Canada Square (Love in London #3) (9 page)

I think that's why Alex is so overprotective. He hates to see me hurt or worried, or going through anything a normal sister would. Every time I'm knocked over by life he tries to cushion my fall, and if he had his way he'd cover me with bubble wrap.

What once was sweet is becoming increasingly stifling, and tonight is yet more evidence of that. I'm still fretting about things when the fog of sleep overwhelms me, muddying my thoughts and weighing on my body like a blanket. My breathing slows, my eyes flickering beneath paper-thin lids, and finally I disappear into a restless slumber.

9

Callum is out of the office for most of Friday, and I busy myself with emptying my inbox, then finishing off his expenses. I print out the form and carry it into his office for him to sign when he returns, placing it on the top of his in tray.

His desk is as messy as always, strewn with printed emails and scribbled pages he's ripped out of notepads. Lines of codes and lists of things to do mingle in with reminders to pick up a present for his mum's birthday and to call his accountant about his tax return. I'm not the tidiest person in the world, but this cluttered chaos is enough to make my head spin. I’m tempted to scoop all the pieces of paper into his bin and reveal the polished cherry wood beneath it all.

As I go to leave, I walk into the top drawer he's left half-open. The wood scrapes my nylon-covered leg, and I reach down to rub it.

A glint of silver catches my eye, and I pull open the drawer to see a photograph frame lying in there. It's face-down, the metallic edges curving against the black leather back, and without thinking, I pick it up.

The glass covering the black and white photograph is dusty, and I run my finger across it until the tip is coated in white residue. It isn't the dirt that catches my eye, but the glamorous couple smiling behind the glass, their faces shining with a happiness that makes my breath stick in my throat.

It's a wedding photo. Callum stands there in a black jacket and tie, his legs covered in a blue and black tartan kilt. Beside him is a willowy blonde, her silvery hair caught in a chignon that spills out curls, her head resting on his shoulder. They are model-beautiful, her slim figure a contrast to his broad frame, and I find myself staring at them for long minutes, wondering why he hasn't mentioned her. Frowning, I try to picture his left hand—the one that sports a thick, silver band in the photo—and try to remember if I've seen the same ring in real life.

Is he still married? Divorced? He's usually here when I arrive first thing in the morning and is still punching at his keyboard when I leave at night; he doesn't give the impression of a man racing home to spend time with his beautiful wife. For some reason I find that thought unnerving.

If I'm truly being honest with myself, looking at this blonde bombshell on his arm makes me sick with envy.

I'm not sure what that says about me.

When I hear the door click, I hastily replace the photograph, sliding the drawer shut with my dusty fingers. Then I walk out to find Charlie standing next to my desk wearing his wool pea coat, a satchel slung across his shoulder.

“Hey! I wasn't sure you were still here.” His smile is wide, and my racing heart starts to calm. “How was your day?”

I wipe my fingertips on my hips. “Surprisingly good. I think I'm getting used to this working thing.” In truth, this place has started to feel like my haven. Though there's a learning curve and my first days with Callum were hard work, there's something about this office that's becoming my happy place. “How was yours?”

“I didn't break anything so I'm counting it as a win.” He curls his fingers around the back of my chair. “A few of us are going out for a quick drink, would you like to join us?”

I glance back at Callum's empty office. From its disarray I assume he's planning to pop back at some point this evening, and there's a part of me that wants to hang around when he does. Since our drink at the Trafalgar Club, he's definitely softened his approach towards me, and I've definitely started to warm to him.

Okay, maybe more than warm. Not quite a burn, though. Not yet.

“I'm meeting a couple of friends later, but I've got an hour or two,” I say, glancing at my watch. Ellie and I arranged to meet at eight in Covent Garden, and she texted me this morning to say a reluctant Sophie would be joining us. I haven't spoken to Sophie since our argument about Luke, and the thought of some liquid courage beforehand is quite appealing.

Charlie waits for me as I log off and lock up my drawers. I loop a soft pink scarf around my neck and pull on my jacket, grabbing the handbag stashed under the desk.

