Canada Square (Love in London #3) (22 page)

22

There's something truly magical about realising you're in love with somebody. It's as if the world becomes a pretty backdrop made just for us, and the surrounding people are simply a cast of extras. For the past week, I've spent the days waiting until I can see him again, and the nights in his bed.

On Monday, Callum catches me as I'm walking to a meeting, dragging me into a breakout room for a heated kiss. We're getting careless but the lure is too strong. Falling for someone is funny like that. It makes you feel invincible, the resulting adrenaline an anaesthesia that protects. So we flirt and we kiss, and pretend we're living in our own universe, hoping nobody will notice the passion growing between us.

Of course, somebody always notices.

On Thursday, after a meeting where Callum seemed more intent on eye-fucking me than troubleshooting, he sends me a text asking me to meet him back at his place. I accept readily, stuffing my papers into my bag so I can leave the office on time. That's another thing that's changed—for now at least—we're both leaving earlier than we ever have. No more late nights squinting at the laptop or on endless video-calls to the US. We prefer to spend our evenings wrapped around each other.

I take the underground to his house, pushing my way through the evening commuters to emerge onto his street. Winter has finally set in, twisting her icy fingers around the city, and I pull my scarf around my face to stave off her chill. When I get to Callum's house, it's dark and empty, so I take out the key he pushed into my hand a few days ago, feeling excited and nervous about letting myself into his house. It makes everything feel real, knowing he wants me to be able to come and go, and I like the way the trust is building between us.

Everything changed after that night in his living room. The final door has been opened, and all our secrets have escaped. There's this man—this beautiful, strong, vulnerable man—and it makes my chest feel full to know he's mine.

The frostiness of the outside air follows me, and I keep my coat on when I step inside. Dropping my bag, I flick on the hall light, and make my way to his kitchen to put on the kettle.

Even the floors are freezing, but I'm not sure how to turn on the heating. I glance at my watch and hope he'll be home soon, that he'll build a fire like he has every day this week, laying the wooden logs in a carefully ordered fashion. There's something very sexy about his Boy Scout obsession with fire, and the way his face lights up with achievement when the flame starts to burn, that makes me want to throw myself at him every time.

Most of the time I do exactly that.

The kettle is coming to a rolling boil when I hear his key slip into the lock, and the front door open. I hear him drop his case on the floor, hang up his coat, and the thud of his dress shoes landing in his cupboard.

He walks into the kitchen, his tie loose around his neck and his top few shirt buttons open, revealing his chest. He leans on the granite work surface, tilting his head to the side, smiling at me as I take another mug from the cupboard.

“What?” I'm smiling, too. “Don't you want a cup of tea?”

He folds his arms across his chest, his hip steadying himself against the wall, and nods. “Yeah, I'll have one.”

“I can make you coffee if you want?” I take an exaggerated look at my watch. “Although it isn't quite nine o'clock yet, I don't want to make you angry.”

Callum raises his eyebrows, silent for a moment. Finally, he steps towards me, his movements strong and intent, trapping me against the work surface, as he cages me in with his arms.

“Are you ever going to let me forget that?” he murmurs. “I just wanted to show you who was boss.” He presses his lips to my neck, and I jump at the coldness of his skin.

“You're freezing,” I protest. He laughs, pushing his hands beneath my shirt. Their iciness makes me squeal as I try to escape, but there's nowhere to run. “I'm not a bloody hot water bottle.”

He laughs. “Says the girl who spent most of last night with her feet between my thighs.”

“It's not my fault you're too miserly to have your heating on all night,” I retort, trying hard to ignore the way his hands are feathering up and down my sides. When my nipples harden, it has nothing to do with the cold.

“If you think this is cold, you should try living in Scotland.”  He unbuttons my shirt as he talks. “Ice on the inside of the windows and snow drifts eight-feet high. This is Hawaii compared to that.”

“I've never been to Scotland.” My words catch as he reaches behind me and unclasps my bra. When he slides his hands inside the cups, his ice-cold fingers create a kind of pleasure-pain that makes me squeeze my eyes shut.

“We'll have to remedy that. We should fly up to Edinburgh for the weekend, I'll show you my old haunts.”

