Chapter Three
‘Your hat’s in the bedroom,’ Callum said, his hands rubbing at his damp hair as though he was try to massage some sense into himself. ‘I’ll wash it. Or you can burn it and I’ll buy you a new one, up to you.’
Now he was fully dressed and it felt less like a convictable offence, I took a moment to study him more closely.
Even sitting down, he was a force to be reckoned with, easily over six feet tall and broad across the shoulders.
You wouldn’t want to get stuck behind him at a gig, but he did seem the sort who could easily hoist you up on his shoulders for a better view, should the need occur.
‘And second question,’ I said, softening slightly. ‘What on earth was that all about?’
He replied without looking up. ‘Which part?’
‘Dealer’s choice.’
The sigh that passed through his lips was so heavy, it blew a stack of receipts off the coffee table and onto the floor, the wafer-thin slips of paper swirling in the shafts of morning light as they danced down to the grey tufted rug.
I slid to the ground from the sofa, both of us reaching for a long receipt hiding by the leg of the coffee table.
His fingers brushed against mine and a flicker of electricity ran through me.
Only static, I told myself as I snatched my hand back but if Callum felt anything, he didn’t show it.
‘I don’t really know where to start if I’m honest,’ he said. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘How about the beginning?’ I suggested.
He shuffled his pile of receipts then placed them on the coffee table. I added my handful on the table, crumpled and creased, next to his, smooth and even.
‘You know what? It’s not that interesting and you’re probably wanting to get on.’ He slapped his hands against his thick thighs, the sound cracking through the silence of the room, and reset his face to a bland neutral. ‘No need to worry about any of that, I’ll sort it out.’
‘I wasn’t worried,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said.
Hmm. OK. If he didn’t want to talk about it, I didn’t want to talk about it. I rose to my feet, digging my hands deep into my coat pockets.
‘Is there anything you need to know about the flat before you go?’ Callum asked and I shrugged.
‘You tell me. It’s your flat.’
‘I could give you the tour,’ he offered, a little less brusque this time. ‘Since you’re here.’
‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘Since I’m here.’
‘The shower can be a bit difficult but you’ll get the hang of it.’
He held open the door to a comically small bathroom, leaving it up to me to decide whether I would straddle the toilet or wedge myself between the wall and the sink when he decided to join me inside.
‘Difficult how?’ I asked, the sink digging into the small of my back. No one wanted to straddle a toilet with company present.
‘When you turn it on, it’ll either be really hot or freezing cold. You have to work out the right balance.’
He mimed twisting the two taps, cheeks turning red when he looked back to me and realised his hands were at exactly the same level as my chest. Slapping his arms down by his sides, he stepped swiftly out of the tiny room.
‘You’ll work it out,’ he said, visibly flustered. ‘It’s only a shower, doesn’t take a brain surgeon.’
‘Good to know,’ I replied, tempering a smile. ‘So, what’s taking you to Paris? Dave said you’re a chef?’
‘Hoping to be.’ He closed the bathroom door, sealing his embarrassment inside. ‘Right now I’m only a cook but I’ve been accepted into a culinary school in Paris to study French pastry. Six-month course with a six-month internship at the end if I qualify. After that, who knows?’
‘Which explains the need for a flatsitter,’ I said and he nodded. ‘A six-foot pastry chef moving to Paris. You might be my roommate’s dream man.’
‘Six-four,’ he amended before adding, ‘I don’t suppose she’s a massage therapist called Caroline?’
‘An interior designer called Desi. And she gives massages like Vulcan death grips.’
‘Then I’ll pass.’ Holding out an arm, he directed me down a short hallway. ‘What is it you do? Dave said something about the hospital.’
‘I’m a brain surgeon,’ I said, holding back a laugh when he tripped over his own feet, blinking at me in disbelief.
‘You’re joking?’
‘Generally speaking, we’re not a profession noted for our sense of humour. Brains are fascinating but not all that funny.’
Callum hadn’t taken his eyes off me since the words left my mouth but in place of the usual look of confusion, there was something else. He looked … impressed?
But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he shook off his awestruck expression and guided me into the small but perfectly formed bedroom.
The sheets were mussed up from what looked like a tempestuous night’s sleep, the curtains were still drawn and two very expensive-looking suitcases sat in front of an empty built-in wardrobe, both of them open, clothes spilling out from each.
He really hadn’t been expecting company.
Barging past me, he slammed the open drawer of his bedside table shut before hastily pulling up the duvet to cover the bedsheets.