“Where are we going?” I ask Charlie as we walk down the corridor. Half the offices are empty, abandoned early by occupants impatient for the weekend, and it makes the hour feel later than it is.

“Just around the corner to China's,” Charlie says. We both reach out to press the lift call button, and I beat him by half a second. “It will be full of partners and consultants, but Caro chose it.” He shrugs.

The lift arrives, doors sliding open with a slight creak. Then Callum walks out, his pace slowing as he sees me. A smile breaks out on his serious face, and I find myself returning it.

“You leaving?” he asks. I refrain from pointing out the obvious, and nod in agreement.

“Yes, we're off to the pub.”

“Well, enjoy your weekend.” Callum presses on the lift button to keep the doors open, and I see Charlie waiting just inside. “Thanks for your hard work this week.”

I feel a strange twinge in the pit of my stomach. It's like somebody plucking a guitar string deep inside of me; it echoes and vibrates. “Thank you for putting up with me.”

He puts his palm on my lower back, where my spine starts to curve. Even through two layers of fabric I feel my skin warm. The gentle pressure makes me step forward, into the waiting lift, and I turn to face the doors as he steps backward. When they close, the steel sheets obscure his face, but the memory of his stare remains on my retinas.

* * *

The bar is heaving. People stand hip to hip, their sharp business suits wilting in the face of the steamy atmosphere. Our group of five has been here for three hours. Caro's boss has been paid a big bonus and has generously put her black Amex card behind the bar, and we’re making the most of it. Though I'm not Caro's biggest fan—and she certainly isn't mine—it's amazing how the lure of free champagne can pour oil on troubled waters.

“You want another?” Charlie's voice is thickened by intoxication. There's a twitch in his right eye that's becoming more pronounced with every mouthful. I hand him my glass and he upends the bottle, the trickle of bubbles only filling it halfway.

“Damn, I shall have to order more.” In an attempt to curb his slurring, he over-pronounces every word. He's becoming posher, too. Raising his hand, he hails the cocktail waiter. “Bartender, my good man.”

“Some people can't take their drink.” Caro rolls her eyes. “Whereas you, Amy, can drink like a soldier.”

When she looks at me she wrinkles her nose, enough for me to know it isn't a compliment. “Where's that lovely boss of yours anyway? I thought all the partners were here.” Caro scans the room, searching this way and that. For the first time tonight I'm glad Callum isn't here. I don't think I'd be able to watch her flirt with him.

Just before seven, I get a text from Ellie, saying that Sophie has a headache and can't make our night out. After a rapid exchange of messages, we decide to skip dinner and clubbing in the West End in favour of an evening of free drinks right here in Canary Wharf. Ellie arrives at eight, her slim legs encased in a pair of shiny leggings and her midriff bare, revealing the butterfly she had tattooed on her hip last year. I try not to wince when everybody looks at her as she walks in, eyeing her outfit as if it's some kind of fancy-dress costume.

“Amy!” she calls, running over in her skyscraper heels, their height making her wobble as she crosses the room.

I shouldn't be embarrassed by my best friend, especially since she's been so supportive with the Luke situation. I ignore the stares and step forward, throwing my arms around her waist.

“You look gorgeous,” I say loudly. To be fair she really does. It's just that among the crisp white shirts and wool jackets, she's some kind of exotic bird.

Out of place. Unexpected.

“Is this outfit okay?” She tugs at her top, but nothing she does is going to cover her stomach. “I thought people would be a bit more dressed up.”

“It's perfect. You need to tell me where you got those leggings.”

Ellie grins. We both know there's no way I'd wear leggings and a crop top, not with the curve in my spine. Tight clothes only make it more obvious; one of the reasons I've always preferred loose and floaty to slinky and fitted.

I make the introductions, ignoring Caro's smirk and her friend Miranda's wide eyes. Then Charlie saunters back, bottle of champagne in one hand and a tumbler of whisky in the other, his eyes restless and unable to focus.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” he says, offering Ellie a glass of champagne. “What department do you work in?”

Caro coughs a laugh, muttering, “Slut department.” Luckily Ellie doesn't hear. Instead she starts up a conversation with Charlie about the joys of working in administration, and I silently thank him for being so bloody nice.

