The morning after our night at the club, grainy shots of me and Callan pretty much grinding on each other and making out found their way into the Scottish tabloids. They weren’t clear enough to really identify us, but I’d had to block a couple of journos’ numbers who were looking for a comment. Thankfully, it wasn’t the kind of big news that had the arseholes turning up at our door, but it was still irritating. I’d avoided Callan’s socialmedia in case there was commentary on there, and I was letting Cara and Janine run our socials so I didn’t have to see any possible comments on our pages too.
I’d really been hoping the article would escape my parents, but now I was thinking Dad or Mum (or both) might have a Google alert on our family.
“They might not have been able to say it was you for sure, but I know it was you.”
“Braden.” Mum sighed heavily. “You said you weren’t going to say anything.”
“I can’t help it. We’re a family who tell each other things.” He turned from her to the camera. “Beth, you know you can tell us anything.”
I groaned, my cheeks turning hot as I covered my face with my hands. “Actually, Dad, there are some things a girl cannot talk to her dad about.”
Dad was quiet.
Feeling guilty, I finally removed my hands to look at him. He seemed… disappointed. I didn’t know if it was in me or at the idea of me keeping things from him.
“It’s casual. Me and Callan. And I don’t want to talk about that with you. Not in a bad way. I love you, Dad. I will talk to you about anything but that.”
Mum rubbed a soothing hand over his shoulder, and Dad gave me a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You take care of yourself,” he commanded gruffly.
“I always do. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
“I love you both.” Mum waved to the camera. “We’ve got a boat tour to get to, baby. We’ll talk soon.”
“Enjoy yourselves! Bye.”
As soon as we hung up, I sank back in my couch. “Well, that was awkward.”
When Callan texted later that day to ask if we were hanging out tonight, I had to remind him I was on my period even though I’d told him this morning. It was a Friday evening. Baird and John were probably heading out somewhere. Callan should go with them.
We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, after all.
He didn’t owe me anything.
And honestly, I still wasn’t feeling one hundred percent. I was in the midst of an anxiety hangover and desperately filling my afternoon with work. There was a possibility I was driving my team crazy because I kept sending them texts and thoughts and adding to their to-do lists.
It was a surprise when Callan texted a response to my reminder.
I know, but I’m cooking tonight and I’d rather cook for two. Fancy coming upstairs?
He wanted to spend time with me out of the bedroom?
And he could cook?
Between my weird mood and the fear of blurring the lines between us, I almost told him no. Instead, I found myself telling him I’d be there in an hour.
I didn’t want to go dressed up, but I changed out of the joggers I’d cut into shorts and threw on baggy jeans and a cropped T-shirt. An email came in from Iain Erstwhile’s assistant as I knocked on Callan’s door.
She had to cancel my meeting with Iain and reschedule it for when he was back in Edinburgh.
Callan opened the door while my face was in my screen and my fingers were flying over it. “Hi,” I said without looking at him as I stepped into the apartment. “Sorry, emailing a potential client.”
“No problem.”
I finished as we entered his living space and finally looked at him. His hair was slightly wet from the shower, and he was in a T-shirt and jeans, his feet bare as he strolled into the kitchen where there was an array of ingredients and the smell of spice in the air.
