by Carrie Elks
“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?”
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 ch
eck 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.”