“Callum told me about his dad,” I say softly. “I'm sorry you lost him.”
She offers me a small smile. “He was taken too young. I never intended to be a widow at thirty-three, and I had no idea how to raise a boy on my own. But somehow I managed, and I think I did an okay job.”
“You did more than okay.” I mean it. He's complicated and occasionally irascible but there's a goodness in Callum that shines through. Standing at the bar, he laughs as he talks with another customer, sipping at his beer and shooting the breeze. Slowly he turns, looking over at me, his expression changing as he stares. I can feel heat flooding through my body and I start to worry how we are ever going to hide this passion back at work.
“Has he told you about Jane?” Margaret asks quietly.
I nod. “I was sorry to hear that, too.” I was, even though it sounds contradictory; because if she hadn't died I wouldn't be here, would I?
“What was she like?”
Margaret takes a long sip of her wine. “You're asking a mother. I'm afraid I'm biased.”
I want to ask her if she's biased for or against. Does it make me a bad person to hope it's the latter?
“I want to understand why he stayed with her for so long. From everything he's told me, the two of them had a toxic relationship.”
“That's a good way of describing it, though I don't think it was Callum's fault. He did everything he could to help her. But some people won't be told, and some problems can't be solved.” Margaret looks up, her wine glass drained. “I've never told him this but a part of me was glad she died without them having children
. As much as I wanted to be a grandmother, it was a blessing they were spared that.”
“Did he want children?” I ask, my voice small. The smell of roast beef wafting from the table next to us is making me feel nauseous. I watch Callum from the corner of my eye, buying another glass of wine for each of us, and I know this conversation needs to conclude very soon.
Part of me wants to know everything, and the rest wants to hide away. The contradiction seems to be pulling me from the inside out.
“I know he wants children, but I don't think he ever considered having them with Jane. He always had this hope that she'd get better, that they'd both be able to settle down, but he would never have brought a child into that situation. For all his height and strength he's a big softy. He wants to take care of his wife and children. It's something he never had—a father to look after us—and I think he wants to be able to make up for that.”
Her words make me want to cry. I imagine Callum as a little boy, longing for a father and desperate for siblings, yet somehow having to be the man of the house. With every new piece of information I learn, I'm coming to realise we're more alike than I thought.
I silence the rest of my questions when Callum carries our drinks over, sliding them onto the battered wooden table. “Everything okay?” He sits next to me on the bench, his thigh pressed to mine.
“Everything's fine.” I reach for my glass. Though we're flying home later—and I definitely need to be sober for that—I need the liquid courage right now. But it's not the wine that reassures me; it's the way he takes my hand, wrapping it in his and squeezing tightly. His skin is warm and rough, his palm large enough to encompass mine completely. ”I was telling your mum what a tyrant you are at work.”
He laughs. “Did you tell her about the coffee?”
“The coffee?” Margaret asks.
“I bought him a coffee on my second day at work, and he told me he didn't drink caffeine before nine. After that I had to go out at exactly 8:55 every morning just to satisfy his stupid drinking habits.”
“You drink coffee before nine.” Margaret glares at Callum. “I've made you enough mugs in my time to know you can't even function before you've had caffeine.”
Callum smirks. I resist the urge to wipe it clean off his face.
“You drink coffee before nine?” I ask. “Seriously?”
Callum does a double take at my furious expression. “Hey, I was just trying to show you who was boss.”
“But I was being nice,” I protest. “I bought that cup of coffee as a peace offering.”
“After calling me an elitist arsehole,” he reminds me.
“If the cap fits,” I goad. “It's not my fault you looked down on me because I didn't go to Oxbridge.”
He puts a finger beneath my chin, tipping my head up so I'm looking straight at him. “Apart from the obvious physical aspect, I'd never look down on you, sweetheart. You've achieved so bloody much and all under your own steam. I'm in awe of you.”
Oh, this man knows how to sweet talk. I'm so overcome by the vehemence of his words that I can't help but press my lips to his.
Then he's kissing me hard and fast, his hand cupping the back of my head. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing to feel every part of him against me.