Chapter 19
Millie
My concentration has gone down the drain.
The fact that I’m doing the final edits for next week’s Valentine’s Day posts—not helping.
After a long afternoon, it’s finally time to go home and get dressed for my fake date with Callum.
Or thank-you dinner? I’m not sure exactly what’s happening. But one of the two.
When I finally reach my flat, I slip into one of my favourite dresses. I’m not sure where we’re going, but my purple polka-dot tea dress has never failed me. I touch up my makeup, and Callum picks me up right on time in a dark, luxurious SUV from a brand I don’t even know.
“Hey,” I say with a smile, sitting down next to him. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“No problem.” He meets my eyes briefly before easing into traffic.
“Fancy car.” I crane my neck to survey the cabin—matte black dashboard, leather seats, and high-tech displays. Everything smells faintly of cedar and something warm I can’t name. “Could use a bit of colour, but it suits you well, I guess.”
He chuckles, a low sound that makes my stomach flip. “They didn’t have it in bright yellow.”
“Shame.” I smirk. “So, where are we going?”
“A small Italian place in Covent Garden. My mum loves to eat there when she visits. Hope you like pasta?”
“Si!” I answer with way too much enthusiasm, immediately regretting the fake accent. “Who doesn’t like pasta?”
His smile deepens, and I suddenly wish it wasn’t so dark in the car.
“Where does your mum live? Scotland?”
“Yeah. My parents would never dream of living anywhere else. And, well, I can’t blame them, you know?”
I chuckle. “It’s that incredible, huh? I’ve only ever been to a concert in Glasgow.”
“Yeah, that hardly counts. You have to see the highlands, the lochs, the castles. An entire month wouldn’t be enough.”
“Gotcha. I’ll make sure to ask you for a list of must-see places, if I ever make it back there.”
He shoots me a sideways glance. “Are you from London originally?”
I nod. “Yeah, Brixton, to be precise. My dad still lives there, but I moved to central London after studying at Oxford. I wanted to be closer to the city and, well, work opportunities.”
“Oxford alumnus, eh?” he says, pulling up to a restaurant and giving me a look I can’t pinpoint. “Pretty impressive.”
My cheeks warm, but I hold his gaze. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
He chuckles, averting his eyes. “Well, here we are. Hope you like it.”
He accepts a ticket from the valet, and we head inside.
The quaint restaurant is draped in the aroma of warm bread and fresh garlic, and soft golden light flickers from candles nestled in glass holders.
Tiny handwritten menus hang above the bar, and vines trail lazily down the walls.
The host seats us at a cosy corner table, handing us our menus.
A moment later, a waiter approaches to take our drink orders, and we browse the menu.
“Any recommendations?” I ask, overwhelmed by the myriad of choices. “What’s your favourite—or your parents’?”
“I love the pasta al forno, but my brother swears by the tagliata. My parents usually share the sea bass and minestrone. And without fail, my dad always orders two tiramisu for dessert.”
His voice softens when he talks about them, his eyes crinkling at the edges. I don’t think he’s ever looked more relaxed. I wouldn’t have pegged Callum for a family man.
“Your dad and mine would get along. He lives for desserts. I took him to a dessert-only restaurant once for his birthday, and he still talks about it. I was in heaven there too, mind you. If I could eat ice cream exclusively for the rest of my life, I’d be the happiest girl on the planet.”
“You’ll have to give me the address,” he says, his voice low and warm as he leans toward me.
“Deal.” I grin, bringing my eyes back to the menu. “Well, I think I’ll go with the minestrone.”
“Knew you’d pick that.” He smirks. “Carrots.”
I burst out laughing. “Right, but preferably not half-digested.”
He’s still chuckling when the waiter returns with our drinks and takes our order. As he walks off, Callum raises his glass toward me.
“Well,” he says, his gaze locking with mine. “Thanks again. For helping with Fergie.”
“My pleasure,” I reply, clinking my glass with his. “Truly. Well, aside from the broccoli situation. But we’re putting that behind us.”
He laughs softly. “Seriously, though, he must really like you. He’s never done that for anyone but me.”
“How old is he, by the way? Have you had him since he was a chick?”
“He’s my age—thirty. And no, I only got him six years ago.”
I nearly choke on my sparkling water. “He’s thirty years old? He looks like a little birdy baby.”