I can't understand how he’s so calm, so methodical, while I'm slowly being wound into a frenzy. He keeps the one-sided conversation going, telling me about the Royal Mile, about his apartment, the bars, the beautiful view from the Castle. He only quietens when he captures my nipple between his lips, sucking hard enough to make me arch my back.

The next minute we're running into his bedroom, burying ourselves beneath his white duvet, tearing each other's clothes off and throwing them on the floor. By the time he's inside me, all thoughts of ice and cold are forgotten, replaced by burning need and desire.

* * *

Later that night, we're sitting in front of the fireplace, eating pale fluffy omelettes and listening to his stereo. I take a sip from a large glass of red wine—decadent for a work night—and push my bare feet between his firm thighs.

“I told you,” he says, capturing my feet between his hands. “Have you got some kind of thigh fetish?”

I smile because it's a Callum-fetish I'm suffering from. “Once again, Scrooge McDuck, I refer you to your miserliness. If you cranked up the heating I wouldn't need your body warmth.”

“Where would the fun be in that?” he asks. His hands rub at my soles, the friction defrosting them. “Maybe I like having your feet close to my cock.”

“Who's the one with the foot fetish now?” I murmur. Then I move my feet, feathering them against the hard ridge beneath his pyjama pants.

Callum grabs my toes again, this time stopping me from touching him. “Hey, I wanted to prove to you that we can have a conversation without it ending in sex.”

I arch my eyebrows but don't struggle, repeating his words from a moment before. “Where would the fun be in that?”

We tease each other for the next hour, with our words as well as our touch. Then we climb back into bed—still unmade from our earlier, unplanned visit—and he holds me closely. The second night I slept here, the one after his confession, I'd tried to keep my distance so I wouldn't stir up his memories again. But he'd dragged me across the king-size bed and refused to let me go as we fell asleep.

Since then, I've draped myself around him every night, for the closeness as much as for the warmth. His nightmares, when he's had them, have been mercifully short and fast to dissipate.

“I meant what I said about taking you to Edinburgh,” he whispers, running a hand lazily through my hair. I prop my chin up on my hand, as my elbow presses into the mattress.

“Okay.” I can't hide my excitement. A dirty weekend with this gorgeous man in his home town?
Hell yes.

“We could go next week, except there's that bloody party on Friday. Maybe we can travel on the Saturday morning after we get up.”

Though there's a glow inside when I realise he's taking my staying over for granted, it’s soon chased away by the thought of Caro Hawes’s party. “I haven't been invited,” I confess.

Callum frowns. “What?” he asks, his voice disbelieving.

“I haven't been invited, Caro hates me. I think it's because I wasn't born a duchess, or maybe my accent. I don't know, but she's had it in for me from the start.”

He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. “That's sorted then, we'll travel up on the Friday night. I'll book our flights in the morning.”

“You're willing to miss out on the party of the year?” I ask him. “She won't be very pleased about that.”

“I don't really give a fuck whether she's pleased or not. If she's a being a bitch to you, then I'm more than happy to ruin her bloody party.”

I hide my smile in his chest. “Then Edinburgh it is. Are you serious about booking the tickets tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure. I'll ask my PA—” He stops abruptly. “Ach, yeah, probably best not to do that, right?”

“Best not to,” I agree, still grinning. “I'll book them, you useless privileged bastard.”

He rolls over on top of me, pinning me to the mattress. “Less of the useless, sweetheart.” He presses his hips to mine. “I may be privileged, and I'm definitely a bastard, but I think you'll also find I'm very bloody useful indeed.”

* * *

The day before we're due to fly to Edinburgh, I find myself cornered in the canteen by Caro and her sidekick, Miranda. I've just slid my tray onto the trolley reserved for dirty dishes when I turn to find them in front of me. For a minute I'm reminded of that scene in
The Shining
when the little boy sees the dead twin girls in a corridor. Only Caro and Miranda are much scarier than that.

“Amethyst,” Caro says when I fail to speak first. “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” I say, not bothering to inquire after her health. “On my way to a meeting, actually.”

“In that case I won't keep you long. It's my birthday tomorrow and a few of us are going out for dinner. A space has come up and I know you'd love to join us.”

She speaks as though she's doing me a favour, without the merest hint of irony. I keep my smirk to myself when I realise the spot she’s referring to is Callum's, and only I know the reason for his change of mind.