‘All the stuff I’m leaving will be locked in the closet in the hallway,’ he stated, cocking his head back towards the door. ‘Obviously, you’ll have all your own bedding and … stuff.’
‘Obviously,’ I agreed, trying to pretend I had not seen the bottle of bedside lube he’d tried so hard to hide. ‘Thank you.’
On behalf of all women, I wanted to add but did not.
The living room was a little brighter when we returned, the sun deciding to show its face for the first time all day, and Callum looked at me again, the muscles around his eyes contracting very slightly, as if bringing me into sharper focus.
‘You’re really a brain surgeon?’ he asked.
‘Technically a neurosurgeon,’ I said, hugging my coat closer. ‘Or I will be when I finish my training. We treat the whole nervous system – not only the brain – but that is part of it.’
‘How long is the training?’
He sounded curious but not wary. There was no sign of The Fear in him, at least not yet.
Most men, straight men at least, were weird about a female surgeon.
Much like female pilots and truck drivers and presidents of the United States of America, it was one of those jobs that just didn’t sit right with them and we all suffered because of it.
‘Five-year medical degree, two-year foundation programme then at least eight years of training. I’m about halfway through but there’s a long way to go yet.’
‘Wow.’
His eyebrows climbed up his forehead as the facts registered.
‘I know, don’t worry, I’ve heard it all,’ I said, preparing my standard spiel. ‘You don’t look like a neurosurgeon, you don’t hear about woman surgeons very often, I wouldn’t want someone who wears days of the week underwear digging around in my brain, et cetera, et cetera.’
‘You don’t look like a neurosurgeon,’ Callum agreed. ‘Not that I’ve given it a lot of thought but if you’d asked, I’d have assumed they were all old white men. That’s terrible, isn’t it?’
‘Terrible but nine times out of ten, correct.’ I gave him an exaggerated once over. ‘What about you? Wouldn’t exactly have you pegged for a pastry chef.’
‘Goes to show, you really can’t judge a book by its cover,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘And for the record, if you hadn’t mentioned it, I would never have guessed you were wearing days of the week underwear.’
‘Really? What kind of underwear did you think I was wearing?’
The surprise that registered on his face was nothing compared to the shock on mine. Ducking my head, I spotted my earbuds still tucked into the rug, and bent over to retrieve them. Where did that come from?
‘Well, I’m honoured to have you renting the flat,’ Callum said, blessedly changing the subject. ‘If a bit surprised you aren’t in the market for something nicer.’
‘Still a trainee,’ I reminded him, pocketing the earbuds and recovering my composure.
Just. ‘Working for the NHS. In London. Things could be worse, admittedly, but I’m still paying off my student loans.
It’s too easy to get into a lot of debt as a student in this city, especially when you didn’t have any money to start with. ’
‘And I can’t imagine days of the week underwear are cheap.’
At last, he unleashed the full force of his grin.
It was glorious. His teeth were straight and white, his lips full and soft looking, and he lit up, all the warmth of his expression pouring into me like a no-contact hug.
His wavy hair was almost dry now, a dark, russet colour, and just long enough to curl up around his cheekbones, framing those incredible eyes, and when he stepped into a shaft of sunlight, I could’ve sworn I heard a choir of angels singing.
Which was when I noticed a car parked outside the window, blaring Christmas carols at full blast.
‘That’s everything, I think.’ Callum waved his arms around the small space as I leaned against the wall, attempting to recover myself.
Someone had spent altogether too much time in the hospital lately and that someone was me.
‘You’ve got my number, give me a shout if you come across any problems and I’ll send someone round.
Or you can always ask Dave, I’m sure he’ll help. Even if he is a bit of a dickhead.’
‘You really might be my roommate’s dream man,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the tour and yep, I’ll let dickhead Dave know if I’ve got any more questions. Since you’ll be in Paris.’
‘Since I’ll be in Paris,’ he echoed, eyes locked on mine.
‘Have a nice Christmas in Scotland,’ I added, reaching for the door but not letting myself out just yet. ‘Say ho, ho, ho to your mum and dad for me.’
Half a laugh huffed out of him.
‘No can do. I’m not going. I’d rather stay here on my own.’
‘You’re not serious?’ I said, letting go of the door handle.
‘I’d say you wouldn’t understand but I reckon you got a good measure of my family in your five minutes.’
‘A bit overwhelming,’ I admitted. ‘But ultimately well-meaning?’