Callum chuckles. “Yeah, a thirty-year-old baby who imitates fire alarms and has a full repertoire of song covers.”
“Wow. How long do they usually live?”
“Average is seventy years, more even, if they’re well cared for and don’t develop any maladies. It’s a lifetime commitment.”
I let out a breath. “Yeah. The only pet I’ve ever owned was a goldfish—arguably the pet with the shortest lifespan. It barely lasted a year.”
He winces. “I’d never even owned a pet before Fergie, but the shelter made sure I knew what I was getting into.”
“How did he end up at the shelter in the first place?”
“His previous owner couldn’t care for him anymore, so he surrendered him after only a year. He didn’t expect a parrot to be so much work,” Callum says, shaking his head.
“Wait, a year? So, you’re telling me Fergie stayed at the shelter for over twenty years?”
“Yeah.” He nods, then takes a slow sip of his drink. “They found him a few homes over the years, but they never lasted. The new owners would bring him back after a few months. I think the longest he stayed with someone before me was fourteen months.”
My heart breaks for little Fergie being bounced around like a worn-out toy. “That’s so sad, and cruel. But I’m glad you found each other. How did you meet him?”
“We were doing a charity thing for the club at the shelter, and we got to meet the permanent residents. Fergie was supercharged, singing and dancing, but I don’t know—I felt bad for him.
They told me how long he’d been there and that he was kind of a handful.
Then, he pooped on Archie’s head, and I was sold. ” He grins.
My eyes widen. “No!”
“Oh yes. Couldn’t let him go after that.” He nods, his eyes gleaming. “Why do you think the guys never come to my place? Foolproof solution.”
I throw my head back in laughter. “I bet that’s the funniest meet-cute the shelter has ever seen.”
He frowns. “Meet-cute?”
“You know, when the two love interests in a novel meet in a funny or unexpected way.”
He arches an eyebrow. “And the love interests here are Fergie and me?”
I nod firmly, barely repressing a smile. “Yep.”
Before he can retort, the waiter brings us our food, and the heavenly aromas wrap around me.
Suddenly, I forget all about their funny meet-cute as I’m swept away by the comforting, herby warmth of my soup.
The minestrone is rich with tomato, soft carrots, and just a hint of garlic.
“Mmm, thank you so much for bringing me here,” I moan. “This is delicious.”
He clears his throat. “Told you. Best Italian place in London.”
“So, you mentioned you had a brother?” I ask after a few more spoonfuls of my soup.
“Alec, he’s younger.”
“Does he live in Scotland too?”
Callum rolls his spaghetti on his spoon and takes a bite. “No, he lives in the London suburbs, but he’s a Formula 1 driver, so I probably see him less than I see my parents.”
“Impressive. Your parents must be proud, having two high-level athletes in their family.”
He shrugs. “Sure. My dad’s a big F1 guy, so he’s ecstatic. Football isn’t really his thing. Mum likes it better, but probably only because it’s less dangerous.”
I grimace. “Yeah, I get that.”
“What about you?” He rests his forearms on the table, the candlelight catching the scruff on his jaw. “Any annoying siblings?”
I shake my head. “Only child. I always dreamed of having a big sister growing up. Then I met Roxy, and it kind of came true.”
He tilts his head. “I didn’t know you two were that close. How did you meet?”
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “At a grief support group. We both lost our mums when we were young, and our dads became friends.”
He closes his eyes. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Millie.”
“Thank you,” I say, offering a gentle smile. “I wish I could have known her, you know? But my dad really stepped up after that. Honestly, he’s the best person I know.”
Callum blinks a few times, then brings his attention back to his food.
“It’s okay, really. So anyway,” I say, eating another spoonful, “how did you become a footballer? Started playing as a kid, I assume?”
He pauses, then nods. “Yeah. I played for a Scottish club most of my teenage years, then eventually made it into the Scottish Premier League before being bought by Leeds, and eventually the Regents.”
“Did you ever dream of doing something else?”
He shrugs. “School wasn’t my forte, so anything that required studying was a hard no. Lucky for me, I had a great coach and made it to the Premier League. Don’t know where I’d be without football, to be honest.” His eyes meet mine. “What about you? Does Oxford have social media courses?”
I take a sip of my sparkling water, then smile.
“They have a marketing college, actually. That’s where I studied.
After that, I got an internship in a London marketing firm that eventually turned into a job.
