Chapter 9
Calla
Wineglass in hand, I tuck my feet up under me, precariously balancing my laptop on my lap while I trawl through my client’s brief once again.
I swear I’ve read the email so many times – back to front, left to fucking right – that I’ve practically memorized it, but I want to be sure I’ve nailed all of the details before I meet with him for the first time tomorrow.
It’s taken me three weeks since I was first called into Mr McAvoy’s glass cage – I mean office – to be given this important job opportunity.
Three weeks of reading my new client’s email detailing their tax bracket, what type of properties they we’re looking for and how soon they we’re looking to move in.
In that time, I’d gotten a feel for the elusive client I was dealing with.
I can tell Mr B M as I know him by, is an organised sort. Type A. A never stray across the lines, sort of man.
Gulping cheap wine from my glass, I close my eyes, conjuring up a mental image of him in a tight-fitting suit, navy blue perhaps, briefcase in hand. Maybe he’ll show up tomorrow to our first apartment viewing wearing exactly that…
God, I really hope he’s single, so I don’t have to feel guilty about thirsting for another’s woman’s man.
Humming to myself, I take another sip. Businessman isn’t my usual type, but there’s something edible about the image I’ve concocted in my head.
My core clenches too, as if agreeing with me.
Not surprising really considering how much of a greedy bitch she is.
Once I’ve finished going over this brief one last time I’ll deal with her, although recently, slipping my hand between my thighs and closing my eyes, losing myself in my pleasure, hasn’t been as easy as before.
Namely because, every time all I can see behind my eyelids are flashes of my one-night stand.
God, Blake.
My pussy flutters again just thinking about him.
That pretty face of his, a dimple on either side of his plush lips, his soft brown waves I’d carded my fingers through and the stubble of his beard.
Both my mouth and my core waters at the thought of his defined biceps, flexing and bunching as his long fingers gripped my hips, urging me to move above him. Those washboard abs of his, too – my fucking kryptonite – lean and toned from running up and down the football pitch.
I’m not ashamed to admit those magic fingers of his and his cock had given me the best sex of my life. Not to mention he was funny and kind. Or at least I thought he was, until he had to go and be a dick by not asking for my number.
Ugh.
I know it’s the twenty-first century and I could have asked for his, believe me, I’m not usually shy about asking for what I want.
But I didn’t.
Why?
Because, and sue me for admitting this, but I’d made the first move all night and I really wanted Blake to make a move, to show he wanted me, rather than the other way around.
We all want to be wanted, right?
I blow out a large breath. Where the fuck did that come from?
Nuh uh, Calla, no feelings. That’s enough wine. Put it down on the table.
It had taken me a couple of days to get over the bitter taste of disappointment of Blake had left in my mouth, I don’t need to be revisiting the feeling any time soon. It’s best just left in the past as a slight misjudgement on my part that I won’t be redoing.
Swiping the pad of my index finger over the touchpad, I reawaken my sleeping laptop monitor. I need to leave Blake in the past where he belongs and focus on making sure tomorrow’s hotshot client – Mr M – is as pleased as punch with the first apartment I’ve selected to show him.
Otherwise, I’m pretty sure I can be kissing my fantasies of navy-blue suit wearing businessmen, and my job, goodbye.
“Shush shush,” I mumble into my feather down pillow, throwing an arm out to shut off the dreaded blaring sound of my alarm.
Buzz. Buzz. Bu—
I pull the blanket back up around my chin, smiling, when quietness shrouds my small apartment once again, the endless sea of sleep dragging me back under its tide.
Just five more minutes and then I’ll—
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“Shush shush.”
Buzz. Buzz.
Sighing in annoyance, I whack my palm against the screen of my phone, desperately trying to shut off the grating noise of my alarm.
“Calla? Calla, you there?”
I sit bolt upright, the world spinning with me on its axis, as Carmen’s voice drums through my bedroom.
Yanking my phone from the charger cable, I shove the device between my ear and the ball of my shoulder while I throw myself out of bed, my legs getting tangled in the clothes decorating my floor.
