After one last head scratch to make sure Fergie still loves me, I follow Callum downstairs.
My consultation with Callum went surprisingly well. I showed him how to edit videos, and we recorded a couple shots of Fergie. Callum was focused—which is more than I could say about myself. I tried to concentrate, I really did, but sitting at the counter with his elbow touching mine was doing something to my brain. Something deeply unproductive.Relax, Millie,I chide myself.The guy looks like a Greek God and treats his sweet parrot like a treasure. So what? He’s still my colleague. Well, something akin to it, at least. Not to mention he’s Callum Murray, pro footballer. Definitely not the boyfriend type. What am I even thinking? I need to set myself straight here.
My thoughts carry me through my grocery shopping and all the way to my flat. As I approach the entrance to my building, I notice a warm light glowing behind my curtains. I frownin surprise—then smile. Pushing open the broken front door, I walk up to the second floor and enter my flat.
Kicking off my boots, I hang up my coat and let the faint, creamy smell of garlic pull me toward the kitchen.
“Millie, honey, there you are,” he says, drying his hands on a towel before enveloping me in a hug.
My dad’s hugs are the absolute best—steady, warm, familiar. The kind of embrace that makes the rest of the world fade away, just for a second. I melt into it, my voice muffled by his shoulder. “You know you don’t have to make me dinner, Dad. Look, I got groceries.”
He laughs, the booming sound filling the small kitchen like a kettle reaching a boil. “But it’s one of my favourite things to do. You work so hard—you deserve it.”
“Thanks, Dad. It smells amazing.”
He turns back to the stove, humming contentedly as he stirs while I unpack my groceries.
“So,” he says, tossing a pinch of salt into a saucepan. “How come you’re getting in so late? Looks like I picked the right night to show up.”
“I was working with one of the players on his social media accounts. It can be tricky when you’re just starting out.”
“Don’t I know it. I still barely know how to use Facebook,” he chuckles. “Which player? You haven’t told me much about your job, and, well—” He glances at me over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling. “As a Regents fan, I was hoping for some insider info.”
I burst out laughing, leaning casually against the counter. “Ah, so that’s why you came over to cook dinner, huh?”
He rubs his beard, clearly struggling to keep a straight face. “Am I that transparent?”
I shake my head, still smiling. My dad’s been using his key to pop in and cook for me at least once a week since I moved back to London after uni. Maybe now that I’m working for the Regents, I’ll get upgraded to twice a week. I knew taking this job was a smart move.
“To answer your question, I was at Callum Murray’s place. You know, the defender? He didn’t ha—”
“Wait.” Dad freezes mid-serve, spaghetti dangling over the plate. “Hisplace? You went to his house?”
I pivot toward the fridge to hide the blush creeping over my cheeks. “Um, yeah. It’s just easier. Fewer distractions there.”
He continues dishing up the pasta in slow motion, obviously trying to mask his alarm. He places both plates on the table with unnecessary precision.
“Isn’t thatwhat work is for, though?” he mutters, his tone a little too serious for my liking.
“It is,” I say, slipping into my chair, “but sometimes it’s too chaotic at the training centre. It was just Callum, though. The others already have social media accounts, so it was quicker to handle theirs.”
Dad wrinkles his nose, twirling his pasta around his fork. “Still don’t like the sound of that. Plus, out of all the players on the team, he’d be the last one I’d pick for my daughter to hang out with.”
“Dad, I’m nothanging outwith him. We were just working. And you don’t even know the guy,” I add quickly, stabbing a slice of garlic bread. “Thought I was here to give you the inside scoop.”
“Well, I know enough to tell you that guy is trouble. Always in the press, bad reputation—”
“That’s how the media works, Dad. You can’t believe everything they say.”
He gives me a stern look. “The number of red cards he gets on the pitch doesn’t lie, honey. Trust me. Anyway,” he says, wiping his mouth. “Have you met Finn O’Leary? Brilliant guy, that one. How’s Wade?”
Taking his cue, I tell him all about the team members and the staff, and he drinks in my every word, only interrupting to ask questions. These are the kinds of nights I love, spending time with my dad, catching up. But still, I can’t stop thinking about Callum, wondering if he has close family too, or if it’s just Fergie and him.
Chapter 9
Callum
To say I’m exhausted would be an understatement. Millie’s presence yesterday riled Fergie up for the rest of the night, and he took ages to fall asleep, repeating "Millie pretty” for hours. Needless to say, I barely slept. Okay, maybe my own thoughts kept me awake as well, but in my defence, it was a very unusual day. Millie seems so at ease wherever she goes. Her second time at my place, and it felt like she belonged here… maybe a little too much. The way she cuddled with Fergie, etching her laughter on the walls of his room—and inside my head.