My main focus was handling social media for their clients, and then Roxy told me the Regents had an opening.
Wade scored me an interview, and now, here I am. ”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Congrats. From what I’ve seen, you’re doing a great job.”
I tilt my head playfully. “High praise from someone who didn’t even want to talk to me when I first started.”
He grimaces. “Yeah. Sorry about that. It just wasn’t really my thing.”
“Well, considering your history with the media, I don’t blame you. But it’s getting better, right?”
He nods. “Yeah. I must admit, being on social media isn’t as terrible as I thought it would be.
It did encourage the press to lay off me a bit, and the comments are all right.
The fans are mostly there for Fergie, but that works for me.
Between the social media exposure and our, um, fake dating situation, everyone seems to have discovered that I’m an actual human. ”
“You just had to show them you had a life outside of football,” I tease. “Glad it worked. I’m sure the Valentine’s Day post will be a success too. I’m excited for that.”
He shakes his head, but I can see the faintest smile on his lips. “Can’t wait.”
My phone pings, and I quickly check the notification. “Oh, it’s the shelter chat. You know, where they helped me with Fergie.”
Callum leans forward. “Right, yeah. What’s up?”
I open the chat and read the new message.
@fur-ever_homes_usa
Hi, everyone. We desperately need your help.
A few months ago, we started fostering Princess, a pot-bellied pig, following the passing of her mom.
Finding her a home has been a major challenge, and she never stays for more than a few weeks with her adoptive parents.
She’s a peculiar pig, and a little demanding, but she has the biggest heart.
If anyone is interested in adopting Princess or helping us spread the message, we would be extremely grateful. Thank you —The Fur-Ever Homes USA team.
“Oh no,” I say, closing my eyes. “This is so sad. Look at this.”
I show him the message, and he nods. “Yeah. That’s tough.”
“We have to do something.”
He raises his eyebrows. “I can’t adopt a pig. I have my hands full, but if you have the space…”
I arch an eyebrow. “I definitely don’t have the space in my four hundred-square-foot apartment. But maybe you could help.”
“I ca—”
“I know. And even if you wanted to, she’s in the US. But you could post about it online. You have a great platform now—this is the perfect time to use it. Plus, it’ll be good press, and good press never hurts.”
“What will I have to do?” He leans back in his chair. “Can’t exactly fly to the US mid-season.”
“I’m sure we can figure out something.” I meet his eyes, a smile building. “Let’s find Princess a home.”
Callum pays for our dinner, and we step outside to wait for the valet. The moment our feet hit the pavement, a few paparazzi rush forward and take pictures of us. Callum tenses next to me.
“Vultures,” he mutters.
“Excuse me,” a little voice says behind us, and we turn around. A kid of seven or eight years old is standing next to his parents, his big eyes gazing up at Callum. “Can I get an autograph?”
I glance at Callum, whose shoulders instantly relax. “Hi, buddy. Sure. What do you want me to sign?”
“Er…” the kid says, looking at his parents. I guess they didn’t plan it this far. Or, maybe they were just expecting him to say no? They do seem a little surprised.
I rummage through my bag and only find a crumpled piece of paper. “Maybe I can ask inside?” I suggest as the valet rolls up with Callum’s car.
“I have a better idea.” He hustles over to his car and pops the trunk.
When he comes back, he’s holding one of his training jerseys. The kid’s eyes sparkle brighter than the fairy lights draped over the restaurant’s facade.
“Do you have a pen?” Callum asks the kid, but he only frowns.
I laugh as his mom hurries back into the restaurant, coming back with a black sharpie. After finding out the kid’s name, Callum signs the jersey for him.
“Thank you!” he gushes, jumping in place. “You’re my favourite player.” Opening his little arms, he hugs Callum tight, and it might just be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
Callum was clearly not expecting it. He goes stiff, his eyebrows lifting as he pats the kid on the back, then ruffles his hair. “Thanks, lad. That means a lot.”
“No, thank you,” the dad says, shaking Callum’s hand. “Made his night.”
I snap a picture of the family talking with Callum before they walk away.
When we sit down in his car, I glance at him. “That was cute,” I say. “Between that and helping Princess find a home, no one will be able to deny you have a heart.”
He just shakes his head, but my heart is doing some serious somersaults in my chest. Because the fact that he does makes things a little more complicated for me.