Chapter 16
Blake
Iflick my eyes between Calla and the prick sitting behind her.
She stares down at the rings of wood engrained into the table of the pub garden we’re sitting in for a heartbeat too long, before she meets my gaze.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” She nods, trying for a smile, but it’s not as bright as her usual grin. Something deep inside me opens up its eye, taking stock of the fact, I’ve become able to tell Calla’s real smile from her fake one.
“I’m fine,” Calla confirms, although I don’t believe her for one second.
She’s not telling me all of it, that’s for sure.
I don’t know what else Thomas the prick has been doing, how else he’s being treating Calla at work, but I know there’s something more beneath the surface.
Otherwise, Calla wouldn’t be having to go to such extreme lengths, such as faking a date with her fake boyfriend, to get him to back off.
The reminder that tonight is fake is like a punch to the gut.
I hate to admit it, but I think Hudson and Grey were right; this is a terrible idea on my part.
Not because I don’t like Calla, but because I like her too much, and I don’t think I could say no to the girl even if I really wanted too.
Which I don’t.
I’ll take Calla Becker any way I can have her, for as long as she’ll have me, until she finds her prince charming.
And what a lucky son a bitch that man is going to be.
When the waiter returns with my beer and a vase of still water, Calla practically rips it out of his hand, knocking half of it back in one as if it’s vodka.
“Sorry.” Calla peers at me sheepishly as she pushes my now half full beer bottle across the table to me.
“Don’t be.” I hold her gaze, wrapping my mouth around the very spot Calla’s lips have touched.
“Is he watching?”
The flavour of yeasty hops bursts across my tongue, coating my tastebuds. I flick my eyes a little to the left, meeting the icy cold stare of Thomas McAvoy. “Mhm.”
Calla leans a little further across the table, grabbing the vase of water to pour both of us a glass. I can’t help but notice, out of the corner of my eye, the way her tits push together, the slinky material of her top moulding to the perky shape of them.
I’m pretty certain she isn’t wearing a bra. It was one of the first things I noticed as the waiter took my name and then lead me over to the bar where Calla was already sat, waiting. Her top, dipping low behind, leaves her entire back on display, without a single strap in sight.
My cock kicks in my trousers at the very thought.
Widening my legs beneath the table, I break the staring contest between Thomas and I first.
Any other time I might feel as if as I’ve lost the pissing contest, allowing the prick to win, but not tonight. Not when I’ve got Calla sitting right in front of me, garnering all of my attention without even knowing it.
Why would I want to spend all summer evening staring at his pug-like face when I can be looking at her, drinking in the fact that it’s me she’s chosen.
Calla peers back down at her laminated menu, flipping to the mains page. “We should just act natural.”
“I am acting natural.” I jolt as an unexpected kick ricochet against my shin. “Ow! What the fu—”
“Keep your voice down,” she grits through a sunny smile. “I didn’t even kick you that hard.”
“Liar,” I snarl back, without any real bite. Calla knows it too. I can tell in the way the corners of her lips twitch as if she’s holding back her laugh. “Do it again and see what happens, sunshine.”
I just catch Calla’s delicate ankle in my hand before she makes contact for the second time. Resting the heel of her shoe on the edge of my seat, between my spread thighs, I swipe the pad of my thumb over the protruding bone, slowly shaking my head and allowing a quiet tut to escape past my lips.
“What did I just say?”
Calla shrugs, all innocent doe eyes. “Was I supposed to be listening, sir?”
My cock thickens further, a steady ache, similar to the one in my chest, beginning to thrum through my balls as they grow heavy. “Don’t.”
Cocking her head to one side, she mimics me. “Don’t what?”
I tighten my grip around Calla’s foot, scrambling to hold onto my thin thread of sanity.
Otherwise, I’ll be liable to be picking her up, throwing her over my shoulder and walking out.
Fake date or not. Thomas’ eyes on us or not.
Right now, I can’t find it within me to really give a fuck. “Don’t call me that.”
“What?” She licks her lips, her upper teeth sinking into her glossy lower lip. “Call you sir?”
It’s all I can do but nod.
“But it turns me on, when you boss me around.” She blinks at me, never breaking my stare as she flexes her foot, pressing the toe of her heel into the prominent bulge between my legs. “Sir.”
“Are we ready to order?”
I just about manage to swallow back my groan as Calla snatches her foot back, straightening her back and peering up at the waiter, poised with his old-fashioned notebook and pen.
“Could we have a platter of bruschetta to share?”
The waiter hardly looks up as he scribbles. Good. Because otherwise he’s about to get an eyeful as I rearrange myself, ignoring Calla’s all-knowing smirk. “Mhm.”
“And then I’ll take the linguini mariana. Blake, what are you having?”
You. On this table. On the floor. In the back of a cab. In my bed. Really, I’m not fussy.
“I’ll take the gnocci al forno, please.”
“Great choices.” The waiter smiles politely as he collects our menus, tucking them neatly beneath his arm. “I’ll bring your sharing platter out as soon as it’s ready.”
I wait until he’s out of earshot, before I hiss, “You’re in fucking trouble.”
Calla takes a delicate sip of her water, leaving, I notice, a lipstick mark behind. “Whatever for?”
“You know exactly what for.”
She grins. “Don’t pretend like you don’t like it.”