“Car, what the fuck—”
“Mr McAvoy is losing his mind. He’s had a call from your client to ask where you are. So, where are you?”
I scrub at the crust lining my lower lash line. “What time is it?”
“10:50.”
“Fuck! I’m supposed to be there at eleven… Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Where are you, Calla?” Carmen repeats.
“I’ve slept in,” I mutter, yanking down my sleep shorts to pee. “Shit. I’ll have to go. Please, please, please stall Mr McAvoy for as long as you can.”
“How am I supposed too—”
“Whip off your bra for all I care! Bye!”
Jabbing my thumb into the bright red end-call button, I load my toothbrush up with paste, shoving it into my mouth while I run back to my bedroom.
I get dressed in a blur, pulling on the first skirt, blouse and clean set of underwear I find, spraying a liberal amount of deodorant and perfume across my skin seeing as how I have no time for a morning shower and unceremoniously yanking out the knots in my long blonde hair.
I wanted to style it with a slight curl, but there’s no time, so I make do with a shit ton of dry shampoo and a prayer.
Slinging my handbag over my shoulder, I shove my makeup bag amongst my paperwork and my keys, hook my heels on my fingertips, and sprint, barefooted, into the bustling streets of London.
Sticking my hand out into the road, I flag down a black cab with practised ease, hopping into the airconditioned backseat as I rattle off the address of the apartment I’m supposed to be at.
“Slept in?” asks the cabbie, glancing at me through the rearview mirror before fixing his eyes back on the road beyond.
“Is it that obvious?” I reply, sliding my feet into my heels and flicking open my compact to see exactly where I need to apply my concealer. The answer is everywhere and liberally.
The cabbie simply guffaws, pressing on the accelerator. “I’ll get you there as fast as I can.”
I’ve barely finished coating my lashes with mascara, hoping it’ll make me look more awake than I feel, when the taxi pulls up outside of the apartment block.
Peering out of the slightly grimy window, I’m just able to make out a group of people – two men and a woman – standing around outside. One of the men, a tall brunette, looks up from his phone to, craning his head to glance up and down the street, as if he’s searching for someone.
Namely me.
Shit.
“Could you just drop me off around this corner,” I direct the cabbie, slicking on some lip gloss, shoving a square of mint gum between my lips and pulling my crinkled paperwork out of my bag to ensure I have the correct address.
Throwing a purple twenty-pound note at him, I tell my driver to keep the change, ripping the door open and hurrying out to meet my client.
My heels click loudly against the uneven concrete pavement beneath me as I set off at a quick jog, the wind blowing my chock full of dry shampoo, unbound, locks of hair behind me.
“I’m here!” I say, waving my papers to gain attention. “I’m here! I’m so sorry I’m late—”
I stop dead in my tracks, eyes fixated on one of the tall, brunette men in the group.
Because it’s him.
My one-night stand.
Blake.
His green eyes narrow upon seeing me, almost as if he’s trying to place where he recognises me from. I don’t usually want the ground to swallow me up, but I do right this fucking second; my skin heating up uncomfortably under his watchful gaze.
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t remember who I am. Great.
Swallowing dryly, I move my line of sight to the willowy, dark-haired woman standing just to Blake’s left in a bid to escape his heated stare.
But today, it seems, the universe isn’t on my side.
“Oh my god, Calla?” She grins brightly.
“Giselle?” I croak out. What the actual fuck is going on?
“Calla?” Blake repeats my name, but I can’t decide if he’s testing my name on his tongue or simply repeating Giselle’s words.
I nod my head. “Blake.”
“Do you three all know each other?” asks the man standing on Giselle’s other side, his hand intertwined with hers.
“Calla attends my dance class once a week,” Giselle answers, pushing her sunglasses to sit on the top of her head.
“And you two?”
Blake’s body language hardly shows any sign of recognising me, his face impassive, which is why the next six words out of the mouth take me by surprise. “We slept together a month ago.”
I sputter, waving my hand in front of my face, to ward off the crimson heat threatening to crawl up my cheeks. Why the fuck am I blushing?
