty seconds to tap out a reply.
Two meals in one day? People will talk.

I'm only half-joking. But there's something so compelling about this need to be near him that I can barely bring myself to care.

A moment later, my phone vibrates again.
Maybe this time we can sit at the same table.

My grin widens. All those doubts and worries seem to evaporate, replaced by an aching need to see him. For a girl who lives for work, suddenly I'm counting down the hours. Still, I can't help teasing him, marvelling at how easy it is to feel comfortable with a man I once worked for.

Does that mean I have to look at you while you eat?

Of course, his reply sends a blush to my cheeks and warmth to my thighs.
If you're lucky, babe.

* * *

When six o'clock arrives I'm not ready to leave. I've been stuck in a video conference for the last two hours with a group of managers from Grant Industries who have nothing better to do than ask the same question in ten different ways. It's only lunchtime in New York, and they’re just gearing up, unaware that I really, really want to go out to dinner with Callum bloody Ferguson.

“Can you go over the timeline for the Exodus project?” one of the managers asks with a nasally twang. Though I sigh inside—I sent this information over in the pre-meeting pack—I patiently talk them through the project plan. Jonathan Cooper sits beside me, twirling a pencil between his fingers, and I sense he's as frustrated with the repetitiveness of the questions as I am.

Jonathan is my assigned Supervisor for the project. Though he's Callum's friend I get the sense he doesn't know there's anything at all going on between us, and I plan to keep it that way. I've grown to like and respect him, enough to care what he thinks about me. Plus there's the small matter of the report he has to write so that I can get my degree.

Grabbing the remote control, Jonathan turns the microphone to mute. Even though the Americans can't hear us, he still whispers.

“You think we're still going to be here at nine?” he asks. “Maybe if I change into my pyjamas or start brushing my teeth they might get the fucking hint.”

My lips twitch, but I try not to laugh. It's okay for him to be irreverent, but I'm nowhere near high enough up the food chain to be rude about a client.

The meeting goes on in New York with the occasional input from us. Though Jonathan looks attentive, under the table he's scrolling through his Blackberry, answering emails. When they ask another question about delivery timescales, I keep a smile plastered on, showing them the charts which cover everything in detail.

I'm about to tell them about contingencies when the door to our videoconference room opens, and Callum walks in, his jacket slung across his shoulder. His jaw is dark where a day's growth of beard is starting to make itself known, and his shirt is unbuttoned so I can see the tender dip of his throat.

In short, he looks mouth-watering.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks, then sees the video is on, recognising some of the faces from Grant Industries' Manhattan office. He greets them with a salute, and a few of them say ‘hi’ back. He pulls out the chair beside Jonathan and sits down, stretching his long, muscled legs in front of him. I try not to look at the way the fabric tightens over his thighs, and how it’s tight between his hips, but the view is so distracting I can't tear my eyes away, at least not until I'm asked another question.

“When will the first run be?”

“June twenty-fifth,” I answer, remembering they like me to say the month before the day. “But if we decide to use the second protocol, we might be able to bring that forward.”

Callum shifts in his seat, and the movement triggers my perception. Our eyes meet, and there's a dryness in my throat that wasn't there before.

“Let's call it a day for now,” one of the Grant Industries’ executives suggests. “Maybe we can schedule another catch up for next week.”

“Sure,” Jonathan drawls, his thumb hovering over the 'off' button. “I'll ask my secretary to set something up.” He presses the button, and the cameras whirr back into the wall. The screen turns off, leaving the room dark, and it makes me realise just how late it is.

“Well, that was a ten-minute meeting dragged into three fucking hours.” Jonathan says, rubbing his face. “I don't know how many times we had to go over the bloody schedule, it's like they didn't believe us.”

“I hope you're not pissing off my clients,” Callum remarks sarcastically. “Anyway, since we charge by the hour next time try and drag it out for longer, okay?”

“Maybe you'd like me to dial in in my pyjamas?” Jonathan smiles. “Or perhaps I can send them a flash of my girlfriend's tits. Speaking of which, I was supposed to meet her at a restaurant half an hour ago, so if you'll excuse me.” He stands up and grabs his papers, stacking them neatly into a pile. “Thanks for staying late, Amy, you did well to keep your temper.” He looks over at Callum. “She's doing great.”

“She is,” he says softly.

Then it's just the two of us, and the room seems to shrink in size by about fifty per cent. Callum gently wraps his fingers around mine.

“I've been thinking about you all afternoon,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes my wrist. I wonder if he can feel my pulse race. “Wondering when I can kiss you again.”

“Not here,” I say breathily. Though if he tried I don't think I could stop him. “Somebody might see,”

“Delayed gratification then. Let's go and grab something to eat, and we should probably have a talk.”

Immediately, my stomach drops. “A talk?”

“After what happened last time I want to make sure we both know where we stand. I don't want to wake up in the morning to find you gone again.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You seem very sure I'm going to stay over,” I say. “What makes you think I'm not going home after dinner?”

He takes a step forward, holding my hand, until our arms are the only barriers between us. I still feel an intense need to press my chest against his. But somewhere in my horny, stirred up mind, I'm aware that I'm at work, and that a liaison with my boss is strictly forbidden.

“What makes me think it, Amy,” he lifts both our hands up, using his finger to trace along my bottom lip. “Is the way you look at me with those pretty blue eyes, the way your lips plump up whenever you do.”

“Maybe I have a new lipstick,” I murmur.

“Then I'll kiss it off.”

“Here?” I ask, a hint of alarm in my voice.

He shakes his head. “No, Amy, not here. When I kiss you—and I
will
kiss you—it's going to be so fucking hot it will blow the non-fraternization clause to smithereens. So I suggest we get out of here before I get us both sacked.”

I nip his finger before licking it softly with my tongue. His eyes blaze in response, and he retreats as if he's been burned.

I know
I
have, and I like the feeling much more than I should.

* * *

When we come to a stop outside Callum’s house I frown, glancing at him from the corner of my eyes. “I thought we were going to eat?”

“We are.” Callum pulls his key from the ignition before unbuckling his seatbelt. His movements are calm, collected. A contrast to the nerves that seem to be my constant companion. “I wasn't planning on starving you.”

“We're eating here?” I don't know why, but when he mentioned dinner and
a talk
, I pictured it happening in some dimly lit, expensive restaurant in the West End.

Not his house.

My question makes him smile. “That’s the plan. Is it a problem for you?”

I find myself backtracking. “Not at all, I just didn't know you could cook.” I unfasten my seatbelt. “You
can
cook can't you? You're not expecting me to whip something up or anything, because I have to tell you I can cremate water.”

It's a true fact. Neither Alex, Andie or I inherited my mum's cooking skills, in spite of her many attempts to teach us. We'd starve without microwave dinners and Mum’s Sunday roasts.

“No, Amy,” Callum says slowly. “I’m not going to ask you to cook for me. I'm thirty-three years old, I think I can manage to cook us some dinner.”

I don't tell him that cooking well isn't an age-related thing.

“Okay then.” I open the car door and hop out onto the dull-grey pavement, sucking in a lungful of fresh air. Though the sun hasn’t yet gone down, the moon is already out, an orphan half-visible in the wide blue expanse. I look at it for a moment, feeling somehow insignificant, but then Callum grabs my hand and we walk towards his house.