Exactly.
That’s the whole point.
“Maybe I like it a little too much.”
Calla smirks and it’s only when she replies do I realize I’ve accidentally revealed my admission out loud. “That’s good to know. For future reference, I like it—”
“Calla Becker,” croons that fucking voice of his. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“It’s a small world, Thomas,” Calla replies, glancing up at him, her once sparkling blue eyes now like hard chips of ice. “How’s your staff meeting going?”
Staff meeting?
Calla turns to peer over her shoulder at the same time as I peer ahead, finding a single brunette dressed all in red, staring back at us.
“I thought you said tonight was a staff meeting?” Calla frowns, rightening herself in her seat.
Thomas guffaws, leaning forward to rest his palm on the back of Calla’s chair. Poker hot anger surges through me at the very movement. I don’t think there’s anything I’d like more right now than to peel every one of his fingers off and bend them backwards until I hear a satisfying snap.
“Staff meeting, date… really, what’s the difference?”
Neither Calla nor I join in on his laughter.
I tip my head in the brunette’s direction, watching as she knocks back two shots of what appears to be tequila. “Does she know that?”
“Ah.” Thomas turns his attention on me. “Mr Millen. I knew I recognised you.”
Shit.
I bite down, clenching my back teeth together so hard I feel my jaw feather. I flick my gaze to Calla, watching for any sign of recognition, but she hardly bats an eyelid, allowing me to breathe again.
Not bothering to answer him, I wrap my hand around my beer bottle, tightly, so as to not wipe that smirk right off his smug looking face and smoothly swallow down the rest of the alcohol.
I’m gonna need it to deal with seeing McAvoy out of the corner of my eye for next couple of hours.
“Tommy?” the brunette whines, waving McAvoy back over to his original seat.
“Duty calls.” He grins, all white shark-like teeth. “See you on Monday, Calla.”
God, I hate him. I hate the sound of Calla’s name even touching his lips, spilling from his tongue.
Leaning down, he presses the edge of his jaw to Calla’s cheek, pursing his lips into a kiss. To an outsider, it probably appears nothing more than two old friends bumping into one another, bidding each other goodbye.
But I know better.
Thomas McAvoy doesn’t strike me as a man who does anything without calculating what he can get out of it first.
When he pulls back, his eyes finding mine as he smirks, I know I’m right.
The prick’s touching Calla on purpose to show he can, to get a rise out of me. And it’s fucking working.
Anger fizzes through me, poker hot, my blood rising to the surface. How fucking dare, he. Who the fuck does he think he is—
A slight pressure taps my foot beneath the cover of the table. I know it’s Calla when she reaches forward and grabs one of my hands, interlacing them beside the makeshift wine bottle vase holding a single red rose.
“This is what we wanted, remember?” she utters lowly once McAvoy is out of earshot. I watch as regains his seat, pressing a wet kiss to the back of the brunette’s hand in apology. I wonder what bullshit he’s feeding her right now; that we’re clients of his? Co-workers? Old friends?
I highly doubt he’s telling her the truth.
“Blake?”
I go to take another pull of my beer, only to find it empty. Bollocks.
“I thought your plan was that he’d leave you alone once he knew you were seeing someone?” I speak slowly, trying to hold the venom from my tone.
I must not do a very good job when Calla goes to sit back, stopped, only when I don’t let go of her hand.
“He will,” she tries, but I don’t believe her and I’m not sure she believes herself, either. “We just need to give it time.”
I don’t want to give it fucking time. I want Thomas McAvoy to sail away and—
“Here we go.”
For the umpteenth time tonight, I’m interrupted by the appearance of our waiter.
Probably for the best. I don’t want to lose my temper and direct that anger at Calla.
It’s not her fault McAvoy seems intent on winding me up, nor is this faking-it-til-we-make-it date.
We’re both to blame, seeing as I came up with the idea and Calla agreed to it.
I watch as the waiter places the sharing platter of bruschetta between the two of us and clears away my empty beer bottle.
“I’m sorry, you’re right.”
Calla smiles softly, brushing her thumb over the valley of my knuckles before she moves to pinch a ripe cherry tomato, bursting with juice and seeds, from atop a piece of perfectly toasted bread.
“God,” she moans, the tip of her pink tongue peeking out to lick up a stray droplet of juice, making my cock twitch. “This is divine. Try.”
She plucks another tomato between her thumb and forefinger, unbothered about the juice trailing down her wrist as she offers it up to me.
I bend my head and wrap my lips around Calla’s fingers without a second hesitation.
The thought flitters through my mind that maybe she’s only doing so to put on a show for McAvoy, but I bat the thought away as quickly as it arrives when I watch Calla’s pupils blow wide, her plush lower lip falling a little, parting her mouth into a sweet little hole I find myself imaging doing terribly filthy things to.
Holding her fragile wrist steady, I nibble at the tops of her fingers, sucking away the juice before I pull away with a wet pop.
Not one to be out done, Calla holds my gaze as she retracts her hand, licking along the ring of her wrist to collect the trails of red juice left behind.
“Good?” she asks.
I sit back in my chair, legs spread, watching.
Calla tilts her head in response, a manicured eyebrow raising as she waits for my answer.
“Well?”
“Mouthwatering. Just like you, Becker.”