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

That’s when I realise what an idiot I am. This man holds the key to my future, the ability to dictate whether or not I actually get a degree. And I decided to be rude to him the first moment he clapped eyes on me.

“I’ll just… ah… go and set up at my desk then,” I say, slowly backing out of the room. Mr Ferguson looks up at me again. This time his green eyes look softer, hazier. The hard expression on his face has gone.

“Okay.”

“Would you like a coffee, Mr Ferguson?” I ask, deciding that the only way out of the hole I’ve dug for myself is some serious arse licking. It might be my imagination, but I think I see a hint of amusement flash across his face.

“Black, no sugar.” He nods, looking back at his work. Then, without raising his eyes up again, he adds, “And my name’s Callum, not Mr Ferguson. Otherwise I’ll think you’re talking to my father.”

“Does he work here, too?” I ask.

“No, he’s been dead for nearly thirty years.”

Oh, well done Amy.

With that, I pull my foot firmly out of my mouth and decide to make Mr Ferguson—Callum—the best damn cup of coffee he’s ever tasted. Before he ends up kicking my butt right out of here.

3

I switch on the computer, watching it flicker into life as the screen casts a blue glow across the glossy, white surface of my new desk. While it boots up I find myself rearranging the pens in my drawer; blacks then reds, blues then greens. Every now and again my eyes glance up and I peer past the glass door that opens into Callum's office. He's busy working on something. Whatever it is draws his lips into a frown, and I can hear the slap of his fingers as he types furiously.

First days are always the worst. Full of trying to look busy and failing miserably. The minutes drag past as I set up my email account, and when I glance at my watch it's a shock to see it isn't even twelve o'clock.

I'm about to go through the contents of my desk drawers just for the hell of it when a message flashes on my screen.

Simpson, C: How's it going?

I have to wrack my brain to remember who Simpson, C is. Eventually I recall that one of my fellow interns is Charlie Simpson. From what I remember he was assigned to Corporate Tax.

Cartwright, A: It's going.

Simpson, C: Oh dear, as good as that?

I think about telling him about my morning, and the boss from hell, but decide I've already shot myself in the foot once. I don't need to make a habit out of it.

Cartwright, A: Just teething problems. I'm sure it will get better.

Simpson, C: A few of us are meeting for lunch. Top floor restaurant at 12:30. You coming?

This time when I look up, Callum's staring straight at me. The intensity of his gaze stills my fingers. There's something about him, a rugged hardness that makes me want to tear my eyes away, and I feel my bottom lip tremble. I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry.

I'm still looking at him as I touch type a response.

Cartwright, A: I'll see you there.

Callum's phone rings, pulling his gaze from mine. He snatches it up, growling his name into the phone. Letting out a lungful of air, I finish my conversation with Charlie—whose boss is apparently a big sweetheart—then get to work on the online induction course. By 12:30 p.m. I've learned how to avoid tripping over trailing wires, that if there's a fire I should vacate the building, and if somebody sends me a dodgy attachment I really shouldn't download it. I store these gems of knowledge away in my mind and lock the screen on my computer.

Rolling my chair back, I stand up and walk over to Callum's office. He's facing away from me, looking out of his large picture window, leaning on the desk as he talks into his phone. Curling my fingers around the doorjamb I wait for his conversation to finish, but he goes on and on, talking about projections and prototypes.

Eventually I clear my throat. Loud enough for the inner lining of my neck to protest at the rush of air that tears across it. Callum's head snaps around and he runs a hand through his hair, pulling it off his brow.

For an arsehole boss, he really does have pretty eyes.

He covers the mouthpiece of the phone with his free hand. “What is it?”

I refuse to let him intimidate me. “I'm going to lunch.” I literally have to bite my lips shut to stop myself from asking if that's okay. If he can't be civil to me, I'm not sure I can be bothered to do the same.

“Yeah, sure. Do you know where you're going?”

“Yup. The top floor canteen.”

“Okay then.” He turns away and resumes his conversation, effectively dismissing me. I stand there like a Muppet, mouthing words that he can't hear, and I have to remind myself why I'm here.

First I get my degree.

Then I get a good job.

Finally I get the hell away from Luke.

