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Maybe she’d never be able to forget Callum completely. Their sexual connection had been pretty intense. But that didn’t mean she could carry on obsessing about him. She had a business to run, for pity’s sake. And a perfectly nice, happy and fulfilling social life she wanted to get back to without this aching feeling of emptiness and futility dogging her every move.
‘So he’s The One?’ Ella said, her voice hushed in awe.
‘He most certainly is not The One,’ Ruby said sharply. A bit too sharply. ‘He’s just the one who got away.’
So far it had only been a fortnight, she told herself staunchly. This silly yearning to spend time with Callum, to explore every single facet of his character, would fade eventually. It had to.
Picking up the tray of cupcake sponges, she began transferring them to the icing sheet. She needed to immerse herself in work, and stop thinking about him constantly. That would be an excellent start.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Ella said, her voice subdued.
She did want to talk about it. She wanted to talk about every minuscule detail of their time together. Even the arguments. But that was the delusional person talking. The delusional person she’d decided to ignore. ‘Not particularly,’ she said.
The melodic ding of the doorbell made one of the cupcakes jerk out of her hand. The little spurt of excitement was instantly quashed. Cal wasn’t going to call on her, and she didn’t want him to. She was having enough trouble forgetting Mr Unforgettable without him turning up on her doorstep and making matters worse.
‘I’ll get it,’ Ella said, giving Ruby’s back a gentle rub before heading for the front reception area.
Minutes later, her friend came dashing back, brandishing a letter. ‘You have registered post, Rube. And it’s from him.’
‘What?’ She blinked. ‘How do you know that?’
Ella thrust the letter into her hand. ‘There’s a return address.’
Holding the thin white envelope with the registered mail sticker on it, Ruby’s hands trembled as she read the Lincoln’s Inn address, written in a swirling serif font with Callum Westmore, QC emblazoned at the top.
‘Open it, then.’ Her friend gave her a nudge.
Ruby sliced open the envelope with one of the kitchen carving knives. The thick white paper inside was stamped with the same letterhead. As she unfolded it another piece of paper fluttered onto the work surface. She stared at it. A cheque made out to her for a thousand pounds.
Why on earths…?
Then her gaze strayed back to the note, her heart pounding so hard now she could barely breathe as she read the three concise sentences written in a bold black scrawl.
Ruby,
We had fun a couple of weeks ago. Let’s have more.
Contact me.
Cal
‘What’s all that money for?’ Ella piped up beside her as Ruby sucked in a shaky breath.
Screwing up the note, she threw it in the dustbin, hitting the wicker dead on and making it rattle. Even though she knew she was overreacting, she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Her heart felt as if it were being ripped from her chest.
For one blissful moment, she’d believed something wonderful was going to happen. And she wasn’t even sure what that wonderful thing was. Just that Cal had contacted her, he wanted to see her again. And that meant anything was possible.
But then his curt, cursory words had registered, and the full impact of the insulting payment. And everything had crashed down into the pit of despair opening up like a chasm inside her.
It was worse. Much worse than she had imagined. She’d thought that although he didn’t care for her enough to even consider a relationship, that at least they had parted as friends. That this silly yearning hadn’t been completely one-sided. But the note showed she had never been more than an available body. A willing available body. No doubt like all the other women he’d dated and then discarded.
Fury rose up to quell the vicious, inexplicable pain. She shoved the cheque in the pocket of her apron, whisked her car keys off the hook by the ovens and charged out of the door.
‘The money is for Callum Westmore’s funeral expenses.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RUBY drove to his flat first. Stabbed on the intercom for ten minutes, allowing the simmering rage to dry up all of her tears. She’d shed them later, after she’d confronted him. Seeing him again would be hard, but not as hard as letting him rob her of the last of her pride and self-respect.