“Oh that's a shame,” I reply. “I'm already busy, otherwise I'd have loved to join you.” I wonder if my sarcasm is laid on a little too thick. “Try to have a good time without me though, won't you?”

Caro frowns, three lines criss-crossing her dainty forehead. “I'm sure it's nothing you can't cancel. Everybody will be there, it would be really good for you to network.” She leans in as if she's doing me the biggest favour. “You won't get a chance like this again.”

It's difficult not to laugh. The knowledge I'm going to be spending the weekend with Callum buoys my confidence. “I'll have to survive somehow.”

“Where are you going that's so important?” she asks. There's a sneer in her expression that I want to wipe off, I hate the way she talks down to me.

“My boyfriend's taking me away,” I say. “It's been planned for weeks, so there's nothing I can do.”

“I thought you'd broken up with him,” she replies. “Or is it one of those tiresome on-again off-again relationships?” She exchanges an amused look with Miranda, who's been silent for the whole encounter. “I heard he cheated on you. It's sad that you have so little self-esteem that you'd take him back.”

I’m tempted to tell her to stuff her opinions up her own behind. But I remind myself that I have so much more to lose than she does, and if I can lie enough to take her suspicions away, then that’s what I’ll do.

“I guess I’m just a glutton for punishment,” I reply.
Maybe that’s why I’m here, talking to you.

“Well, if you’d prefer a weekend with a cheater to an expensive night out with a work colleague, so be it.” She rolls her eyes. “Next time I won’t bother to ask you.”

“I think that would be for the best.” I keep my composure. “We’re never going to be best friends, are we?”

She wrinkles her nose, as if I’ve suggested she eat a plate of dog food. “No, I don’t think we will.”

“In that case, I’d better get to my meeting.” I look at my watch with an exaggerated gesture, trying not to reveal I’m talking about an imaginary appointment. “I’ll catch you around.”

With that I push past Caro, leaving her and Miranda behind with the dirty dishes and messed up trays. The image of her face, marked with disdain, puts the biggest smile on my face.

23

Our flight lands in Edinburgh a few minutes before eleven. Although it took little more than an hour and a half, my back is still aching from sitting in one position for too long. I rub it as we join the line to exit the aircraft while Callum pulls our bags from the overhead lockers. Even without looking at I feel him frown.

“Are you hurting?” he whispers. His accent sounds broader now we’re back in his home country. I can’t help but find his burr sexy.

“Just a bit stiff,” I reply. “I’ll be fine once I’ve stretched it out.”

“Now that’s something I can help with. I’ve always liked testing your flexibility.”

We take a cab into the city, heading for his flat in Marchmont. Callum keeps up a steady spiel as we travel, telling me about the university, about growing up in Morningside, and promising he’ll take me to meet his mum who still lives in a flat there.

When we stop at an imposing row of brown-brick houses, Callum climbs out, walking around to my side of the cab to open my door. I’m still full of questions but struck dumb by the opulence of the buildings, intimidated by their height and beauty, not to mention their age.

It’s obvious this is one of the wealthiest parts of town.

“You said your mum is still in Morningside,” I say as we climb the stairs to the glossy front door. “Is she still in the same place you lived in as a kid?”

He slides his key in the lock. “Yeah. After Dad died it was just me and Margaret in there.”

“Margaret?”

“My mum. She liked me calling her by her first name. She’s funny that way, a bit of an odd one. Not that she isn’t lovely,” he adds.

“It was just the two of you?” I clarify. “No brothers or sisters?”

“Nope, just us.”

“Bliss.” I smile.

Callum chuckles as we walk into the dark hallway. It’s a garden flat, bought a few months after Jane died. “I always wanted brothers and sisters, I hated being an only child.”

“That’s easy to say until you have them,” I tease. “Growing up in my house nothing was sacred. When I started my period the whole street knew thanks to Andie and Alex.”

“I’d like to meet them,” he says softly. “Your family, I mean.”

I feel my chest tighten. As much as I’m desperate for the validation his meeting my family would give our relationship, the thought of Callum seeing my crazy family is enough to give me the jitters. “Soon,” I say, hoping to placate him.

“If I show you mine, you have to show me yours.”

“How old are you?” I ask. “Twelve?”

He grins. “You’d have liked me when I was twelve. I was horny as a dog with the stamina to go with it.”

