Page 16 of Surprise Me Tonight
Not him. Not that grumpy, silent, frustrating man who can’t even say good morning.
But I remember how he looked at me. That one time, in the London office. The way his eyes dragged from my face all the way down to my sensible clothes. Like he was taking stock. Or judging me. Hard to say with that face of his.
It got under my skin. More than it should’ve.
And now I’m standing here in this dress, wondering if I’m trying to look like the women he probably dates — sleek, effortless twenty-somethings who know where all their bones are and don’t have a drawer full of sports bras.
I reach for the cardigan. Pause. Put it back.
No.
If he doesn’t like it, he can look the other way. Or not look at all.
I didn’t buy the dress for him.
But if it turns his head, I won’t be apologising for it either.
The drive to his house is short, but my brain manages to spin itself in circles the whole way.
I park at the end of the gravel drive and sit for a second, hands resting on the steering wheel. Jess gave me a key lastweek in case I’d need it when he’s on calls or travelling. It’s in my bag. I could just walk up, let myself in, and act like this is all perfectly normal.
But this is my first day. First time stepping into his space as more than a job candidate. It feels... rude. Presumptuous. Like announcing I belong before he’s even said hello.
I step out of the car and walk up the path, my heels clicking far louder than they should. At the door, I hesitate. Then press the bell.
Nothing.
I wait. Birds. Wind. But not a sound inside.
I ring it again.
A few seconds later, the door swings open.
Callum stands there, mobile pressed to his ear, speaking into it in that low, clipped way of his.
“Tell them if the figures don’t make sense by midday, I’m pulling the proposal… yeah. No, that’s not my problem. You tell him that.”
He scowls at me as if I’ve personally caused whatever financial drama he’s knee-deep in. Then his eyes do that slow, deliberate sweep — from my hair to the hem of my dress and back again.
My skin prickles. The blush hits before I can stop it.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say good morning. Just jerks his head slightly, still talking into the phone.
“Come in.”
Then he turns and walks off down the hallway, his voice disappearing with him.
I stand for a beat too long on the threshold, then pull the door shut behind me and follow, clutching my bag like it might anchor me to the floor.
The house smells like coffee and clean wood and something faintly expensive.
I walk carefully through the hall, trying not to notice the way his voice carries from the office, rough and impatient and far too comfortable giving orders.
So this is how it starts.
I walk through the living room towards the office. The chaos I remember from my interview is gone. No boxes, no clutter, no stray cables or shoes by the stairs. The place is pristine now — floors gleaming, walls bare, everything in its place. Clinical. Like a high-end Airbnb that’s never been lived in.
He disappears into his office, still on the phone. I stop just outside the doorway, not sure if I’m meant to wait or walk in so I wait.
