Chapter 20
Callum
Two days after our dinner together, Millie comes to my place before work—yeah, you read that right—with the blueprint of a social media post specifically crafted to help Princess find a home.
And after talking with the shelter, we now understand a bit more about why it’s been so difficult to find her one.
Initially, I thought it was just another case of sass, à la Fergie, but it turns out that Princess is, well, a princess.
Simply put, she’s accustomed to being treated like royalty.
She wears dresses and tiaras, refuses to go outside, requires a bed to sleep in, and needs to be washed regularly in an oversized bath.
I’m guessing it’s going to be a little harder than with Fergie, and we’re talking about a bird that can outlive its owners, knows how to talk, and has a knack for tormenting people.
“I’m honestly not sure it’s going to work,” I say flatly between takes as we’re recording the voiceover. Millie asked the shelter for a bunch of pictures of Princess, then put together a slideshow that will accompany my voice.
“Yes, it will,” she insists. “You have millions of followers now. Surely one of them will be interested, or know someone who is. Not to mention all the shares. It’s bound to work. And it doesn’t require much work from our end. Now, let’s get back to it.”
My eyes widen. “Wow. So bossy when you’re on a mission.”
“Sorry.” She cringes. “I admit, I’m a little excited, but we also don’t have much time. You have to be at the training centre in just over an hour.”
I shake my head. “Yes. Biggest match of the league tonight, and I woke up early to save a pig. See what my life has become since you stepped foot in it?”
She laughs, the sound immediately making me forget the early hour. “Oh, come on. You love it. Your life is so much better now.”
I roll my eyes, but a tiny part of me agrees with her.
“All right, let’s go again. Remember, articulate each word, and wait for the slide to change before speaking the next phrase.”
“I did articulate. The problem is your terrible handwriting,”—I glance down at the flashcards she made— “What is that, an ‘e’?”
She gives me a pointed look. “I have excellent penmanship, thank you very much.”
My eyes flit down to the flashcard. “If you could just find it in your heart to help her,” I read flatly, then sigh. “This is boring, and I would never say that.”
“Well, I wrote it in a rush. Give me that.”
“I’m not done,” I say, starting to read her script again.
She leans over to snatch the flashcard out of my hand, but I raise my arm to keep them out of her reach.
Clawing at the flashcards, she loses her balance and falls onto my chest, her face suddenly inches from mine.
I pause, my gaze flitting from her beautiful blue eyes down to her lips, and my heart pounds like a jackhammer.
There is nothing I want more right now than to kiss Millie Templeton, and the thought terrifies me.
We linger there a few more seconds, our eyes locked.
Then, she tries to grab the flashcard again, but I grip it tight.
She pulls away, grabs a pillow from my couch, and hits me in the face with it.
I blink. “Really? You’re challenging me to a pillow fight?”
“What if I am?” She tilts her head to one side, and I struggle to stay sane. She’s never looked more beautiful, or sexy, than she does right now. Hair disheveled, cheeks flushed, and that teasing smile gracing her lips.
Unfortunately, she takes advantage of my moment of weakness, hitting me straight in the face with another pillow, then another one.
Oh, it’s on.
Pillows are scattered all over the living room floor, and Millie is panting for breath next to me. We’re both sprawled on the carpet after she called—no, begged—for a truce, citing the gap in our cardio training.
Fergie went wild during the pillow fight. Although he couldn’t see us from his room upstairs, he was screaming a mix of ‘Millie pretty’ and ‘Callum, you lose’ the entire time. He’s now quieted down, too absorbed by the rap concert that just started on his TV.
Something is poking my neck, and I scratch it, only to discover it’s one of Millie’s flashcards.
“I desperately need your help to save her,” I read aloud. “Seriously? My followers will know it wasn’t me who wrote this.”
“Your followers, huh?” she teases, rolling onto her side to meet my eyes.
