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“You may as well leave it.” He reaches across the desk and covers my hand with his. His palm is warm and big and completely envelopes mine. I stare for a minute—at the taut tendons and the pale skin—and wonder what it would feel like if he just slid his fingers between mine. “A bit of caffeine would do me good, anyway. I didn't sleep well last night.”
No kidding, I want to say, but I swallow it down. He's made an effort to actually be civil to me; the least I can do is try to be the same. “Tomorrow I'll wait until nine to get our drinks.”
He smiles and my stomach does that stupid lurch again. He’s both annoying and horribly attractive. It's in the way his lips curl and his eyes crinkle as if he knows everything I'm thinking. “Thank you.”
When I pull out my leather swivel seat, I'm feeling hopeful again. As if I might have a chance to make a difference before he decides to call up Diana in HR and have me shipped out.
I have no idea why I'm always so rude to Callum whenever I see him. My mouth opens up and insults fly out. I don't behave like this around anybody else—and I certainly shouldn't with my boss
As soon as I log into the network, a message pops up on my screen.
Simpson, C: Good morning, camper. Half an hour down, another seven and a half to go. Is it lunchtime yet?
I smile at his words. It’s reassuring to know I'm not alone in the building, and that I've managed to make at least one friend.
Cartwright, A: And even better, there's only 31.5 hours until the weekend.
Simpson, C: Way to put a downer on things, Essex girl. Are you trying to kill my mojo?
I smirk.
Cartwright, A: Your mojo? Try having a boss who doesn't drink coffee before nine. Plus he’s the most miserable git in the building. Then you can complain about your mojo.
Simpson, C: He can't be that bad. Caro says he's a fox.
Cartwright, A: A fox? As in eats out of the dustbin and shits in your front garden? Yeah, maybe...
“Have you got a moment or are you too busy talking to your boyfriend?” Callum's thick voice emanates from just behind my shoulder. Immediately I press control-alt-delete, but even as my fingers make the movements I know I'm too late. My face flushes red, and it takes all my courage to make me turn around to look at him.
“We were just having a joke,” I reply, wanly.
“So I see.” There isn't a hint of amusement there. I close my eyes, wishing I was somewhere else. I'm such an idiot.
“Can I help you with anything?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. “Coffee, expenses? I can book you a hotel?”
Callum shakes his head. “I'm off to a project meeting. I was going to suggest you join me but I can see you're too busy here. Perhaps you can make yourself useful by doing some filing.” He inclines his head to a box on top of the cabinet on the far side of the room. It's overloaded with paper.
“Of course.” I stand up right away, walking around him and over to the cabinet. In spite of my two-inch heels, he still manages to tower over me, and it makes me feel smaller than I already do. “I'm sorry, Callum.”
He walks over to the door, then turns to look at me one more time. His expression is unreadable, in spite of my best attempts to work it out. “I'll be back after lunch. Try not to break anything.”
After he leaves, I grab hold of the metal filing cabinet and bang my forehead against it three times, but even that fails to make me feel better.
* * *
“You really wrote that about him?” Ellie sounds aghast. I'm sitting at a café a few buildings down from the office, picking at a Brie and cranberry panini while I jam my phone to my ear.
“I know,” I wail. “I'm so stupid. It's like I lose my common sense the minute I step in the lift. He must think I'm such an airhead. I'm going to have to do some serious grovelling this afternoon.”
“Can I recommend you don't buy him a coffee?” she says, dryly.
I can't help it; I let out a bark of laughter. “Thanks for the help, oh wise one. Have you thought about joining the UN? First Canary Wharf, then world peace.”
“Don't knock my advice,” she says. “How many times have I smoothed things over between you and Luke?”
The laughter dies. “Yeah, well yo
u won't need to do that anymore, will you?” I push the plate away from me, rejecting the half-nibbled sandwich. What little I’ve managed to eat feels like lead shot in my stomach. “God, this has been a horrible week. And it's only Tuesday.”