“Since I was two, I don’t think I’d have been that impressed,” I tell him.

He shakes his head and leads us into the flat, flicking the lights on as he goes. The building is as imposing in here as it is on the outside, with high ceilings, stripped floorboards and long, long windows. The wooden shutters are drawn across them, blocking out the night. I smile when I spot the cast-iron fireplace—black metal surrounded by ornate tiles—and wonder if he’s remembered to buy enough wood to satisfy his pyromaniac tendencies.

I follow him through the rooms, each one more impressive than the last. We end up in a conservatory that leads onto a lush garden. The ceiling is strung with fairy lights, casting a mystical glow across the terracotta-tiled floor. I can tell from the comfortable sofas and blankets that this is the room he uses the most. There are shelves pushed against the back wall, stuffed with well-read books. I can picture him sitting in here on a Sunday afternoon, his feet up, reading a favourite story.

“This is beautiful,” I say.

“It is,” he says, staring at me. His eyes are dark, glinting beneath the hundreds of lights hanging above us.

“Do you ever think of moving back here for good?” I ask. “You must have kept this place for a reason.”

He’s silent for a moment. I sit down in an easy chair that looks out onto the moonlit garden and he hands me a beer from the fridge in the corner.

When he finally speaks, he’s contemplative. “I can’t see myself living in London forever. If I have kids I’d like to bring them up here.”

He’d make a great dad, I know that much. While I’m not ready for babies, and don’t anticipate having them for years, part of me wants to throw myself at his feet and offer my body for procreation purposes.

Is this what they mean by being crazy in love?

“I’ve heard Edinburgh’s a beautiful city.” I change the subject, ignoring my racing heart.

“And you’ll see it tomorrow,” he promises, scooping me onto his lap. “I’ll give you the grand tour. The castle, the cathedral, the volcano. I guarantee you’ll fall in love with Auld Reekie.”

“Auld Reekie?” I question. “And wait a minute, volcano? There’s no bloody volcano here is there?”

This time he grins. “There’s a great huge one in the middle of Holyrood park, sweetheart. But don’t worry, it’s been extinct for about a million years.”

“It would be my luck if this was the weekend it woke up,” I grumble.

Callum coughs out a laugh. “I’m guessing geology isn’t your strong point, then? I said extinct, not dormant.”

“Same difference,” I mutter.

He catches my hand, pressing my palm to his groin. “The difference between dormant and extinct, babe, is that with dormant you've got a chance of it waking up. As in my cock has been lying dormant for a number of hours, but right now there's definite signs of activity.”

I press harder, feeling him stiffen against my palm. “Seems like there's a big chance of explosion,” I whisper.

“Eruption, Amy,” he retorts, his hand still firmly on mine. “Keep with the game.”

Cocky Scottish bastard, I think, but I test out his theory anyway.

* * *

He drags me out of bed at stupid o'clock the next morning. The sun's barely risen when we're sipping coffee in the garden room, propping our feet up on stools and looking out to the lush vegetation surrounding the small gravelled courtyard. The bushes are strung with lights, and I imagine it must look magical at night time, as though a thousand fireflies have come to land.

“This would be a lovely place to sleep,” I say. “If it wasn't so bloody cold. Maybe we should come in the summer, we could set up camp in here.”

I don't even feel embarrassed suggesting we'll still be together next summer.

“I can tell you've never been to Scotland before,” he remarks. “It's always bloody cold, even in the summer.”

After breakfast we head out to do some shopping on George Street, where the higher-end boutiques are found. To my surprise Callum is a laid-back customer, rifling through racks and showing me things he likes. He buys me a leather jacket and a woollen scarf to make up for the fact I underestimated how much colder it would be here than in London. Then he drags me into an elegant shoe shop, where he makes me try on flat, comfortable shoes, assuring me I'll be glad of them before the day is out.

I don't doubt him for a second.

“I didn't picture you as a shopper,” I tell him, as we head down Princes Street towards Holyrood Park. My arm is slipped inside his, and I'm luxuriating in the fact we don't know anybody here. It's so nice to be able to show him affection in public, to walk arm in arm just like any other couple.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “Everybody shops, don't they?”

“They do, but most men aren't as enthusiastic as you,” I tease. “I think you actually enjoy it.”

“Is that a bad thing? Don't all girls like shopping?”

