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 satisfyingsnap.
“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. “Doessheknow 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 forany 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 whathecan 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 lowlyonce 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.
