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I shake my head. “Can’t say. But she ought to be the first to know when I figure something out.”
Freya’s eyes go sparkly, her imagination kicking into high gear as she imagines all the romantic gestures I could be capable of. “Need some help? I know what our wee Fiona likes—other than all things pink. Kitties?”
“We’ll NOT be getting a cat.”
Ignoring me, she keeps going. “Kitties and flowers and baking in our kitchen and dancing to old songs, like “Rock the Boat,” and reading old romance books—the clean ones where they just kiss at the end and everything fades to black.”
“Not like your trashy romance novels,” I tease. “I’ve seen the covers.”
She heaves a sigh of exasperation. “It’s NOT trash, Callum. I don’t know how many times we have to go over this. The authors of the books I like merely tell the entire story.”
“All twenty-five centimeters of it,” I laugh.
If looks could kill… She plants her hands on her hips. “Back to Fiona. More importantly, I know what she dislikes?—”
“I can handle my own business.” I shoo her off. “Now go. Wash your face, Freya. You look like a panda.”
“Bah.” A pink tongue darts out from her white mask.
I snap a towel at her to get her going. She leaves with a squeal.
Turning off the bathroom light, I collapse onto my bed, hands folded under my head. Since that horrid day, I’ve refused to let the staff wash my sheets. Her scent is still here, faint, but all Fiona.
I stare up at the ceiling, thinking of what Freya said.
There will be no cat.
Determination sets in my chest, hard and fast. “I’ve got to get her back.”
But how?
My hands go damp as I pick up my phone. Will she even answer? It’s late, but I find myself calling her anyway.
My heart races as the phone rings, echoey and distant. Once, twice, three times. I don’t think she’s going to answer.
She answers on the fourth ring. Her voice sounds sleepy and disoriented. “Hello? Callum? Is this you?”
The sound of her voice instantly brings the prick of tears to my eyes. I choke out the word, “Aye.”
God, I’ve missed her. I don’t speak for fear my voice won’t hold. A heavy silence hangs between us. I feel an ocean away from her, not a short flight or ferry ride.
Finally, she asks, “Are you well?”
“No. I’m not,” I say. “Come home.”
“Callum,” she says softly. “I am home.”
“No,” I say. “Yer not.” She’s not going to make this easy on me, is she? I run a hand over my beard. Dammit, no beard, just my smooth skin. “Come back. Bring your da.”
She’s silent on the other side. The far side. So far away from where she belongs…
Here in my arms.
Running my hand up my face, I press the heel of a palm against an eye. The fingers of my other hand clench the phone as I clear the strain from my throat. “There’s plenty of room here…”
“I know,” she offers lightly.
“I can come to collect you both. Anytime,” I add.
