Page 7 of Untether

‘Fuck off, Cal,’ Gen says airily. I bet she swats him away all day long like a motherfucking fly.

‘How is Mr Wolff?’ I enquire as I take the seat Gen waves me to on the huge grey multi-sectional couch that monopolises the room. I’ll do anything to delay the inevitable turn of the conversation towards this documentary. Besides, I’m excited for her. I want dirt.

Gen takes a seat across the big glass coffee table, while Callum sits adjacent to me. I don’t miss the way his gaze roves over my bare legs, and, honestly? It gives me a thrill. My reputation is based on my brain, but sometimes it feels really fucking good to be objectified.

Especially after the public humiliation John’s put me through this past year.

‘He’s amazing,’ Gen says simply. She shrugs. ‘Absolutely amazing.’

I smile. ‘That’s so fantastic. He’s definitely one of the most impressive people I’ve interviewed. Super smart.’

‘He’s terrifyingly smart,’ she says, reaching for the bottle of rosé chilling in a silver ice bucket on the coffee table. It suddenly seems an excellent idea. ‘But he’s a bit of a teddy bear when you get to know him.’

‘Man, he must have fallen hard. I’ve never heard anyone refer to the Big Bad Wolff as a teddy bear.’

Callum slides the wineglasses towards us by their stems. ‘Gen’s tamed him good and proper. Glass of rosé?’

‘Sure.’ I feign nonchalance. ‘Why not?’ It’s five o’clock, after all, and I’ll take whatever help I can get for this conversation.

‘I’ve briefed Cal, obviously,’ Gen says once she’s pouredthe wine and Callum has handed me a glass with a charming grin. ‘But I think he should hear it from you. Your vision for this series, that is.’

Oh, boy.

I take a fortifying sip of wine and set it down on the glass surface. When I look up, Callum’s eyes are on me, dark and intense. The grin’s gone.

‘Tell me how you see it,’ he says softly. ‘Gen’s told me the bare bones, obviously. But it sounds like you have a fire in your belly for this, so I want to know what you need this piece of filmmaking to do for women. And I want to know how I can help you get there.’

I take him in. He’s truly gorgeous. Like, hot as fuck. His dark hair is raked off his forehead. His brows are thick. Defined. His mouth firm and sensual. Nose a little bent—looks like our boy got himself a break or two over the years. High school brawls? Rugby injuries?

He looks like he could have been a rugby player. He’s a big guy. Strong, bronzed forearms under the rolled-up sleeves of his crisp white shirt. Those thighs look rock-solid.

He’s the full package, and he’s alsoyoung. Gen’s already told me he’s ten years younger than me, and right now I’m feeling every day of that decade-sized age gap.

Because what I’m about to propose—what I’ve gotten myself into—feels like some kind of cruel joke.

5

CAL

“But fondly overcome with female charm”

—Milton,Paradise Lost

From the waist up, she’s all business.

Sensible white t-shirt under a navy blazer that’s so impeccably cut it’s probably Balmain or something similar.

Chunky gold jewellery.

Scarlet-painted lips that threaten to distract from her astonishing, almost-black eyes. Her hair is an immaculate long bob in shades of chocolate.

She’s chic. Classic.

Below the waist, though, it’s another matter altogether. Those endless legs, so famous they’ve probably got their own Instagram account, are bronzed and glossy and positively edible in sky-high navy stilettos.

But the best bit?

The best bit is undoubtedly the pair of fire-engine-redshorts she’s wearing in a leather that looks so buttery I can imagine how soft it would feel under my fingertips.

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