Simpson, C: Oh dear, as good as that?
I think about telling him about my morning, and the boss from hell, but decide I've already shot myself in the foot once. I don't need to make a habit out of it.
Cartwright, A: Just teething problems. I'm sure it will get better.
Simpson, C: A few of us are meeting for lunch. Top floor restaurant at 12:30. You coming?
This time when I look up, Callum's staring straight at me. The intensity of his gaze stills my fingers. There's something about him, a rugged hardness that makes me want to tear my eyes away, and I feel my bottom lip tremble. I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry.
I'm still looking at him as I touch type a response
.
Cartwright, A: I'll see you there.
Callum's phone rings, pulling his gaze from mine. He snatches it up, growling his name into the phone. Letting out a lungful of air, I finish my conversation with Charlie—whose boss is apparently a big sweetheart—then get to work on the online induction course. By 12:30 p.m. I've learned how to avoid tripping over trailing wires, that if there's a fire I should vacate the building, and if somebody sends me a dodgy attachment I really shouldn't download it. I store these gems of knowledge away in my mind and lock the screen on my computer.
Rolling my chair back, I stand up and walk over to Callum's office. He's facing away from me, looking out of his large picture window, leaning on the desk as he talks into his phone. Curling my fingers around the doorjamb I wait for his conversation to finish, but he goes on and on, talking about projections and prototypes.
Eventually I clear my throat. Loud enough for the inner lining of my neck to protest at the rush of air that tears across it. Callum's head snaps around and he runs a hand through his hair, pulling it off his brow.
For an arsehole boss, he really does have pretty eyes.
He covers the mouthpiece of the phone with his free hand. “What is it?”
I refuse to let him intimidate me. “I'm going to lunch.” I literally have to bite my lips shut to stop myself from asking if that's okay. If he can't be civil to me, I'm not sure I can be bothered to do the same.
“Yeah, sure. Do you know where you're going?”
“Yup. The top floor canteen.”
“Okay then.” He turns away and resumes his conversation, effectively dismissing me. I stand there like a Muppet, mouthing words that he can't hear, and I have to remind myself why I'm here.
First I get my degree.
Then I get a good job.
Finally I get the hell away from Luke.
That's the Amy Cartwright master plan. If it takes nine months of working for Mr Charisma, then I'll do it.
Even if it kills me. Or—more likely—even if I end up killing him.
* * *
Balancing a tuna baguette, chocolate milk and the world's biggest cookie on my tray, I set it down on the table, sliding into a chair next to Charlie Simpson. I'm the last one here—my arrival delayed by the scintillating chat I just had with Callum Ferguson—and everybody else has already fallen into an easy conversation. I listen silently as the rest of the interns exchange stories about their mornings, spinning tales of laptop-based disasters and coffee-related mayhem. The girl sitting opposite me, a slim blonde with a tan only money can buy, turns her pale eyes onto me.
“Do you have a sweet tooth?” she asks, glancing at my milk and cookie.
I feel my cheeks warm as the rest of them look at me. I realise I'm the only girl here who isn't eating a salad. Tall, blonde and tanned is sipping from a bottle of Evian, her tray devoid of any nourishment. I'm guessing she lives on air.
“Not particularly.” I tear off a piece of cookie and pop it in my mouth. If I were at home I'd probably do something disgusting like open my mouth and taunt her with the image of chewed-up biscuit. But I'm not at home. Far from it.
“I wish I could eat like that.” There's a sneer to her voice that grates my nerves. “But I'd rather not put on half a stone.”
I don't take a dislike to people very easily. If you asked my family they'd say I'm too laid back and put up with too much shit—particularly from Luke. But I've instantly taken against Caro Hawes with her high-pitched nasal voice and her tan that's come from weeks on her daddy's yacht.
“It's not something I have to worry about.” I reply, taking a long sip of my milk. “But I can see it would be a concern for you.”