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“Like what?”
“Like why you’re a stubborn, hot-headed, gorgeous siren of a woman,” he says, pushing me against the wall. “And why every time I think I have you figured out, you end up surprising me.”
He lowers his head, brushing his lips against mine. Though we’re in the middle of the corridor, I find myself kissing him back, frantically bunching his shirt in my hands, needing to feel his skin against my fingertips.
Next to us, the bathroom door bangs and we jump apart. We both turn to look at the door. Callum tucks his shirt back in while I smooth down the hair he’s messed up with his roving hands. Neither of us sees anybody there.
“Close call.” Callum whistles, running his hands down his jacket to get rid of the wrinkles. “I’d have to tell HR it was all your fault for being so goddamn sexy.” His voice lowers at the last bit, his accent turning gritty.
“Good to see all that chauvinistic crap hasn’t gone completely.” Though I’m joking, I still feel a bit shocked. Anybody could have walked down that corridor—anybody—and I can’t believe we came so close to being caught. My mind skips back to that HR meeting we had a few months ago, after Charlie’s spectacular fall from grace, and I realise how near I’ve just come to messing everything up.
Whatever happened to degree, job and getting the hell out of Plaistow?
I know exactly what happened. Callum happened. Callum and his soft, sexy voice and his hard, greedy hands. The man who can make me forget about every single bit of ambition I have with one toe-curling kiss.
“Are you ready to leave?” he asks. “I’ll wait for you if you want to go in there.” He gestures at the bathroom door. Somehow, in the mayhem of seeing Callum, the urge to use the bathroom has disappeared.
“Let’s go,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I just need to drop a couple of letters into the post room then I’m good to go.”
“You want to come back to mine?”
The offer is enticing. So attractive, in fact, that I’m about to agree when I remember last night and that I’m supposed to be going to my brother’s flat to discuss my situation. A sense of disappointment washes over me from head to toe.
“I can’t, I have to go and see Alex and Lara. I need to tell them about Mum and Dad.” That phrase sounds so stupid when it should be natural. Mum and Dad. It slips off the tongues of kids the world over, yet for me it’s stilted and thick.
“Afterwards, then?” His voice holds a promise which makes me shiver.
“Afterwards.”
* * *
A wall of noise hits me as soon as I step inside Alex’s flat. Max is screaming loudly, while Lara is trying to calm him down and switch the oven off at the same time. Alex runs back into the kitchen to help, and I hang up my jacket, rolling my eyes at the scene unfolding before me.
It’s all too familiar, and immediately transports me back to my school days. There was always somebody yelling—usually Alex or Mum—and the noise makes me feel almost wistful. Now that it’s just the two of us in the house, things are so much quieter.
I wonder how much longer the relative silence will last, now that Mum has something going with Digger. Will she move him in with us? How will I feel about that? Am I even going to want to spend the night under the same roof as a man who once broke my bones?
I’m getting ahead of myself, as usual.
Ignoring my runaway thoughts, I walk into the kitchen. “Can I do anything to help?”
Before Lara can respond, I scoop Max out of her arms, leaving her free to sort out the oven. Alex is banging a wrench against the pipes under the sink, muttering away about something, so I decide to take Max into the living area to play with his toys.
“Car” He points at the luminous-yellow jeep that seems to take up half the floor space of the flat. “Wan car.”
“You want the car?” I repeat. Lara prefers that we repeat his words back, but saying them like adults. Apparently it will lead to him having better vocabulary or something.
All I know is it makes me sound as if I’m going mad, talking normally to a kid who hasn’t even reached the age of two.
Max stares at me, his face serious, as if he thinks I’m weird, too. Poor kid, he must get sick and tired of having everybody throw his own words back in his face. I start to imagine him turning around one day and telling everybody to stop bloody repeating him, and the picture that paints in my mind is enough to start me giggling, which only makes Max look even more appalled.
He must think his Auntie Amy is a nutcase. Maybe he’s right.
“What’s so funny?” Lara passes me a glass of white wine and lifts Max up in the same, smooth movement. Her ability to do more than one thing at once while surrounded by Cartwright men impresses me. Do they teach that at antenatal classes?
“Nothing,” I shake my head, unable to suppress my grin. “I was just imagining what it’s going to be like when Max can talk properly.”
“I’m dreading the day,” she whispers, conspiratorially. “Considering how much he looks like his dad, I’m pretty sure he’ll have the same loud mouth.”
