Calloway // Michael Gray x Reader - Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter 12

Michael

"Complementary dinner's not bad on the first night, eh?" He says.

He sips from the free glass of red wine — actually, he downs it, making way for a decent whiskey in its place.

She doesn't seem quite so enthused, glancing around the hotel restaurant distractedly. "Price we're paying for this thing, I'd want every dinner to be complementary,"

She's been like it all day, Michael muses, every now and then scanning the surroundings as though expecting a bomb to go off.

"Trying to make new friends so you're not stuck with me?" He asks. Surprisingly, he has to work to keep his voice even.

It's equally surprising when relief floods through him as she frowns. "No. Believe me, you're all the friends I need."

How am I supposed to take that? He wonders. There must be an insult in there somewhere — it's Calloway. An enigma, just as he supposed.

"What do you think it'll be?" He asks, sipping his freshly ordered whiskey. "The food."

"One of those pretentious little courses, with the peeled courgette rolled into a swan or something ridiculous." She relaxes just slightly. "How about you?"

"I reckon something unnecessarily disgusting, like duck liver or those fish eggs."

"Weren't you paying attention today?" She asks, her lips curving into a smile. "Be sure to ask open-ended questions to establish rapport."

Michael rolls his eyes. "How could I forget? My Mum'll be pleased we're paying..." he drifts off, frowning. "Aren't your workplace paying for this for you?"

"What?" Calloway asks, somehow sounding both tense and absent-minded at once.

"You said you want every dinner complementary, because we're paying so much. I thought the bank must be making you do this. But you booked it yourself?"

Is he imagining it, or does she avoid meeting his gaze?

"Thought I could use the knowledge," she says.

Michael shakes his head, bewildered. "I can't imagine ever choosing to come here voluntarily."

"Thought you'd be happier to have me here," she says. "You'd be paired up with a real corporate type, otherwise."

"Wouldn't be going to dinner with him, that's for sure," Michael mutters. "I'd have gone straight back to the hotel room, wine and dinner be fucked."

"And here it is," Calloway says, as the waiter approaches.

Michael checks his watch, a habit he's picked up since working for his family. There's always a meeting to travel for, a location to visit for one reason or another. Every day runs on a tight schedule. He can't shake the mannerism, even as he has the whole night ahead of him with nowhere to be.

He thanks the waiter and flits his gaze back up, wondering why Calloway's gone so quiet. She's staring at the food.

He looks down at his own, and sees a large bowl of mussels.

The pause draws out before them. Calloway tears her gaze away from the food, glancing up at Michael, waiting for a reaction.

He grins, unable to help himself,

"Don't. Say. Anything." She orders.

Michael half-shrugs. "Wasn't going to," he replies, but he still can't shake a smile as he digs into the food.

The shells split into two in his hands. He squeezes the lemon over them, over the broth, and scoops out the flesh with his fork.

"Told you they're good with lemon and butter," he says.