My head spins as I hold Blake’s stare – his eyes so much colder than they were the night we slept together. But I hold fast, unfaltering. And why shouldn’t I? I’m not embarrassed at the night we spent together, and if Blake is, then more fool him.
“What have we missed?” I flick my sight away at the sound of another voice piping up, finding another tall, brunette man, around the same height as Blake, coming to join the group. The short, curvy brunette woman holding his hand, smiles at me.
I return her friendly grin, tucking my papers into the crook of my elbow and lifting up my palm to shade my eyes from the harsh sun and the sparkly glint coming from the brunette woman’s rock sitting prettily on her left ring finger.
“You’re late” Blake states, his line of sight snapping from the lithe man I’m guessing is his brother and back to me.
Licking my gloss slicked lips, I try for my best award-winning smile. “I apologise for that. But you see, there was a cat stuck up a tree and I—”
Blake folds his arms, an angry slash against his toned body.
“I don’t want to bore you with the story,” I try again, stepping forward and sticking out my hand. “I’m Calla Becker. I’m guessing you’re my client. Mr B M, is that correct?”
“Sure is,” replies Blake, glancing at my stuck-out hand and then back up to my face. “Don’t you think we’re a little bit passed shaking hands?”
I tighten my fingers into a fist, so I don’t reach out and wipe the little smirk from his mouth.
“Fine,” I grit out.
Keep it together, Calla. You need this sale to go well, before Mr McAvoy fires your arse.
“Are you still happy to go ahead?”
Blake tilts his head to the side, his eyes narrowing like a predator assessing his prey. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because…” My words tail off, hanging in the air above us, serving to remind me just how close together Blake and I are standing. He quirks an eyebrow and I resist the urge to stamp my foot like a child. “Just because, Blake.”
He fills in the blanks with ease. “Because we’ve slept together, you mean. Tell me, Calla, did you know I was your client?”
“No. How on earth would I?”
“The last name, perhaps?”
“Last name?” I question, furrowing my brow in confusion. “What the fuck—I mean, what on earth—does your last name have to do with anything?”
“Well—”
“We’re just going to leave both of you to it.”
Blake and I turn to face the lithe gentleman who arrived late.
“Grey, you don’t have to,” Blake starts. “Don’t you want to see inside the apartment?”
Grey shakes his head, sending a small smile my way and then squeezing Blake’s upper arm. “It’s fine, mate. How long do you think you’ll be?”
“Shouldn’t be longer than an hour,” I say.
“An hour then. We’ll be at the coffee shop down the street, come meet us afterwards, alright?”
He doesn’t look too pleased with the idea, but I see Blake nod, nonetheless.
I’m gifted a moment’s reprieve from the weight of Blake’s stare while he watches the two men, who I’m assuming must be his brothers, and their partners, make a swift exit down the street.
But then he turns back to me, the full force of his gaze slamming into me like a brick wall.
Why is he being so standoffish and uptight?
Straightening myself in my tall heels, which still only put me at the same level as his tight pecs, I paint a smile onto my face.
It doesn’t matter that it’s waxy feeling and fake, or that I’m irritated at Blake’s demeanour.
Okay, well, if I’m being honest, I’m a little more than irritated.
It feels more like he’s taken an elastic band, pulled it back and allowed it to ping across my heart, leaving a painful welt behind.
But if Blake thinks I’m going to show my cards, or allow him to see my cracks, he’s going to be sorely mistaken. I’m a master at shoving my messy feelings into a box and locking that shit up. Tight. I’ve been doing it for years, today isn’t going to be any different.
I just have to remind myself he’s a client; that’s all.
“So, this, Mr M”— I gesture to the block of apartments towering above us, my professional mask fully in place— “is the apartment building.”
Blake doesn’t even bother to look up. “Are we going inside, or what?”
I grit my teeth.
Standoffish, uptight and apparently a complete prick.
Without another word to me, Blake stomps ahead, leaving me to pick up the pieces and totter behind.