Second chances (Unmasked #2)

East London, Sep 2005

The Central line carriage smelled of damp wool, expensive espresso, and the sharp, artificial crispness of morning newspapers. But all I could actually breathe in was the clean, woodsy scent of Tom’s cologne, trapped in the narrow pocket of air between our bodies.

The train was utterly packed, a wall-to-wall crush of morning commuters, but I felt completely insulated from it. Tom had positioned himself like a shield, his broad shoulders blocking the crowd while I leaned back against the perching seat by the door. My short legs didn’t quite reach the floor, leaving my leather ankle boots dangling an inch above the ground, making his steadying presence more necessity than luxury.

A white cord connected us, one earbud each, while my silver iPod mini sat safely in the pocket of my trench coat. Snow Patrol was playing.

If I lay here, if I just lay here…

And when the lead singer hit the line, Those three words, my eyes met Tom’s.

Are said too much

They’re not enough

My chest tightened. The song suggested those words were thrown around too casually. I had said them only once, and Tom had practically tricked them out of me.

He looked down at me under the flickering fluorescent tube lights of the carriage. A knowing smirk spread across his lips, his blue-green eyes crinkling at the corners. He knew exactly what I was thinking. The way his gaze held mine, a silent conversation passing between us, confirmed it. He always did.

The metallic shriek cut straight through me. My shoulders tightened, and my thoughts scattered as the noise scraped at every nerve. Before the sensory overload could take hold, my hand moved instinctively beneath the edge of Tom’s suit jacket, finding the solid warmth of his waist.

The involuntary reaction sent a shiver through me, dragging my mind back to the pale light of dawn, when those same muscles had tensed beneath my hands as he moved over me, pinning me to the mattress until every carefully constructed defence had crumbled.

A tiny, involuntary gasp slipped past my lips. I could still remember the pressure of his mouth, the certainty of his hands, the way he’d made it impossible to think about anything beyond him. My charcoal-grey skirt suddenly felt far too restrictive.

When I looked up, Tom was already watching me.

His expression changed as he recognised the difference between distress and a wicked memory. His hand settled firmly on my thigh, his thumb pressing into the fabric of my skirt. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

“You better stop those thoughts and little moans of yours, Callie,” he muttered, his voice a low, warning growl that vibrated straight through me. “I’m getting off at the next stop, and look at what you’re doing to me.”

To emphasize his point, he shifted his weight, crowding into my space and pressing the hard, unmistakable ridge of his arousal firmly against my thigh.

This man had almost caused me to be late on my very first day as a compliance analyst, a job entirely defined by adhering to rules and regulations. A sudden spark of defiance flared. I tilted my head down, peering up at him intentionally from under the rims of my glasses. Keeping his gaze, I slowly ran the tip of my tongue over my lower lip, before biting down on it.

Tom let out a choked groan. His grip on my thigh tightened so sharply it bordered on painful.

The next stop is Chancery Lane. The automated overhead announcement chimed, slicing through the tension.

Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.

The train braked hard, forcing my feet to finally touch the floor as the doors slid open. Tom’s expression softened. The hungry look in his eyes gave way to something gentler, something that made my chest ache far more than the song had.

He bent and kissed me, hard enough to leave me breathless, his mouth tasting faintly of the mints we’d shared at the station. Then he lingered for one quiet second, his forehead almost touching mine.

“Good luck on your first day, baby,” he murmured.

He stepped back, deftly adjusting the front of his trousers as he merged into the exiting crowd. As the doors began to hiss shut, I pressed my hands against the glass. Tom didn’t look away. He walked along the platform, keeping pace with my window, his eyes locked onto mine as the train began to roll, his figure blurring only when the carriage finally accelerated back into the dark tunnel.

Only then did I let out the breath I’d been holding.

Two stops later, I emerged at Tottenham Court Road and was swept into the brisk current of commuters heading for the exits. Outside, the damp London air cooled my flushed cheeks. I straightened my glasses, smoothed my skirt and turned south towards Covent Garden.

First day. New job. Professional composure. I could do this.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Tom: They’re not enough

I stopped dead in the middle of Charing Cross Road, oblivious to the commuters swerving around me.

Someone muttered in annoyance as they narrowly avoided colliding with my shoulder. I barely noticed. I was already typing.

Me: Let’s waste time chasin’ cars

The song, I remembered, was about wanting to shut out the outside chaos, to find a quiet space. And with Tom, that’s exactly what I wanted, to slow down time, spend endless hours just being with each other, in our own little world, oblivious to everything else.

I slipped my phone away and continued towards the office.

The glass-and-steel entrance of Oakhaven Wyman was a world away from the underground crush I’d just escaped. Inside, the lobby gleamed with polished marble and brushed metal, every surface immaculate. The flush from Tom’s text had finally faded, replaced by the crisp, professional mask I spent years building.

By mid-morning, I was settled into a glass-walled conference room with my new manager, Lena. She was the epitome of corporate precision, tailored blazer, sharp bob, and a stack of client profiles neatly organized on the desk between us.

“You’ve got an incredibly rare background for this role, Callie,” she said, sliding a thick blue folder toward me. “An engineering degree paired with a quantitative masters track is exactly the kind of analytical foundation we need. You’ll be dealing with complex models, regulatory requirements and risk controls. Accuracy is essential.”

“I understand,” I said, opening the folder, the crisp paper catching the fluorescent lights of the Oakhaven Wyman office. “I thrive on structure.”

“Good. Your first rotation will be with our financial services account team.” She tapped the folder. “We’ll start with Grayson Sachs. You’ll support the team responsible for its ongoing regulatory compliance and oversight.”

My breath caught in my throat. The text on the page blurred for a fraction of a second.

Grayson Sachs.

Tom’s employer.

He was a senior trader on its electronic trading desk, a fact I knew rather well, given the number of evenings I’d spent listening to him talk about the markets.

My mind supplied a less professional set of memories: his hand on my thigh, his mouth at my ear, the wicked look he’d given me just before leaving the train. The man who made me forget every rule in my personal life worked for the very institution I was about to help keep compliant.

I stared at the logo, trying to reconcile the two realities.

“Is something wrong?” Lena asked, her attention sharp.

“Not at all.” I adjusted my glasses and opened the folder. “I’m familiar with their market footprint. It’ll be an interesting account to learn.”

“Excellent,” Lena nodded, completely satisfied. “They are fast, aggressive, and notorious for pushing boundaries. Even on the standard account, you’ll need to help keep them on a very tight leash.”

A thrill, sharp and dangerous, spiked through the heat in my stomach. A tight leash. If Lena only knew that the man running their highest-volume trading desk was the exact same man who had pinned me to a carriage door two hours ago, she would have a corporate heart attack.

She moved on to the quarterly objectives, explaining the team’s responsibilities and the standards expected of me. I listened, took notes and asked the questions a new analyst was supposed to ask.

I knew his habits, his confidence and his appetite for taking calculated risks. I knew the look he wore when he was about to challenge someone, and the one that appeared when he thought he’d already won.

I glanced down at the Grayson Sachs logo again.

At work, I would have to be objective. Thorough. Uncompromising.

Whatever happened between Tom and me outside the office could have no bearing on the job.

That was the rule.

And for the first time that morning, I began to suspect that following it might be harder than either of us could imagine.