Page 14 of Surprise Me Tonight (Claimed on Sight #1)

Callum

I fasten the cuff of my shirt slowly, forcing focus into the action. I’ve already buttoned it once, then unbuttoned it again. It’s not nerves. Not about the meeting, anyway. It's her.

I’ve replayed the call last night a dozen times since four this morning. Her voice. Her honesty. The way she said she’d try. The way I said I’d be careful. The fact that I meant it.

She’s in my head. Even now, standing in my own office, tying my watch strap with hands that should be steadier.

The meeting with the Ministry is routine on paper, but the stakes are higher than usual. The new proposal for water system integration’s been met with half interest, half pushback. They want sustainability; they don’t want the cost.

I should be thinking about how to win them over.

Instead, I’m wondering what Stella’s wearing today.

The knock is soft, followed by the door creaking open.

“Morning,” she says, holding a few sheets of paper neatly stapled, her tone neutral — professional, tidy .

I glance up.

Dark pencil skirt. Simple navy blouse. Hair up.

Fuck me.

The part of me that was trying to keep today clean, controlled, quietly competent — gone. Just like that.

“You printed the report,” I say, my voice lower than I mean it to be.

She nods, crosses the room, and places it on my desk. Her hand hovers for a second longer than it should. She notices it too and draws back just a little too sharply.

“I thought you might want it on paper for the meeting.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

We don’t move.

There’s heat in the silence. Not obvious. Not dangerous. Just… there. Like we’re both pretending not to remember our epic fuck on my desk, or her voice in my ear last night, whispering that she was scared. Like I haven’t been thinking about that kiss she gave me — just in case.

I clear my throat. “Come with me.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly. “To London?”

“To the meeting.”

She blinks once. “I didn’t think you took anyone.”

“I usually don’t,” I say. “But I want you there. Taking notes. Keeping me on track.”

She looks at me for a beat, like she’s trying to work out if I mean it or if this is something else. Something we shouldn’t be doing.

“It’s not about last night,” I add.

That seems to land. She nods slowly. “Give me ten minutes to grab my things.”

She turns and leaves the room without another word .

When the car arrives, she slides in beside me in the back seat, tablet in one hand, pen already clipped to the side like she’s ready for whatever version of the day this is going to be.

The door shuts behind her with a soft, final click and the driver pulls off. Shop fronts blur past the window.

She shifts slightly, angling toward me. “What’s the issue today?”

“They’re sceptical about the system cost. Sustainability’s the buzzword, but no one wants to pay for the plumbing.”

She hums. “So, we make it about optics. Long-term cost savings. Green points.”

I glance at her. She’s only been with us a few days, but she’s already picked up what the company is about. She studies the document we’re planning to hand out during the meeting, every inch the professional. But her knee is close to brushing mine. And neither of us moves.

It’s nearly five by the time we’re back in the car. The sky outside is dimming, London is slipping into its early evening haze, headlights already flickering to life across the city.

I lean my head back against the seat and exhale. Long meeting. Too many voices. Too much back and forth.

But in the end, they gave in.

They always do .

I fought them harder than I probably needed to. It wasn’t just the money. It was the principle. The system’s worth what it’s worth, and I’m not in the business of selling out innovation to some cost-cutting bureaucrat who’s never touched a toolkit.

Stella didn’t say much in the meeting, but she was there. Present. Sharp. She passed me notes when I needed them, nudged my arguments in better directions without saying a word. Just a pen and a margin and her impossibly neat handwriting.

Now she’s beside me, scrolling through her tablet, shoulders tight, face drawn.

She looks exhausted.

And beautiful.

“We should eat,” I say.

She looks up. “Hmm?”

“Dinner. You look like you’re running on caffeine and obligation.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stardust,” I say quietly. “Let me feed you.”

She closes the tablet and rests it on her lap. “We could just grab a sandwich and head back.”

“We could.” I turn my head to look at her. “Or we could have real food. In a place with chairs and cutlery and maybe a drink, if you’re up for it.”

She hesitates. I watch the internal debate play out across her face. The rules. The tension. The long day. Me.

Then she nods, slow and calm. “All right.”

I don’t move straight away. I just watch her. The quiet shift in her posture, the slight squaring of her shoulders like she’s made peace with something. Then I say, “There’s a place I know. Tucked down one of the alleys near the Shard. Old-school Italian. No nonsense, proper food.”

She raises a brow. “That sounds suspiciously like a favourite.”

I shrug. “Might be.”

“Do they know your name when you walk in?”

“No comment.”

She smiles, then glances down at her watch with deliberate flair. “Well then, Mr Wright…” Her voice drops a note, playful. “I should point out, it’s now five past five. I am, very officially, off the clock.”

I let out a low breath, something between amusement and relief, and tug my tie loose. “Right. In that case…”

I lean forward towards the driver. “Change of plan, we are having dinner at a restaurant near the Shard. I'll give directions.”

The driver nods.

“And you can call it a day after that,” I add. “We won’t need you again tonight.”

I feel Stella shift beside me, feel her glance, but she doesn’t say anything. She turns her gaze back to the window, but I catch the way her lips pull upward — just slightly.

It's not a yes.

But it’s not a no… and that’s good enough for me.

We step out into the street, the air cool against the warmth of the restaurant. That kind of late September chill that slips into your collar, makes you want to walk slower just to savour the weight of the night.

She shivers once — not dramatic, just a small pull of her shoulders — and I link my fingers through hers without asking.

She lets it happen.

"Dinner was lovely, thank you," she smiles. I place a long kiss on her lips, not as an answer to thank you but because I can. And because I wanted to.

We stroll side by side down the narrow street, heading in the vague direction of London Bridge station. Neither of us says much. We don’t need to. The silence feels full, not awkward. Like we’ve both agreed to let the buzz of dinner and wine settle into something softer.

When the glass and steel outline of the Shard comes into view, I glance at her. The curve of her profile in the streetlight. The way her hair’s come loose from its clip.

I don’t want the night to end.

We pass the entrance to the Shangri-La and I automatically slow.

“So,” I say, lightly, “have you ever seen the view from one of the rooms up there?”

She glances at the hotel entrance, then at me, eyebrow raised. “From a room?”

“Mm.” I nod toward the glass door, all gleam and quiet wealth. “It's on the top floor of the Shard. Floor-to-ceiling windows. You can see half of London. It’s… something.”

She narrows her eyes a little. “This feels like a line.”

I don’t deny it.

I just step a little closer. “Maybe. Or maybe I thought we’ve had a long day, and you look like someone who deserves to end it somewhere quiet. Somewhere that isn’t the last train out of the city.”

She glances back at the hotel doors, then to me again.

“No pyjamas,” she says, half-playful, half-warning.

I lean in, mouth close to her ear. “For what I have in mind, you won’t need pyjamas.”

She gasps.

And just like that, the answer’s written all over her.

I gently tug her hand in mine, and she follows without hesitation.