Her eyes fly wide, as though she just realised what she’s done. “Oh no,” she mutters—then she bolts.
Giggles pour from her lips as she runs, cradling her cup of ice cream like a sought-after prize. She zigzags between people on the path, the hem of her coat flapping, her laughter trailing behind her like bursts of confetti. When she veers onto the grass, her boots skid on the damp earth, and she yelps.
I take another slow bite of ice cream, savouring the taste before finally jogging after her.
It doesn’t take me long to catch up. I grab her around the waist with one arm, lifting her off the ground for a second. She kicks gently, her laughter breathless. Her perfume fills the air between us again—soft and warm. But this time, I keep my focus.
“Sorry, I’ll stop,” she pants through fits of giggles. “Please, I have no cardio.”
I chuckle as I set her back down with care. She stays close, her chest brushing mine, then places a hand on my chest like she needs the support to stay upright.
“If you have no cardio, then you’d better stop challenging me,” I say, shaking my head.
“I don’t know why I did that,” she says between breaths. “You’re a freaking footballer.”
“Aye, not thesmartest move,” I tease. “Especially since you could have just asked.”
Our gazes lock, and once again, every cell in my body is overwhelmed by the need to kiss her. Her lips part slightly, still pink from the cold, and the urge to press my lips to hers becomes unbearable. All I’d have to do is lean forward, close the distance between us, tilt her chin and—
A kid screams in the distance, and I compose myself, taking a step back.
“But that wouldn’t have been nearly as fun,” she says with a mischievous grin.
“Says the girl who can barely speak after running a hundred feet.”
“Fair point.” She bats her lashes. “So… can I have more of your ice cream? Please?”
I rub a hand over my beard, pretending to consider it. “After that stunt you pulled? I don’t think so.”
Her jaw drops. “But you said—”
“I’m kidding, Templeton.” I hold my cup toward her. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“See? I knew you were a softy,” she says, beaming as she dips her spoon into my ice cream.
I shake my head, watching her enjoy another spoonful. But she’s probably right.
We finish our circuit around the lake without further incident—meaning I let Millie finish the entire cup of ice cream—and my heart sinks when we reach our starting point.
I’m tempted to suggest we keep walking, just one more loop, but her nose and cheeks are rosier than ever, and I don’t want her catching a cold.
“Callum! You enjoying Valentine’s Day with your girlfriend?” a paparazzo calls, seemingly springing from out of nowhere. He’s followed by at least ten of his colleagues, who spill onto the path like a wave of flashing cameras and noise.
“What’s her name?” one demands.
“How long have you been together?” asks another.
They crowd around us, phones and cameras flashing in our faces. I instinctively wrap an arm around Millie’s shoulders, pulling her close. She doesn’t look frazzled, but I can feel the tension in her body.
“Leave us alone,” I growl while attempting to guide us through the chaos.
“Are you taking her somewhere special tonight?”
“Is it serious?”
They keep peppering us with questions, even as I give them the silent treatment, and my entire body goes rigid. Why can’t they just leave us alone?
“Are you in love with Callum?” a bearded guy asks, shoving his camera into Millie’s face.
