Chapter 3
Three
-MILO-
I’m desperately seeking coffee beans.
Bloody Summer and her requests.
I don’t even own an espresso machine. And I can’t stand the taste of coffee. But my influencer bestie with a season for a name has demanded I buy a packet before I visit. She needs them for an Instagram post, and this photo must be shot today.
Oh, Milo, you know how important this is, Summer said. My followers mustn’t scroll any further when they see what we create!
I’m at the supermarket trying to choose the right packet. It must stick out in the image. She insists on it. There’s one packet with a weird picture of a sassy baboon in a cowboy hat which appeals to me. But it’s printed on brown paper. Summer will hate it.
There are various packs that are mainly black. None of them are eye-catching. Others have a cup with a steaming fresh brew, and while there’s no mistaking their contents, I know Summer will judge me for an uninspired choice.
She’ll want something funky and colourful and never seen before on anyone else’s social profile. It’s a tall order when shopping at a chain supermarket where the stock has been bought in bulk.
“Perhaps I should check out a café,” I mutter to myself. “They’re sure to have a pack from a boutique supplier.”
But if it’s not colourful, Summer will take her frustration out on me. So I keep looking, reevaluating packets I’ve already considered until I’m sick of searching.
I extend my gaze away from the coffee.
The redhead in the breakfast cereal aisle is cute. Is he muttering to himself?
I smile at him, giving him my best ‘bedroom eyes’ look. He sees me.
Crash!
He just ran his trolly into the shelves. Boxes of cereal are on the floor around him. He’s adjusting his glasses, surveying the mess on the floor.
Oh. He just glanced back at me. I quickly check what I’m wearing. I need to make sure I’m dressed to impress.
Summer told me to wear something sexy for her shoot. And I look good in my unbuttoned cotton shirt. It’s white so I don’t pull focus from whatever else is in her photo. And because I work out, my exposed chest is meant to encourage likes.
Okay, I know showing my chest will cause people to look at me first, but I’m quoting Summer’s logic, not mine.
I should go and help this cute redhead because now that I think about it, there’s a good chance my physique caused this guy’s calamity. Or my smile.
You never know, he could have recognised me from social media. A short brush with celebrity and bang, trolly wedged into discounted choco-flakes.
In case you were wondering, my follower numbers are nowhere near Summer’s but I’m in her posts often enough to be known. I was ecstatic when I reached a thousand followers, but I’ve only gained a few hundred since.
The guy is putting boxes back on the shelf. I stroll over and help him.
“I’m fine.” But his hands are trembling. And he’s putting the cereal on random shelves. I point at the right shelf. He throws his arms in the air, then pops one of the boxes in his trolly.
I take it out and study it. “There’s a lot of sugar in this one. Have you considered muesli?” I give him my best cheesy grin.
“As long as I’m regular, I don’t care what I eat.”
Was that a pickup line? He didn’t say it in a friendly tone. Maybe it wasn’t.
He seems remote. I’m sure something is on his mind besides my chest. I pop the cereal back in his trolly and button my shirt out of courtesy.
This man keenly watches me dress. I’ve cast my spell.
“Was I the cause of your accident? You seemed to look away once you—”
“Yes. No. Maybe.”
I wait for him to collect his thoughts.
“Sorry. I have a lot on my mind.” He’s eyeing me, gazing longer than most guys would. This is good. “But you were a welcome distraction.”
A smile blooms on his face momentarily, making him look hotter than before. But now his grin is half-baked because obviously whatever his issue is, it’s major. But he’s still polite enough to banter.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
He looks around to see if anyone is nearby, then lowers his voice. “If I told you, you’ll think I need therapy.” His warm smile returns briefly.
“Sharing problems with a stranger can help.”
Despite my offer, he’s frowning. But it also seems he’s in no hurry to continue shopping.
That’s good. I’m in no hurry to see Summer.
I offer a sympathetic gaze and after several other customers manoeuvre around us, and a checkout operator calls for a price check on a popular brand of prophylactics, the redhead beams.
“My name is Grayson.”
“I’m Milo.”
Another shopper skirts around me and Grayson, mumbling his disapproval at us for blocking the aisle.
“Sorry my open shirt distracted you.”
Somewhere, a toddler is demanding ice cream. Her mother says no.
