His expression closes down, and I think back to the lunch we had when I was working for him. When he told me about his wife, about the way she died, and the memory is like a punch in the gut.
There's a part of me that warms at the thought of his protectiveness, at the thought of him trying to take care of me. But at the same time, I can't help wondering if I'm simply his way of gaining forgiveness for himself.
A replacement. A chance at redemption.
I want to tell him I understand, that it's all going to be okay, but the words curdle in my mouth like week-old milk. Instead I wrap my hand around his neck, feeling the sliver of skin between his jacket collar and hairline, my fingertips caressing and teasing. Then I roll onto my tiptoes, lifting my face to his, and communicate the only way I'm able to.
This kiss isn't hard and hot like our last one, it's all silky lips and warm breath. But there's something so sweet and yearning about the way the very tip of his tongue touches mine that I feel my legs beginning to shake.
For one glorious, awestruck moment, I forget about my family, my job and every other shitty thing that's happened in my life and let Callum Ferguson consume me.
20
I spend the rest of the afternoon in a fog, working through my churned-up emotions. I’m terrified by the thought that somebody might have seen us kissing. Every time the door to the office opens, I expect to see Diana from HR standing there.
There’s some respite from my nerves at four o'clock when Charlie walks in, his right hand raking through his mop of blond hair. “Hello, stranger.” He perches on the corner of my desk and takes my calculator, tapping at the rubber buttons. “Long time no see.”
I lock the screen on my keyboard and slump into my chair. Though I hate to admit it, he's a welcome distraction to the maelstrom in my head. One of the best things about Charlie is that everything is simple with him.
“I've been too busy convincing my boss I'm not a coke-head,” I tell him. “Telling the truth is exhausting.”
“Oh, don't be like that.” He pouts. “I said I was sorry.”
Rolling my eyes, I pick up the 200g bar of Dairy Milk I found on my desk this morning. “Yep, nothing says I'm sorry like a bunch of half-dead roses and a petrol station chocolate bar.”
“It was Sainsbury’s Local, actually,” he says, snatching the bar from my hands. “Why haven't you eaten it? Is there something wrong with my chocolate?”
“I wasn't in a chocolate mood,” I say, taking it back. Running my thumbnail along the seam, I rip the packaging open, then offer it to Charlie. He snaps off a row, stuffing four squares into his mouth, and for one blessed moment it renders him silent.
“So,” he says, his mouth full. “Did the big bad boss let you off?”
“Do you care?” I ask. “Because it didn't look like you gave a shit when your skinny arse was sneaking its way out of there. I could have been in a lot of trouble you know?”
“But you aren't,” he says simply. “And if you were, I would have come clean. I'm a jerk, but I'm not an arsehole.”
I raise an eyebrow. “There's a difference?”
Before he can answer, my phone starts dancing on the table like a man on hot coals, buzzing furiously. Callum's nickname is on the screen, and I immediately feel guilty. I’m lucky it's Charlie here, and not Caro Hawes or Diana from HR, they'd be able to read me like a book.
“Just a text,” I say lightly. “I'll read it later. No biggie.” Of course, I'm desperate to find out what Callum wants. Will he mention the kiss, or will he apologise again? The thought of him regretting it makes me feel sick.
“I've got a meeting in ten minutes, anyway,” Charlie says, looking at his watch. “The monthly Health and Safety board. Somehow I've been elected as the student representative.”
“Great,” I reply, my mind still at the back of the café.
“So, um, there’s something I wanted to tell you.” He shifts on the desk, knocking off my note pad. Cursing, he bends down to pick it up, his hair flopping into his eyes. “A few of us are going out for Caro's birthday in a couple of weeks. Dinner followed by some clubbing.”
As soon as he says her name my stomach drops further. At this rate it should reach the ground floor in five minutes.
“Sounds nice.” I wait for him to invite me, already trying to think of excuses why I can't go. A night out with Caro Hawes doesn't sound very appealing.
“She's hired out a private room at a Japanese restaurant in Soho. Sushi followed by karaoke or some rubbish like that.” He looks up at me, a sad expression on his face. “But it's really small. She wanted to invite you but there are already too many of us.”
“Of course she didn't want to invite me,” I say with a low voice. “She hates my guts.”
Charlie doesn't try to deny it, instead he shuffles the business cards lined up by my keyboard. “I just thought you should know, in case you wondered where we are on a Friday night.”
Slowly, I lick my dry lips. “Everybody's going?” I ask.