That's the Amy Cartwright master plan. If it takes nine months of working for Mr Charisma, then I'll do it.

Even if it kills me. Or—more likely—even if I end up killing him.

* * *

Balancing a tuna baguette, chocolate milk and the world's biggest cookie on my tray, I set it down on the table, sliding into a chair next to Charlie Simpson. I'm the last one here—my arrival delayed by the scintillating chat I just had with Callum Ferguson—and everybody else has already fallen into an easy conversation. I listen silently as the rest of the interns exchange stories about their mornings, spinning tales of laptop-based disasters and coffee-related mayhem. The girl sitting opposite me, a slim blonde with a tan only money can buy, turns her pale eyes onto me.

“Do you have a sweet tooth?” she asks, glancing at my milk and cookie.

I feel my cheeks warm as the rest of them look at me. I realise I'm the only girl here who isn't eating a salad. Tall, blonde and tanned is sipping from a bottle of Evian, her tray devoid of any nourishment. I'm guessing she lives on air.

“Not particularly.” I tear off a piece of cookie and pop it in my mouth. If I were at home I'd probably do something disgusting like open my mouth and taunt her with the image of chewed-up biscuit. But I'm not at home. Far from it.

“I wish I could eat like that.” There's a sneer to her voice that grates my nerves. “But I'd rather not put on half a stone.”

I don't take a dislike to people very easily. If you asked my family they'd say I'm too laid back and put up with too much shit—particularly from Luke. But I've instantly taken against Caro Hawes with her high-pitched nasal voice and her tan that's come from weeks on her daddy's yacht.

“It's not something I have to worry about.” I reply, taking a long sip of my milk. “But I can see it would be a concern for you.”

Next to me Charlie splutters into his Chai latte. Caro huffs something inaudible and deliberately starts to talk to the redhead beside her. Her long hair falls down the side of her face like a golden curtain, but from the way the other girl keeps looking over, it's obvious that they're discussing me. It comes as a relief when Charlie opens his mouth.

“So what have they got you doing?” He turns and gives me a genuine smile. As much as I already dislike Caro, I sense I have an ally in Charlie. He reminds me of a richer, better-turned-out version of my older brother, Alex. He's cheeky, but friendly enough to carry it off.

“Not much,” I admit. “At the moment they've got me working as a PA in Technology Integration.”

He raises his eyebrows. “A PA?”

“It’s only for a couple of weeks. Then I'll be given a project.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That's good. I can't imagine your university professor being impressed if you spend nine months booking hotels and ordering coffee.”

“Me neither,” I reply glumly. At the end of my internship I have to present the results of my project to the faculty, and it counts for forty per cent of my degree. It's no exaggeration to say that unless I perform amazingly well here, I could end up with a mediocre degree and pretty depressing job prospects.

Charlie bumps me with his elbow. “It will be fine. First day blues, eh?”

Though I flash him a smile, it takes some effort. “Yeah. Things can only get better.”

“Who is that?” Caro's voice cuts across the table. “God, they know how to breed good looking men here.” She stares over my shoulder, a smile playing at her lips, and actually starts to flick her hair as if she's in a shampoo advert. Curiosity gets the better of me and I turn, arching my neck, following her line of sight.

My stomach drops when I realise who she's smiling at. My new boss is standing in the line for coffee, leaning casually against the wall as he chats easily with the man next to him. Like Callum, his friend looks in his early thirties, wearing a suit that's well tailored and sleek, though his hair is black compared to Callum's burnt umber.

The man says something and Callum laughs. It isn't a polite laugh, either. It's a full-blown, head-back, belly laugh that is loud enough to carry across the room, and I swear half the female population is sighing, audibly.

“Hot,” Caro says.

“Delicious,” the girl next to her agrees.

I hate to admit it, but they're right. There's something so earthy and masculine about his low, throaty chuckle.

Then Callum looks over at me. He's still laughing, but his chest calms, his lips uncurling at the same time his eyes narrow. I feel a response that's starting to become familiar; a shiver that snakes its way down my back. Tentatively I offer him a smile, lifting my hand and curling my fingers in a feeble attempt at a wave.