“Aye. You’re the one who taught me that on social media, nothing is more important than original content and staying true to myself.”
“That’s right,” she says, brushing a strand of hair from her eye.
“Then you know I can’t do this.”
“Fine.” With a sassy roll of her eyes, she sits up, and I do the same. She shakes her head, wearing a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I guess I roped you into this without giving you a say. Tend to do that a lot, don’t I?”
I nod, wincing. “Very bossy.”
She hits me with one of the strewn pillows. “Guess I’ll just tell the shelter—”
“Wait.” I frown. “I never said I wouldn’t do it. Just not with that text. Give me a minute, I’ll think of something.”
She nods. “Okay. I’ll go use the toilet in the meantime.”
As she saunters off, I study the slides again, scribbling a few words on the back of Millie’s flashcards. It’s definitely not poetic or elegant, but it’s straight to the point. And a lot more natural.
“So, what have you got?” she asks, coming back. I can’t help but notice she rearranged her hair.
“Hit Record, and you’ll see.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Why don’t you do it yourself, big guy?” she suggests, crossing her arms. “It’s your phone, after all.”
“You very well know I haven’t a clue how to do the voiceover recording on this app,” I grumble, averting my eyes.
She smiles, clearly pleased with herself. “So, you do need me after all. Interesting.”
I narrow my eyes. “Really? A plea for flattery? You’re starting to sound like Archie.” I shake my head. “Are we doing this or what?”
“Fine.” She offers her palm, and I put my phone in it.
The first slide is a photo of Princess in a tiara and a pink tutu.
“This is Princess,” I begin. “Yes, that’s her real name.”
The next slide rolls in: Princess being towel-dried after a bath.
“She requires regular baths. And outfits. She’s not exactly small, or subtle.”
Millie bubbles out a laugh, and I glance at her. “Really? You just ruined the take.”
“Sorry,” she says, throwing a hand over her mouth. Her face is flushed red, and her eyes are glassy. “I couldn’t help it. This is too hilarious.”
I give her a pointed look. “It’s not really meant to be funny. Just wanted to tell it like it is.”
“And that’s what makes it so funny! You’re a funny guy, Callum Murray. It’s time you accept that.”
I roll my eyes. “Will you manage to rein in your laughter if we try again, or am I just that hilarious?”
She suppresses another laugh. “Sorry. Yes, I’ll stop. Let’s go again.”
We take it from the top, and Millie manages to maintain her composure. The third slide is a picture of Princess lounging on a velvet cushion.
“She lives indoors,” I say. “Thinks she’s royalty. Probably is.”
Millie’s lips give a little twitch, but she stays silent. An image of Princess hugging her former owner, eyes closed, appears on the screen.
“But she’s also the sweetest pig you’ll ever meet,” I continue. “And she’ll love you more than anyone in the world.”
The next slide appears—a photo of Princess overlaid with the shelter name and contact information.
“She’s looking for a new castle,” I say. “Share if you know someone who’s ready to treat a pig like royalty. US only—we’re full on royal residents here. Well, I’ve done my bit. Go rescue a princess.”
Millie presses the stop button on the screen, then stares at me in awe. “Callum, this is amazing. You’re right, it’s so much better than what I had. It was so funny, sarcastic—so you. I loved it.”
I scratch the back of my head. “Well, I learned from the best.”
She smiles. “I’ll work on a caption, and you can tell me what you think. As for hashtags, we could do #saveprincess and #adoptprincess. I’ll look into more.”
“Maybe #royalpig?” I suggest.
She presses her lips together, her eyes twinkling. “You really did learn from the best. That’s brilliant.”
I hit her with a pillow.
“Callum! No more pillow fights. We have work to do,” she says, standing up.
I smirk. “Scared now, are you?”
She struts to the entrance, glancing back at me. “Absolutely not. But you, sir, have an important match to prep for.”
I chuckle and follow her—even if I’d much rather have another pillow fight than play football right now.