“It’s what I needed,” Grayson replies, clearly ignoring the child. “Feel free to show me your chest anytime.”
The toddler insists the ice cream has to be chocolate chip.
“Do you shop here much?” I instantly regret this stupid question.
“Only for over-sugared cereal.” Grayson has a sense of humour. “What are you buying?”
Thankfully, I’m not the only one asking basic questions. “Coffee beans.”
The toddler is screaming, diverting our attention. Its mother is shouting. And more customers weave their way around Grayson’s shopping cart while we’re both just standing here, staring at each other.
I’m convinced I’m wearing a goofy grin because Grayson seems to be mirroring the way I feel. We’re two guys, lost for words, showing our unease at handling small talk.
The toddler is whimpering now, calling for its mum. I’m not surprised. If I was its parent, I would have walked away too.
“It sounds like the tantrum is over,” Grayson says.
“Thank goodness.” Another awkward pause. “Can I pop my number in your phone?”
He chuckles. “I left it at home, charging.”
Wow. He actually leaves the house without his phone.
“Can I have your number?” I trace my finger down my buttons to remind him what he saw before.
It works. Grayson’s grinning again. He recites his number and I take a quick snap of him to add to my contacts. Then I send him the message—It’s Milo with the open shirt.
“What kind of coffee do you like?” Grayson asks.
“I don’t like coffee.”
Another shopper grumbles at us, so Grayson rolls his shopping cart out of the aisle. As I follow, I send Grayson’s picture to Summer. Ironically, we end up in front of the ice cream fridge. There’s no sign of that bratty child.
“Why are you buying coffee beans if you don’t like coffee?” Grayson asks.
This is my chance to impress this guy beyond just showing off my bare chest. I tap my Insta icon and bring up Summer’s page.
I show him the picture of her using an espresso machine.
She faked it because she has no idea how to make coffee, but I don’t mention that.
I’m in this photo, grinning in the background, pretending to drink a cup.
In the next pic, Summer is holding two milk frothing jugs, one silver, one black. She’s beaming as if she’s ready for sex.
“Is she turned on by barista utensils?” Grayson asks.
“It’s her brand. Everything has to be sensual.”
“What’s her interest in coffee?”
Grayson is missing the point. What’s any influencers interest in anything they post? It’s social media 101 to compose shots which appeal to the masses. Nothing is personal when you reach the big league. Punters approve of everything you post because they believe they have a connection with you.
“Apparently there’s going to be a shortage of coffee beans,” I eventually reply. “So she’s letting her followers know.”
“And a hundred thousand followers are holding out for a blonde bombshell to post pictures of herself with coffee?” Grayson wears a cheeky grin, showing he’s taking the piss. And yes, it does seem like a silly waste of time when he puts it that way.
I open my profile instead. “Here I am holding a turtle in a pet store. And here I am choosing a record.” I don’t mention I don’t own a record player.
“And here’s the one where I’m kneading pizza dough in Summer’s kitchen.
See, she’s next to me.” But as I show off this image, even I can see Summer’s lip-licking pose is more porn star than influencer.
“You cook?” Grayson asks, uninterested in my feed.
I don’t have the heart to admit the chef who actually made the dough took the shot. And right now, reviewing this picture, even I can see how phoney my attempt to cook comes across.
I casually slip the phone into my back pocket. “I can toast sandwiches,” I say. “I’m useless at making pizzas.”
“But there was a photo of you kneading dough.”
There’s nothing flirtatious about this conversation anymore. Grayson is not impressed with my online persona. Or the fact my best friend is Summer. And his expression seems to say, Milo, do you have any real hobbies?
“I should let you shop, Grayson.”
He offers a weak smile, as if he also knows there is no point in pursuing whatever this is. I’m tempted to unbutton my shirt again just so Grayson can take one last look. But that would be desperate.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Nice to meet you too, Miles.”
Miles? That’s definitely a romance killer.
He has looked away, most likely focussed on his private problem again. And no curated social posts are going to distract him.
I wave meekly and head for the exit. I’m defeated. I usually have no issues picking up men, but today, I was awkward.
There’s a new notification on my phone. It’s Summer. She has texted: He looks like a loser. I’m annoyed by her opinion.
So I turn, catch Grayson’s attention, and seductively unbutton my shirt.