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A moment later his soft lips touch mine. His fingers twist into the hair on the back of my head as he starts to move his mouth. He whispers indecipherable words as he continues to kiss me. Except it doesn’t feel like a kiss, it feels as if he’s devouring me, trying to take every bit of love that exists inside. I’m a willing victim, looping my arms around his neck as I kiss him with needy lips. Desperate to taste, to feel, to love.
That’s how we stay for the next ten minutes, holding each other as if we’re too afraid to let go. My body melts into his, my skin singing as he strokes the nape of my neck, our breaths hot and fast as we part for long enough to gasp for air. Though it’s clear that things aren’t resolved, and I’ve no idea what’s going to happen next, for once, I allow myself to savour the moment.
* * *
That evening we’re sitting on a restaurant terrace by the South Bank, looking across the river to St. Paul’s Cathedral as the evening sun descends below the skyline. This part of London has a continental feel in the summer, as if you could be in sunny Barcelona rather than grey old England, and the vibe is almost contagious. The waitress brings out our dishes—a collection of mezes that Callum chose—and when the aroma of food wafts up from the table I recognise how hungry I am.
Ravenous might be a better description. Callum watches as I shovel food into my mouth, an amused smile playing at his lips. He calls the waitress over and orders another three dishes.
“I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing a mouthful of tabbouleh. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
Callum lifts his beer. “You look like you haven’t eaten for a month.”
I’m about to get offended when I realise he’s talking about my weight, and to be honest he has a point. During those first few weeks after he left I wasn’t able to stomach more than a slice of toast. The pounds fell off me.
“I’m making up for lost time.” I snag the last falafel. “So sue me.”
“Suing you is the last thing on my mind.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s very forward of you, Mr Ferguson. I’ll have you know that I’m not that kind of girl.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No, you’re not. You’re the kind of girl I take home to meet my mother. The sort of woman that I want to introduce to all my friends as the one. The only one.”
The intensity of his words ignites me. The atmosphere between us turns serious, the light banter of a few moments ago forgotten. I take a sip of wine to moisten my dry mouth, and try to formulate a reply.
I’m still trying when the waiter leans across, taking my now-empty plate, stacking it on top of the others he’s amassed. Callum’s eyes are fixed on mine, strong and unwavering, and when I look into them all I can see is emotion.
Love.
It’s the kind of passionate stare that you read about in novels. The type that’s likely to pin a girl down. It’s all Heathcliff and Darcy, dark and brooding, and it sends a shiver down to my toes.
“I’m moving to New York,” I blurt out, instantly regretting it. “My flight’s next week.”
I sit back, waiting for him to get angry, but instead a smile flits across his lips.
“I know.”
“You do?” I take another mouthful of wine. “Who told you?”
Callum places his hand over mine, barely missing my wine glass. Then he lifts my palm and kisses it, shocking me into silence.
“I’ve been keeping tabs on you,” he tells me. “Jonathan is the obvious spy, of course, but Daniel Grant has been keeping me up to date with the project. I didn’t stop thinking of you, babe, not even for a second.” He reaches across to pour more wine. “Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
There’s a significance to his words which resonates. He’s been through hell; marriage, addiction, death. If leaving me was harder than all those things, it says a lot.
It says everything.
“I missed you, too.” I look up at him. “Every day. I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t contact me.”
“I couldn’t risk it. If the partners heard there was something more going on with us, you’d have lost everything.”
“And now?” I ask, wondering why he’s changed his mind.
“Now you have your degree. Richards and Morgan may have some influence, but they can’t take that away from you.”
“But they can fire you.” I look over at him, alarmed. His expression gives nothing away. “Wait, they haven’t fired you already have they?”
He laughs at my wide-eyed shock. “No. It’s impossible to fire somebody who doesn’t work for you.”
