ABBY
I asked Callum here to record his advertisement, but also to lay some ground rules surrounding our agreement. I’m not sure how to word it without revealing too much about my past or without sounding like a controlling stalker. My flirtatious bravado’s evaporated. I decide to simply cut to the chase. ‘You know, I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t date.’ I glance across at him almost awkwardly. I hate bringing up this shit, reminding myself of my previous failures.
‘I heard.’ He sits straighter in the chair, profoundly interested all of a sudden.
‘I need to ask you to do one thing for me.’ I cringe as the words leave my lips, I detest asking anything of anyone. Especially this. It sounds so desperate.
‘Of course. What is it?’ He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.
The words tumble out bluntly and I can barely meet his eye. ‘While we’re doing this pretend dating thing, don’t mess me around. I know we’re only pretending, but please, don’t get caught shagging another woman until this is over. It would be plastered all over the papers, and I can’t be made a fool of. Not again.’
‘Of course. It’s only common courtesy. I don’t need reminding. We made an agreement, one that will mutually benefit us. I’m not planning on messing it up. Player, though I might be, I’ve never deliberately hurt a woman in my life. I’ve been crystal-clear with every woman I’ve encountered.’ His tone is almost wounded.
‘When this is over, it needs to leave my reputation intact. My job is based on dishing out advice to women. I have to be seen to be practising what I preach. If you make a fool out of me, it’ll jeopardise my career.’ I pray I don’t look as vulnerable as I suddenly feel.
‘Abby, I won’t let you down.’ Sincerity rings through his words. He holds my gaze until I look away and pick up my fork again, relieved I’d finally voiced my concerns. He places a warm hand over mine and gives me a gentle squeeze, as if to reinforce the strength of his promise. I ask him what I should wear on Friday in an attempt to draw a line under that particular conversation.
Callum’s exceptionally witty, when he isn’t trying to get into my knickers, and even sometimes when he is. We wash the dishes side by side and he repeatedly attempts to infiltrate my personal space. From his fleeting touches and lingering looks, to outright offers of sexual gratification, all carried out in a hilarious, nevertheless seductive, manner.
If I slept with him, could he keep his mouth shut? Maybe we could discreetly let this thing run its course? Fizzle out naturally? No. There’s nothing discreet about any of it. I’ve agreed to publicly date an A-list celebrity. I’m torn between W. I. Thomas’s self-fulfilling prophecy – everyone thinks I’m shagging him anyway so I may as well – versus the necessity of keeping a clear head for our business arrangement.
Callum’s the complete opposite to ‘a one-woman man’. And I’m not supposed to care. But something shifted between us tonight. We reached a mutual understanding. I witnessed a tenderness to him that initially, I wouldn’t have believed he possessed. An empathy, a mirrored vulnerability. In other circumstances, I’d almost even trust his sincerity. Isolated from his usual audience, I wonder if I’ve gotten a glimpse of the real Callum Connolly.
‘Maybe I should just check your bedsheets before I go? You know, just in case anyone ever asks me what colour they are?’ His cobalt eyes reflect my own lusty gaze as I walk him towards the front door.
‘Nice try. But you’ve got absolutely no chance, big man.’ He’s six inches taller than me, and I tilt my head upwards to shoot him a softening smile as I reject his advances once again.
His head angles towards mine as he leans into the wooden doorframe, lingering long enough for me to inhale the scent surrounding his Adam’s apple. I think he might be contemplating kissing me. It’s safer if he doesn’t. We both have too much to lose.
‘Goodnight, Callum.’ I nod at my next-door neighbour’s window. ‘Mrs. Boyle will be talking about me. The curtains are twitching already.’
‘Goodnight, Abby.’ He loiters in the dark a couple of seconds longer, leaning slowly in, his breath warm on my face. I offer him a curt peck on the cheek and practically slam the door in his face, sinking to my bum in the hallway.
I practically threw him out. I walked him to the door. Encouraged him to leave. I should be pleased, relieved even. So why do I feel suddenly empty? Like I’ve lost something. I need a cold shower. Or a ten-kilometre run. Or both. Though I’ve got a feeling neither will help. Callum Connolly’s beginning to inch his way, slowly but surely, underneath my skin.
He took my requests way better than I could have anticipated. As though it were a given, like I didn’t even need to ask. I lowered my mask, flashed the face that I rarely expose to anyone, and he empathetically embraced it. The rugby player has become less infuriating and increasingly inviting. Oh, he’s a womaniser, I’m under no illusion about that. But my resistance is strong, as long as he doesn’t touch me. Because if he starts, I don’t think I’d be able to tell him to stop.
