“It’s lovely to finally meet you,” I say, reaching for Moira’s hand first, but she pulls me into a hug.
“Sorry. I’m a hugger,” she says, chuckling.
Douglas laughs heartily. “Aye, me too,” he says, trapping me in a bear hug. “We’ve heard a lot about ye, Millie.”
Before I can add anything else, a familiar voice cuts through the chaos. “Sorry I’m late.”
My dad is hustling toward us, his thinning hair a bit windswept from the evening breeze. Though his jacket is a size too big, his grin is steady and sure. He shakes Douglas’s hand firmly, then Moira’s.
“We had a bit of an emergency at the tropical greenhouse. One of the irrigation lines burst and nearly drowned the poor orchids. Spent half the afternoon with my arms elbow-deep in mud trying to fix it.”
“Och, you’re a gardener?” Moira asks. “Douglas recently started a garden in our yard, although it’s not going as well as we expected, right, honey?”
“Aye,” Douglas says with a sorrowful shake of his head. “Can’t seem to get tomatoes to thrive in my soil.”
“Oh, don’t get me started on tomatoes,” my dad laments. “Every year I say I won’t bother, and every year I try again.”
By the time the antipasti arrives, our parents are practically best friends, exchanging gardening tips and childhood stories about Callum and me, to Callum’s obviousdelight. I personally don’t mind—although that disastrous birthday-party karaoke incident when I was eight is a bit embarrassing. I’m just glad they’re getting along and that Callum’s parents seem to like me.
Our dinner carries on with plates of pasta and glasses of wine, laughter spilling easily across the table. Moira insists I try a bite of her sea bass “because it’s the best thing on the menu, hen.” Meanwhile, my dad and Douglas argue about the right soil for tomatoes, bickering playfully as if they’ve known each other their whole lives. Every now and then, Callum squeezes my knee under the table, his eyes warm, like he’s as relieved as I am that the night is going so well.
When dessert is cleared—double portions for our dads—my cheeks ache from smiling, and our table feels less like two families meeting and more like one big, rowdy unit.
But as soon as our feet hit the sidewalk, we’re greeted by blinding flashes and shouting.
“Callum! Millie! Over here—look this way!”
“Smile for us!”
“Callum, what about all your red cards this season?”
“Millie, are you moving in with him?”
They spring from out of nowhere, pressing forward, lenses flashing like a storm. I stiffen, but it’s nothing compared to Callum. He goes rigid beside me, his jaw clenching as his hand tightens its hold on my waist.
“Enough,” he growls. Shooting them one last glare, he turns to check on our parents, a protective look hardening his expression.
I squeeze his hand. “Hey,” I murmur, low enough that only he can hear me. “Don’t give them what they want.”
He glances at the paparazzi, then at me. For a brief moment, I think he’s going to ignore me and push through anyway. But then he exhales, slow and deep, and the tension drains from his shoulders. He shakes his head and—shockingly—he smiles. Not for cameras. For me.
I grin back, halting my steps. “Come on, let’s give them what they can’t print enough of—boring, happy domestic bliss.”
So instead of lashing out at the paparazzi, he leans down and kisses me. Slow, steady, and maddeningly sweet. My fingers curl into his jacket as if to anchor him there, and for a blissful moment, the chaos around us blurs into white noise.
The paparazzi are still yelling out questions, the flashbulbs popping like fireworks, but Callum doesn’t so much as glance in their direction. He holds me just long enough to make a point, then pulls back with a quiet chuckle, pressing his forehead to mine, as though we’re the only two people on the pavement.
“Perfect,” I whisper. “Now they’ll be forced to write about how disgustingly in love we are.”
He huffs a laugh, sliding his arm around my shoulders as the valet brings our parents’ cars around. Moira is fussing with her scarf, clearly rattled by the sudden commotion, but Callum gives her a reassuring kiss on the cheek before she climbs in. As for my dad, he waves off the photographers with a good-natured shake of his head, muttering something about weeds being less invasive, and Douglas just laughs, giving Callum a hearty clap on the back.
We quickly trade hugs, smiles, and promises to call soon. And in a puff of exhaust, their taillights disappear into the night, leaving us beneath the steady glare of the streetlamps and the relentless snapping of cameras.
Finally, my carrolls up—it’s tiny, yellow, and has daisy decals splashed across the sides. A birthday gift from Callum. He struggles to crawl into the passenger seat, but he doesn’t complain.
“Nothing says intimidating footballer like a pint-sized yellow car with flower decals,” I tease, sliding into the driver’s seat.
His lips twitch. “Aye, but nothing says happy man like you sittin’ in it.”