“This girl does,” I tell him. “And it's not a bad thing at all.”

Holyrood Park takes my breath away. It's hard to believe such beauty can lie so close to a city centre. It's alive with grass and gorse, lochs and knolls. At the centre, rising majestically from a series of hills, is Arthur's Seat—the long extinct volcano Callum promised me. It's as though somebody dropped a little bit of the Highlands into the city, the wild nature co-existing peacefully with the old brownstone of the town.

“It's beautiful,” I say.

Callum seems bemused by my response. “You're like a kid who's never seen the sea before,” he says, putting his arm around me. “It's only a park.”

I shake my head. “This isn't a park. London has parks. This is like a piece of magic. I can't believe you got to grow up so close to this. I'd have spent most of my life here if this was me.”

He seems enchanted by my response to his hometown, pulling me to him and kissing me. I kiss him back eagerly, sliding my hands into the back pockets of his jeans, and more than one passer by clears their throat loudly at us.

“Are we making a spectacle of ourselves?” I ask, still clinging tightly to him.

“Who cares?”

When we get to the foot of Arthur's Seat, Callum suggests I replace my shoes with the flats we bought back in the boutique. Though I roll my eyes, I follow his suggestion. The volcano—extinct and all—looks higher here than it does from the distance.

We follow the main route around to the right—a gentle climb at first, which Callum assures me isn't strenuous. Passing through the broad valley of Hunter's Bog, we ascend upwards on the narrow dirt path. Though it only takes twenty minutes or so to get to the top, I'm already captured by the beauty.

When we sit on a crag overlooking the city, Callum pulls a bottle of Rioja from his rucksack. Handing me two plastic wine glasses, he fills them halfway.

He puts the bottle on the ground and takes a glass, tapping it against my own. “To us,” he says, his accent broader than ever. “And a wonderful weekend.”

I take a sip. The liquid sends a blush to my cheeks, the taste of blackberries lingering in my mouth.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Thank you for bringing me here.” My voice wobbles a little, enough for him to notice, and he slides across the rock until our hips are touching. His lips are red from a combination of wine and cold air, his eyes bright and clear. I feel everything inside me tighten.

“I'm in love with you.” His voice is deep and strong. “I think I’ve loved you since the minute you walked through my door, all brazen and angry and railing at the world.”

He sets light to me. “Tell me more.”

“You want me to tell you that you're the first thing I think about in the morning?” he asks. “And the last name on my lips at night. You want me to explain that for the first time in years I feel as if I can actually fucking breathe again, and that life might actually be worth living outside of the office?”

I nod, and he gives me a half-smile.

“Maybe I could tell you that every time you walk in a room it's as if somebody's turned the lights on inside my soul. Or that when you leave it, I feel every muscle in my body ache, and I'm counting the seconds until I can see you again.”

“You could,” I whisper. I'm greedy, I want all his pretty words. I want to store them in my mind and replay them time after time. “You
should
.”

He continues talking as I clamber onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Our empty glasses lay abandoned in the grass, all thoughts of wine forgotten. “You tell me you think this place is beautiful,” he whispers. “But when you're sitting here it looks like any other piece of scenery in any other town, because all I can see is you. I know it's not going to be easy, and I know that somehow we need to keep this under wraps, but I love you Amy Cartwright, and there's nothing wrong with that.”

I grasp his cheeks with my hands, brushing my lips against his. Our noses touch, their tips cold from exposure, but we're grinning at each other anyway.

“That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.” My eyes are filled with tears at his beautiful words. “If I was half as eloquent as you, I'd be able to say it right back.”

“Then do it.” He strokes my hair. I shake my head, teasing, playing. He kisses me hard, enough to make my body rock against his.

“Say it,” he demands again, tipping my head back and running his lips down my throat. “Say it, Amy.”

When he kisses the sensitive skin beneath my ear, it takes everything I have not to gasp. Instead I search for my voice, ready to stop teasing him. “I love you,” I say, my breath ragged. “I really love you, Callum James Ferguson.”

He leans back until he's laying on the rock and I'm on top of him, and we're frantically kissing and repeating the words over and over. Though it feels perfect and blissful, I still have to squash down the niggling thought at the back of my head that's desperate to be heard.

Once you've reached the summit, the only way to go is down.