He doesn't even respond. The line in front of him moves forward, and he pushes himself off the wall, leaning across to give the barista his order. Picking up my carton, I take a final sip, feeling the tell-tale rush of air through the straw when the last of the milk has gone. While Caro and her sidekick continue to ooh and ahh over my boss and his friend, I look down at the half of cookie that remains on the plate, wondering exactly what I've done wrong.

If things don't improve it's going to be a miserable nine months.

* * *

Callum is in client meetings all afternoon, and I spend the hours working my way through a huge pile of receipts that he shoved at me before he left. He clearly hasn't done his expenses for months, and I try not to fume at the fact that he expects me to sort them out. If I'm being honest it's nice to have something to do rather than plodding my way through more online training courses, but I'm not going to let him know.

It's amazing what you can discover from a few printed pieces of paper. Callum stays at expensive hotels, but he rarely spends more than £20 on dinner. He prefers sushi to steak, and like me he has a sweet tooth, indulging in midnight snacks of cookies and cakes.

He has an old car—an MGB according to the expenses system—that guzzles gas, and he prefers driving to taking the train when he goes on UK trips. He seems to spend a lot of time in Scotland, and from a few more receipts I deduce it's mostly in Edinburgh. But he must have a house or a friend he stays with there, because none of his hotel receipts are for Edinburgh, only dinner and sundries.

By four, I've managed to reconcile his expenses and black Amex card, and send his receipts to accounts for processing. For the final hour and a half I turn my attention to the company intranet, looking at organisation charts and photographs, trying to work out who's who. I recognise Callum's friend from lunch straight away as Jonathan Cooper, Senior Partner in Financial Consulting.

I close my computer down at 5:29 p.m. Callum still hasn't come back, and I hesitate, unsure of the etiquette for leaving the office without asking the boss first. After our dodgy start, I don't want to make things any worse than they already are, but I have a yoga class in an hour’s time, and I really don’t want to miss it. I can already feel my back aching from sitting down all day. Unless I stretch it out, I know from experience I'll pay for it tomorrow.

Eventually I stop prevaricating and scribble a note for Callum, leaving it on his desk. It's 5:45 p.m. by the time I leave the building, and there's a huge crowd at the entrance to Canary Wharf underground station where everyone’s trying to clamber on to the escalators. I join the throng, letting it swallow me whole as the tide of people surges forward.

Half an hour later I run into the sports hall and head for the changing rooms at the back of the building. I quickly shed my office clothes and tug on my yoga pants and a crop top, feeling my back twinge again as I pull it over my head.

When I was fourteen I was diagnosed with scoliosis. My spine had a curve in it that made me lopsided and a little off-balance. Though it isn't always obvious when I'm dressed, if you look carefully you can see that one of my hips is curvier than the other, and my left shoulder droops down. I've come to terms with it now, but back when I was a teenager I was devastated, especially when I had to wear a plastic back brace for eighteen months. Looking back, I think I lost all my confidence then. Maybe that's part of the reason I’ve let Luke treat me like a doormat for so long.

“You made it!” My best friend, Ellie, grins up at me from her yoga mat. “I wasn't sure you would. How was your first day?”

I unroll my mat and place it beside hers. We've been coming to this class for the past six years. My specialist suggested yoga as a way to keep my back limber and fluid, and I've been doing it ever since.

“It was...” I screw up my face, trying to hit on the right adjective. “Interesting.”

“Uh oh. Interesting good, or interesting bad?”

I get down on my mat and start stretching. My muscles are tense and resistant. “Well, on the plus side my boss is hot as hell.”

Ellie turns onto her side, balancing on her forearm. “Ooh. Best not tell Luke.”

“I wasn't intending to. Anyway, he might be good looking but he's also a miserable arsehole. And I might have shouted at him in the lift.” My cheeks pink up at the memory.

Ellie tries to stifle a laugh. She fails miserably. “You did what?”

We spend the rest of the session analysing my day as we move from pose to pose. By the time we get to the cool down, the conversation is exhausted, and Ellie decides to change the subject.

“So what's going on with you and Luke?” she asks. “Sophie said something about a picture.” Sophie is our other best friend. The three of us met on our first day at senior school. She's also engaged to Luke's best friend, which makes everything so much more awkward.