Chapter 15
CALLUM
Fuera del Mercado - Danny Ocean
A date.
Asma had convinced him to go on a fucking date with one of her friends. The goal? To help him forget the other woman he couldn’t stop thinking about. The only one, in reality. The one who had taken over his mind and refused to leave.
No matter how many work meetings, gym sessions, or sleepless nights he threw at the problem, Alejandra López Romero was still lodged deep in his skull like a song he couldn’t stop humming. More so after she almost drowned to death and his chances to see her again had been close to never.
When he saw her resurface—bloodied, shaken, but alive—he had finally started breathing again. His lungs had relaxed, his fists unclenched. She was okay. Battered but alive.
Sofia had called Ilias in full panic minutes later, and her husband had explained she’d been rushed to the hospital. Her shoulder was dislocated and she was bleeding from multiple reef cuts, but overall she was conscious.
Later that night, Callum sat in silence on his couch, replaying the moment her head finally broke the surface. That image—her exhausted face rising from the water—played on a loop. A single frame his brain couldn’t erase.
The next day, Asma staged an intervention.
"You clearly have something going on," she told him, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "So either forget her or go get her."
He’d chosen neither. Instead, he landed in the worst possible option: the middle. Limbo. The “I’ll just send her a very expensive express package and pretend that’s casual” lane. A not-so-subtle way of saying, I care, without actually admitting he was wrecked over a woman he spent 48 hours with.
Of course, the second her text came in—breaking her fucking no contact—he nearly tripped over his own feet in his apartment.
He’d played it cool in his reply. But he hadn’t meant cool. He’d wanted to ask: “Do you need anything else? How can I help you? Not just physically, but mentally? Because I know what trauma does, and I don’t want you to carry it alone.”
But he didn’t say any of that. He typed the safe version.
And assumed she’d go back to pretending nothing happened between them, which had been the case.
Callum understood her. He had passed through a very heavy injury that had shattered his dreams too.
Because when Sofia announced that Alejandra’s season was over, he replayed in his mind the memory of her announcing that their sex night needed to be a one night stand, nothing more, because she had to focus on her medals, on her titles.
He used to be as driven as she was when it came to medals, before his knee decided to give up.
He remembered the pain of realizing that the road that he was traveling was blocked, unavailable for him.
And Alejandra, he was quite sure she didn’t take the injury well.
Sofia had stayed vague whenever he tried to pry. He respected her for it. But God, he wanted more. He wanted Alejandra. Not the Instagram highlights, not Sofia’s secondhand updates. He wanted to hear her laugh again.
He wanted to feel her under his hands again. Her soft skin being caressed and worshiped by him, and him only.
But now, she had bigger problems than worrying about him and his feelings. She needed to recover, and didn’t need him prying for her attention.
So when Asma set him up with a girl—“gorgeous, smart, totally your type”—he said yes. Mostly out of shame. And mild exhaustion from the “Alejandra Recovery Club” she and Leif had unofficially formed to help him detox.
He dressed well for the date, mostly because Asma and Leif were tracking his progress like scientists testing an experiment. Asma’d even booked the restaurant—the date’s favorite one, apparently.
He spotted the girl waiting at the table. Blonde, stunning, really. But she reminded him too much of Vanessa and somehow, that didn’t sit right with him.
She stood up, cheeks flushed. “Hello, Callum.” He smiled, polite but distant, as she continued, “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Asma told me so much about you.”
Please say your name. Please say your name.
“I’m Jennifer,” she added with a soft giggle, extending her hand.
“Yes. Hi, Jennifer. Nice to meet you.”
Her smile widened. She looked like a porcelain doll with flawless hair, perfect skin, lips painted the exact right shade of red. She probably had perfect cursive handwriting too.
Somehow, the conversation was fine. It flowed. She was smart, charming, all the right things. But after tasting the chaotic, vibrant thrill that was Alejandra, everything else felt mechanical, programmed, predictable.
As the wine flowed, Jennifer leaned in more. Brushed her foot against his leg. Played with his fingers across the table. Smiled like she’d already decided how the night would end. Once, he would’ve loved that. Tonight, it just made him tired.
Outside the restaurant, the chill of the London night wrapped around them.
“You know,” she said, tilting her head, “after this, we could go back to my place. Open a bottle of wine, and…you know.”
Her cheeks flushed. Gosh, she was so flirty and eager and he felt so numb.
Alejandra, what did you do to me?
He ran a hand through his hair, the way he always did when he needed a second to think.
That tiny movement made her pupils dilate.
Of course. That was the curse of becoming hot after a childhood of being bullied: women threw themselves at him now, and half the time, it felt like a joke.
Even with Alejandra it had felt like it.
Like a dream. How could a chubby kid from Wales pull the hot surfer from Spain with a freaking hot accent and an even hotter mind? It felt unreal.
“I think we should call it a night,” Callum said gently.
Jennifer blinked. “Excuse me, what?”
“I just prefer going home tonight. I’m not in the right headspace.”
“Oh.” She stiffened. “Well… goodnight then, Callum.”
“Goodnight, Jennifer.”
She paused, her voice softer. “If you ever need someone to take the edge off, I’ll be available.”
That was the difference, wasn’t it?
He could have available, but after Alejandra, he didn’t want available. He wanted that laugh, those lips, that fire, that mind.
He walked instead of taking the Tube. Let the cold night air cool the noise in his head.
His phone buzzed, and he rolled his eyes when he saw Asma calling him.
“Callum Jeremy Evans, what was bloody wrong with Jenni? She’s great. Exactly your type.”
“Who is my type, A.?” he shot back, not in the mood to hear Asma. He wanted to sulk in his own personal disappointing life spent between walls of a high rising in London, a burnout, and no Spanish surfer in his life.
“You can’t still be thinking about Alejandra.”
“What if I am?”
“This can’t be like after Vanessa,” Asma sighed. “We are worried about you. Since the wedding you are…sadder.”
“Since the wedding, Asma? Are you sure? Because I’ve been feeling empty inside since before it, and Alejandra had been the only light in a very fucking sad ordinary life.”
Asma scoffed. “Callum, you are being hypocritical to the life you’ve built yourself. You have a very nice apartment, friends and family who love you, a job that’s doing amazing.”
“Maybe that’s not everything I want, Asma,” he declared. “But before I say anything too upsetting because I’m in a terrible mood, I’m going to hang up. I love you, Asma, but I need some time for myself.”
Before she could reply, he shoved the phone into his coat pocket and kept walking, the city around him spinning in slow motion and his hand itching to call that fucking number and stop this nonsense.
But every time the itch arrived, he cowarded.
Because she was recovering, because she needed time, and he wasn’t a fucking vulture.
Or maybe he wasn’t brave enough to go for something that could make his life better.
Maybe he hadn’t been brave in a very long time.
Maybe since the accident, he had let his life guide him, and he hadn’t made a single bloody decision in all that time, and now it seemed he had forgotten how to make one.