Callum steps out of his office just after twelve. His hair is messy, his shirt half-pulled out of his waistband, his tie askew.
He looks glorious, despite my determination to stay strong.
“Give me five minutes and then we'll head out.” He smiles at me and my traitorous pulse speeds.
“There’s no need, honestly. I've brought lunch with me.” I pick up the foil-wrapped cheese and pickle sandwich I scraped together this morning. It folds limply in my hand and I put it down. “Yeah, it's appetising.”
He grins, revealing white, even teeth. “Come on, we deserve it. I promise not to take you to China's.”
“Good job, I'm banned,” I remind him.
He nods. “I just got the email from HR. I have to admit I'm tempted to take you anyway, see what they do when we walk through the door.”
“That's easy for you to say, it's not your job on the line,” I huff.
“Which is exactly why we're heading for The Don.”
I look up at him, surprised. “Seriously?” The Don is a swanky restaurant in the City of London, in a small courtyard on St. Swithin's Lane. It's a taxi ride away, far enough to take longer than my allotted 45 minutes for lunch, and part of me is afraid I'm going to get told off. Again.
“Seriously,” he repeats. “Grab your coat and we'll get a cab.”
Ten minutes later we're climbing into a black taxi, Callum taking the back seat while I pull down one of the chairs opposite. I suppose I could have sat next to him, but somehow that feels too presumptuous. I remain straight as a rod as we drive along the river, past the Rotherhithe tunnel and Tower of London, before the taxi comes to a stop just past the restaurant. Callum leans forward, his hand brushing my shoulder, and hands the driver a twenty-pound note. He climbs out, holding the door open and offering his hand as I step onto the pavement.
“Thank you.”
He squeezes my fingers. “You're welcome.”
There's an atmosphere growing between us I don't quite understand. It makes my spine tingle and my breath shorten as we walk into the restaurant, my hand opening and closing as it brushes against his.
I linger behind as he talks to the maître d', his bearing relaxed and assured. They both laugh and speak rapidly, before Callum reaches out for me. “Are you ready?”
I stare at his outstretched hand. It feels as if I'm standing on the edge, scared to step onward, afraid to move back. I nod tightly, ignoring his hand, and the host leads us down some stairs to a low-ceilinged vaulted room. It’s empty except for the three of us.
“Where's everybody else?” I ask. It's half past twelve, late enough for the restaurant to be full.
“This is the private dining room,” Callum tells me. “I thought you'd be more comfortable here.”
Oddly, he's right. It does feel more welcoming, less in the spotlight than the glitzy restaurant upstairs. I’m touched by his kindness, with the knowledge he thought of me when booking a table.
“Thank you.” The maître d' pulls out my chair and I slide into it, letting him push me back in. Callum sits opposite me, nodding at the waiter who brings over the wine list. He glances at it for a moment before reeling off a request that flies right over my head.
I get the impression the waiter knows Callum well. It's in the way he takes his instructions, the way they talk.
Leaning forward, I cup my chin in my palms. “So,” I say. “Do you come here often?”
He chokes out a laugh. “Smooth.”
I grin. “Thank you. I pride myself on my chat-up lines.”
“You're very good at it.” His voice drops. “Have you been practising?”
The waiter opens the bottle of Fleurie, pouring a dash for Callum to taste. He smells it, swilling the red liquid around in his glass, and gestures for the waiter to fill up our glasses. Callum stares at me, enough to make me feel heated and awkward.
“I've just come out of a long term relationship,” I blurt out, grabbing my wine glass and swallowing a mouthful. “I can't even remember how to flirt.”
He takes a sip of his own glass. “Tell me about him.”
“My ex?” I ask, my voice raised. “Why do you want to hear about him?”