As the evening progresses, we all join Charlie in varying states of drunkenness. Miranda manages to spill a whole glass of red wine down the front of her dress, and runs to the bathroom to scrub it off. Caro joins a group of her teammates, flirting and flattering her way to the top, while Charlie, Ellie and I hang around at the bar, moving from champagne to bottled beer in an attempt to stop the room spinning.

The two of them are getting on famously, enough for me to feel no compunction when I head for the bathroom.

I'm almost there when somebody grabs my wrist, fingers slipping around me like a bracelet, the touch gentle but firm. I turn, a champagne-fuelled smile painted on my lips, and come face to face with a broad, white-cotton covered chest. I stare at it for a moment, taking in the way the fabric is thin and close to his skin, before my eyes climb past the unbuttoned neck that reveals a covering of light brown hairs, to a jawline that's both familiar yet new.

“Amy.” Callum says my name quietly, and I have to lean forward to hear him over the music. I'm close enough to feel his warm breath fan against me. It's laced with liquor, the hint of whisky lingering in the air, and I breathe him in unthinkingly, liking the way he smells.

“Hi.” My smile remains. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

The pad of his thumb rubs circles into the sensitive underside of my arm, causing goose bumps to break out.

“Jonathan dragged me out,” he confesses. “This isn't my usual scene. He heard Susan Davies put her card behind the bar and insisted we made an appearance.” His eyes twinkle. “So here I am.”

He has to stoop to talk to me, leaning down so he can catch my eye. I see him in soft focus, the drink stealing any sharpness from my vision, and I'm not sure if it's only the champagne that's warming my belly.

“It
is
Friday night,” I say. “All work and no play makes Callum...” I trail off, not wanting to call him a dull boy.

“Rich?” he suggests, raising an eyebrow. His response makes me giggle, and I wobble a little, reaching out to steady myself against him. My palm spreads against his shirt, feeling the hard flesh beneath, as his fingers tighten on my wrist.

“Rich is better than dull,” I agree.

“That's what they say.” He doesn't pull away. “Although I suspect for a lot of women rich and dull is perfectly acceptable.”

“Not for me.” I slowly shake my head.

The corner of his lip twitches. “No, I didn't think so. You don't strike me as the sort to suffer fools.”

This makes me laugh. “You haven't met my ex.” I think about Luke and the way he treated me for years. I was the biggest fool of all.

“No I haven't,” Callum murmurs. “I don't think I want to, either. Exes are usually exes for a reason.”

“Well, Luke's reason is he was a cheating arsehole.” I don't know why I'm saying this, and to my boss of all people. But there's something about the way he's looking at me—and holding me—that makes me soften.

“Then he's a bloody fool.”

Somebody barges into me from behind, pushing me closer to Callum. My hand slips, splaying across the middle of his chest, and I can feel his pulse beating rapidly. My own body beats in time, my breathing fast and my blood thick. Somewhere deep inside my subconscious tries to make itself heard. This is my boss and we’re surrounded by work colleagues, but my body doesn't seem to be listening.

“Your heart is racing,” I whisper.

“So is yours.” His thumb presses into my vein, and the sensation sends a shiver down my spine. He lowers his head, staring straight into my eyes. “Why is that, do you think?”

His lips are so close to mine I can almost feel them. I'd only have to roll onto the balls of my feet to close that final inch, and feel the pressure of his kiss. Yet in spite of the alcohol running through my body I hesitate for a moment. My mouth is dry, my breath caught in my throat, yet I still can't pull my stare from his.

“That took fucking forever.” A voice startles me from behind. “I think Simon Jenkins has set up a coke factory in the men's toilets.”

I step back, pulling my hand from Callum's chest, and he lets go of my wrist. It falls to my side, my fingers curled into a fist as I try to work out what the hell just happened.

“Hi Amy.” Jonathan Cooper smiles, his head angled to one side. “I didn't know you were here.”

I pull at the neck of my blouse and try to look anywhere but at him. “I'm here with some friends. I was just going to the bathroom and...”