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Pride runs through me. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dash, please.’
I nod, without repeating his name.
‘Tell me—’
Dash—I can’t call him that...in my head, he’ll remain SCP Alexander—is interrupted by a waiter in a grey apron.
‘What can I get you folks?’
Connor orders. ‘A bottle of the Château d’Yquem.’
I’m tempted to tell him I want a Diet Coke but don’t want to appear childish in front of Senior Crown Prosecutor Alexander.
‘I’ve admired your career for a long time,’ I say, angling my body away from Connor’s slightly. ‘Your verdict against the Robinward Council was the subject of an essay I wrote in Year Eleven.’
‘Now you’re making me feel old.’ SCP Alexander laughs, tilting his head back. He has black hair with a hint of grey at the temples, and eyes that are dark brown. One of his front teeth is slightly uneven, bridging over the other, but it somehow adds to his overall appeal.
Of course, I’m aware of this in a very academic way, because Connor’s body is right behind mine. We’re not touching at all. He’s keeping a respectable distance, as befits a lecturer and his student, but every cell of me is aware of his proximity and I am dangerously close to forgetting that we cannot appear to be what we are.
I am dangerously close to forgetting and easing back against him.
‘I’ve had a look at your application. It’s good. But there are only twenty spaces available, and just a few of those based here in London.’
Disappointment is a cold stone in my gut. He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but I suppose the fact he came here to meet with me temporarily gave me hope.
The wine appears and we’re quiet as the waiter unscrews the cork and then pours it into a swirling glass decanter.
‘With that being said,’ SCP Alexander continues, ‘I think your application warrants special consideration.’
Hope flutters once more. I hear Connor’s soft exhalation behind me—again, not because it is loud but because it is him, and I hear everything he does, no matter how soft. He reaches for the decanter and puts a small measure in each glass.
The waiter reappears with menus and begins to hand them around but SCP Alexander reaches for them, taking all three with a dismissive smile.
His power is very apparent.
‘I really can’t make you any promises,’ he says after a moment, handing me a menu first. He passes one to Connor next and, in reaching for it, Connor’s fingertips brush my arm. Goose bumps cover my flesh, and I pray SCP Alexander doesn’t see them.
I take a sip of wine, merely to distract from the visual proof of how Connor affects me.
‘You’d be crazy not to find a way to get her on board,’ Connor says, and I’m amazed by how he can make such a softly spoken observation, all Irish vowels and deep valleys of consonants, come across as a command.
‘It’s not a question of willingness,’ SCP Alexander explains. ‘What can I say? We don’t have your recruitment budget.’
Connor’s laugh is short. ‘It’s just one more trainee to whip into shape.’
I don’t think his choice of phrasing is deliberate but it takes me back to the first night we were together and I feel as though his hands are lashing my back, despite the fact I’m still making my mind up about how I feel about this ambush. Okay, probably a well-intentioned one but it shows how little he knows me. Still, desire lances through my fury. Beneath the table, I clamp my legs together and keep as much of my focus as possible on SCP Alexander, willing my body to ignore Connor’s.
‘I know. Just one.’ SCP Alexander laughs then returns his focus to my face. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Olivia.’
‘Thank you,’ I murmur.
He laughs, his eyes skimming my face. I have to give him points for not once flicking a look lower. ‘You probably won’t thank me if I get you in the door. If you stick with the CPS it’s a tough gig, long hours, not a lot of pay, pretty much no glory. We’re hanged in the press for the cases we don’t win, and the police get the glory for those we do.’ He shrugs. ‘This is a calling, not a career.’
‘It’s my calling,’ I say, the words ringing with unflinching confidence.
‘Why?’ His curiosity is instant.
