“You probably can’t tell, ’cause I was covering it, but I’ve been thinking about us. And when I see pictures of you with Prince whoever-he-is, it kills me. And I hate myself for that. I just want you to be happy. Really.”

“Thank you. And I get it. Are you seeing anyone?”

“The vice president of the United States. Kidding. A couple of guys, nothing major. Not like us.”

In his own confused, Callum-centric way, Callum was struggling. I wasn’t sure if he still had feelings for me or if, because I was off the market, I was a challenge. Callum loved being adored by everyone, but he was so transparent that I could never hate him. He was sweetly stuck on himself. And by “a couple of guys” that meant there were at least four.

After more show business schmooze and Callum prying for more information about Edgar, which I skated over, we left. As we were standing on the sidewalk and I was saying, “Great to see you, and congratulations on the movie,” Callum put his hand on my neck and kissed me. I pulled away, but I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, or smack him, especially because during the kiss, I felt nothing. Not even nostalgia. I was thinking about kissing Edgar and how much I missed him, even after only a few hours apart. The kiss may have lasted a moment longer than it should have, because my mind and my heart were elsewhere, and because Callum was holding my shoulder and not letting go.

“Hey, enough,” I said, managing to break his grip.

“Just wanted to give it a shot.”

“Not cool.”

“Sorry.”

Callum dipped his head and raised his eyes to reflect the streetlamp; this was one of his tricks, stolen from the use of key lights on movie sets, which add sparkle to an actor’s eyes. Callum was his own best cinematographer. Then he gave me a wry half smile, the one he’d once used on a can of Diet Sprite, and sauntered off, maybe worried that he was losing his touch and should cut back on the carbs.

There had been sidewalk tables with a handful of stragglers, but I’d had no idea anyone was paying attention, not to me. Edgar was the famous person, and he wasn’t here.

I hadn’t told Edgar or Abby or anyone else about my encounter with Callum, as it had been brief and embarrassing and I’d already erased it.

“Mr. Ogden?” said Caroline.

“I . . . I . . . nothing happened,” I said, because I was innocent. “It was nothing.”

“You lived with Callum Turner for three years,” Caroline continued, ramping into steely district attorney cross-examination mode. “And now he appears in London. Other patrons at the café have reported a highly amorous conversation and overheard Prince Edgar’s name.”

“We were just having a drink! Callum is shooting a movie!”