Glancing through the peephole, I freeze when I see him. He’s wearing dark jeans, a fitted black jumper, and that familiar black coat. And somehow, he looks even better than yesterday. Sucking in a deep breath, I open the door.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my fingers curling around the doorframe for support.
He rakes a hand through his hair, his gaze soft. “Found this on my carpet,” he says, holding up my heart-shaped earring between two fingers. It looks tiny in his hand.
“Oh.” I blink, my heart sinking faster than I care to admit. For one silly second, I thought maybe he came here because he couldn’t live without me and just had to see me today. I really have to get over him, stat. “Thanks. You could have given it to me tomorrow.”
“Right,” he says, shifting on his feet. “I thought you might need it or something.”
A chair scrapes behind me, and Callum’s eyes flick toward the sound, his brows tightening. “You have company. Sorry, I—”
“Who is—oh. Good afternoon.” Dad steps into view, his sharp gaze latching onto Callum like he’s scanning for weaknesses. “You’re Murray, right? I’m William Templeton, her dad.”
“Right, sir,” Callum says, straightening his back as he offers his hand. They shake in stiff silence.
“I just cameto return Millie’s—”
“It’s not important,” I interrupt quickly, stepping between them. The last thing I need is my dad asking why Callum has my earring in the first place. “Have you eaten yet? We made Sunday roast.”
Callum shuffles his feet. “Um, no, but I don’t want to—”
“In that case, come on in,” I say brightly, swinging the door wider and stepping aside to gesture him in.
We meander back to the kitchen, and I grab a plate for Callum.
“It smells really good in here,” he says as I’m making up his plate.
“So, you’re the one responsible for my daughter’s new cheek?” Dad says, not missing a beat.
My shoulders stiffen, spoon still hovering over the roast. “Dad…”
“Yes,” Callum replies calmly, turning to face him. “I am.”
I spin around. “No, he’s not, Dad, stop it,” I say, my voice a shade lower than usual. Why doesn’t he listen to me? I’m not completely clueless. And besides, this ismylife.
“I’m terribly sorry about what happened, sir.” Callum’s voice is measured and polite, but I can hear the tension lurking underneath.
I finish arranging the food on his plate, probably too quickly, and place it in front of him with aclink. “It’s not your fault, Callum.” I fix my dad in a glare. “Dad, I told you what happened. Now please—”
“And why were the paparazzi there in the first place?” Dad presses, narrowing his eyes.
“Exactly,” Callum mutters, nodding in agreement.
Dad frowns, then bobs his head, seemingly satisfied. “At least you take responsibility for your actions.”
“Of course, sir. It’s entirely my fault.”
“No, it’s not,” I say, my volume rising as every muscle in my body goes rigid. “It’s a little cut, and I’m perfectly fine. I know you usually know what’s best for me, Dad. But I’m an adult, and I promise you I know what I’m doing. Now, please, can we eat? I’m starving.”
Dad watches me for a second, then nods. “Fine,” he mutters. “Let’s eat.”
We finally tuck into our food, and after a few mouthfuls, the weirdness of the situation dawns on me. Here I am in my cramped dining room, eating Sunday roast with my dad and Callum Murray. The walls feel tighter than usual, like the air's grown thicker with the sheer strangeness of it all.
“So, you think you’ll make Top Four this year?” Dad asks eventually, reaching for the gravy.
Callum arches an eyebrow as he chews. “Football fan?”
“Of course.”
