But Fergie being Fergie, the word has little weight to it. He takes off again, circling the room as he sings it louder—like a victory chant. “Callum in loooove.”
I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. Just then, something glints on the living room carpet, catching the late morning sunlight. I walk over and crouch, brushing my fingers over the plush fibres until I find it—one of Millie’s heart-shaped earrings. I hold the tiny piece in my palm like a precious treasure. She must have lost it when she came here for Princess’s video. A strange tightness grips my chest at the reminder of our pillow fight. Looking down, I study the earring again.
She might need this. Or wonder where it is. Maybe it has sentimental value. Yeah. You know what? I think I should bring this to her. Just in case.
I take Fergie back to his cage. After tossing on a clean sweatshirt, I head down to the garage—Fergie still chanting “Callum in love” in the distance.
Millie
I’m freaking out here.
It’s been seventeen hours since I kissed Callum, and I’m still not over it. How tender his lips were, how warm his hands felt on my waist, how everything else vanished for a few blissful seconds.
I’ve been debating whether to call Roxy since I woke up. She’d absolutely say “I told you so,” which is always annoying, but she also went through the same thing. Well, her guy was actually interested in her, so maybe notexactlythe same thing, but still… She might have some insight.
The doorbell rings, jerking me out of my spiraling thoughts. I shuffle to the door, and when I peer through the peephole, my shoulders drop in relief.
“Dad,” I say, opening the door wide. “What are you doing here?”
He gives me a bright smile, juggling two overstuffed grocery bags in his arms. “Thought a home-cooked Sunday lunch was long overdue.”
“Really? You know, I am capable of feeding myself.” I sigh, stepping back to let him in.
“Yeah,” hemutters as he walks past me. “Ice cream. I saw.”
Oh boy. So that’s why he’s here.
“Dad, it was nothing,” I say, trailing behind him into the kitchen. “I told you, we were just pretending. But you’ll be happy to hear we’ve stopped. Yesterday was the last, um, date.”
“Good to hea—Millie, what’s that on your cheek?” His eyes widen in alarm.
I slap my hand over the tender spot. “Nothing. Just a little cut.”
He narrows his eyes. “Millie Beatrice Templeton, tell me what happened.”
I groan and drag out a chair, dropping into it dramatically, like my limbs have given up. “We had a small encounter with the paparazzi yesterday. I got hit by a phone or a camera or something. But as you can tell, it’s extremely minor.”
His face flushes a deep red. “This is unacceptable. I’m going to your workplace tomorrow to speak to your boss. And that Callum Murray! What do they think they’re doing, putting you in danger like that?”
I spring to my feet. “Dad, I already told you, it’s nothing. My boss doesn’t even know about this. And it’s over, anyway. So let’s just move on.” I walk to the counter and grab the choppingboard, softening my tone. “Can I help with the gravy?”
He shoots me a side glance, and I respond with my most innocent smile. His shoulders slump with a defeated sigh.
“You can cut the veggies.”
We ease back into less sensitive topics—his new flowers, his neighbour’s new car, a recent episode of his favourite detective show—and I can practically feel the tension draining from him minute by minute.
Cooking with my dad wasn’t how I pictured spending my Sunday morning, but honestly? There’s no better remedy to keep my mind from spiraling.
Before long, the whole apartment fills with the warm, comforting smell of roasted meat and buttery herbs, making both our stomachs growl in an unspoken competition.
Thankfully, the oven timer dings, and it’s finally time to eat.
I wave Dad to the table and grab the serving spoon. I’m just sitting down and forking my first piece of meat when the doorbell rings again.
“Are you expecting someone?” Dad asks, setting his fork down and glancing toward the door.
“No, maybe a neighbour,” I say, standing up. Although to be honest, my neighbours and I aren’t exactly on “borrowing sugar” terms. I don’t even know their names.
