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“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.”
