major erosion.
And now, instead of getting on with the job, she turned her back on the overflowing in-trays and panicked about their stupid competition some more. It was hardly sausage-sizzle and cake-stall stuff. She had no time to organise anything. Fundraising did not mean asking her wealthiest buddies for a handout—anyway, how could she possibly explain the real reason behind it? And what could she ‘do’ to raise sponsorship? Again there was no time and, as far as she was aware, there weren’t any marathons being run between now and Friday. Not that she’d manage even half a mile.
Besides, if she was honest, did she really want to win? Didn’t she want to win in the best way possible—to be there for the weekend and not give in to him?
That one was a fantasy—seriously delusional and she knew it. Just the memory of that kiss—the one that had been on autoreplay ever since, despite her best ‘delete’ efforts—had her burning up to such a degree it was a wonder she was still whole and not some speck of cinder being blown on the breeze. It would take less than a second of contact and she’d be his.
So, she’d better win the competition because she refused to be another easy conquest for him. The only hope she had was her business. She went down to Mel in the shop at the front of the small factory where she had five workers making the soup.
‘Every pottle we sell this week we donate fifty cents to charity.’ She worked up a sign. Put it in the window. Put a jar beside the cash register alongside the tip jar for the staff.
‘Are you sure?’ Mel looked sideways at her. Already Cally’s Cuisine donated a percentage of profit to charity. Cally could understand the question.
‘Yes. I need to really raise some funds for this charity. It’s important. Just this week—a one-off fundraiser.’
‘What charity?’
The ‘save Cally from utter humiliation’ charity—not that she told Mel that. ‘The usual.’
Mel had lost interest in the topic anyway, had a cunning smile on. ‘How was your weekend?’
Cally had been putting off this moment for as long as possible by hiding out upstairs and pretending to be super busy and not up for chat. ‘He cleaned my car and then left.’ As crisp and matter-of-fact in delivery as she could manage.
It was enough. Mel shook her head. ‘You’re a lost cause.’
‘Ain’t that the truth,’ muttered Cally.
Wednesday afternoon she worked in the shop to cover Mel’s break. Panic was definitely setting in. She rattled the jar on the counter; a few coins clinked together. The weather was warm and sales were down. Why couldn’t there be a wintry blast and soup be the dream diet of everyone?
She was just packing an order when another customer walked in. She looked up, her sales smile in place, and froze. He stood, wearing an immaculate suit and a devilish glint in his eyes. She fumbled her way through seeing off the other customer, all thumbs and heated cheeks, fully resenting the grossly unfair way he’d been given such perfect features—all of them.
He nodded towards her sign. ‘How’s the fundraising going?’
‘OK. You?’
‘Not bad.’ He flashed a smile she didn’t like. ‘I’ll take some of that cabbage one.’
She put a pack in the bag, gave it to him and assumed cool composure. ‘On the house.’
He inclined his head in thanks and then put his hand in his pocket, withdrawing his wallet anyway. With relaxed style he took out a note and stuffed it into the charity box. A hundreddollar bill, no less.
Cally looked at him. ‘Not bad, huh?’
He winked and left the shop. Cocky was not the word. It cemented the knowledge that, come what may, he was going to win—through sheer determination. The same way, she suddenly realised, that he’d been determined that she win him in the auction. He had that same look—challenging her, daring her.
She went straight upstairs and phoned her regular beautician. Late Thursday afternoon she left the salon after three hours locked inside. She was smooth, soft and totally depressed. Her bob sat sharp and gleaming, her toenails were trimmed and polished and every bit in the middle had been tended to and buffed. She was still depressed. She amended the sign in the shop and called to Mel.
‘Every soup we sell we donate three dollars to charity.’
‘Cally, that means we’re running a loss.’
‘I don’t care.’ She looked at her concerned employee. ‘Oh. OK. I do care. Two dollars.’
‘You’re the boss.’ Mel shrugged. ‘I know there’s something more going on here.’ A coy look. ‘Your hair looks nice.’
Cally hated her hair. There was nothing to be done with it. Thick, dead straight and as brunette as you could get. She’d tried over the years—but when you spent seven hours getting highlights that you had to then hunt for under interrogation-style lighting, well, you knew it was a lost cause. So every few weeks she had it cut into a razor-sharp bob and ignored it the rest of the time. She’d never be blonde. She’d never be particularly beautiful. She was brunette, short and most definitely veering to round. Spending an afternoon surrounded by blonde glamazons—and that was the beauticians, she wasn’t even thinking about the other show-stopping clients—was not good for Cally’s self-confidence.
She drew a deep breath and told herself, not for the first time, to get over it. She checked her watch. She was due at the shelter in less than twenty minutes. Her step lightened. This was just what she needed. Some time doing something for someone else, far worse off than her, would put her own silly worries well into perspective … till tomorrow anyway.
The next evening he called to her as she approached. It was the bar where the auction had been held. Had he deliberately chosen the table where she’d sat last week? She knew he had. She was fast learning that nothing about Blake wasn’t deliberate.
‘Had a good week, Cally?’
‘Not bad.’ Cautious. ‘You?’
‘Not bad.’ He watched as she sat, then flicked his fingers for a waitress.
Cally’s sense of trepidation increased. ‘Vodka martini, please,’ she ordered, hoping the bartender would pour with a heavy hand and spare the mixer.
Finally she summoned the nerve to ask him. ‘How much did you raise?’
He held up the paper in front of him. Cally looked at the figures—all five of them, and that was before the decimal point. She didn’t know whether she was about to laugh hysterically or burst into tears.
‘How?’
‘I invested my one hundred dollars.’
‘And you made that much in a week?’ Hell, she should be talking to her financial planner; he wasn’t doing nearly well enough if Blake could get that sort of return in only a week.
He grinned. ‘High-risk investments. All or nothing. I got lucky.’ He put the paper down and pushed it towards her. ‘It was worth the risk. I wanted to win.’
