Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sienna
“Mission accomplished,” I announce, dropping the gift shop bag onto the coffee table with a dramatic thud as I flop onto the couch beside Milo. “I have single-handedly secured the most ridiculous outfit known to mankind.”
Milo looks at me with worry in his eyes. He’s got nothing on but those low-slung gray sweatpants he seems to wear only because he knows they taunt me. I do an appreciative sweep of his chest, my mouth running dry as I remember how his muscles tensed under my touch yesterday.
He clears his throat to get my attention. “I got your outfit earlier while you were napping. Should I go get it?”
I snap my gaze up to meet his. “Yes, immediately.”
Milo pushes off the couch with a resigned chuckle and heads toward his room, giving me a perfect view of his muscles shifting across his back. I bite my lip and tell my hormones to behave.
They don’t listen.
A minute later, he returns with his own gift bag and sets it beside mine. We both stare at the innocent-looking bags like they’re loaded with explosives.
Milo leans back, arms crossed over his chest. “I can see something poking out of that bag that looks very… concerning.”
“It’s called ‘ridiculous outfits’ for a reason,” I grin, nudging his shoulder. “And I went all out. Didn’t hold back.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think you should open yours first. I have a feeling I played it way too safe compared to whatever you’re about to unleash on me. I need a second to prepare myself mentally.”
I burst out laughing and dive into my bag, unloading each item onto the coffee table.
Sparkly pink mini skirt.
Matching dangerously low-cut crop top.
Lime-green fishnet tights.
Fluffy rainbow neck boa.
Bright pink platform heels with tiny yellow daisies on the straps.
Jangly bracelets in every color.
Neon-green waist bag.
Orange heart-shaped sunglasses.
A purple wig.
Milo watches the pile grow, his expression perfectly blank for five full seconds.
Then he cracks.
His laugh starts low and surprised, then rolls out deep and helpless. He tips his head back against the couch, shoulders shaking. I lose it right along with him, clutching my stomach until tears prick my eyes.
“You played it so safe,” I snort between laughs. “I almost feel bad for what I got you.”
“A-almost?” he chokes out.
I grin wickedly and shove his bag into his chest. With a defeated sigh, he starts pulling out his own monstrosity.
Neon orange Crocs.
Pink and purple polka-dot mid-calf socks.
Blindingly pink shorts, covered in hearts and stars.
An open Hawaiian shirt, bursting with pineapples.
Multi-colored, fluffy wristbands.
A sad, deflated flamingo floaty.
Blue multi-colored polka-dot waist bag.
Neon-green wig.
Party cone hat with a spinning propeller on top.
Bright yellow star sunglasses.
We both stare at the growing disaster on the coffee table. Then we’re laughing again—so hard that the propeller on the hat starts spinning from the sheer force of it.
“This has got to be the stupidest idea Ethan and Aria have ever had,” Milo laughs, wiping his eyes.
“It’s the best idea they’ve ever had,” I correct, still giggling.
He leans forward, picks up the propeller hat, and says, “You’re really going to make me wear this out in public?”
“Absolutely,” I smile. “And I expect you to spin it during the chorus of whatever song we sing at karaoke.”
I snatch the green wig from the table and plop it on his head. The electric curls frame his unfairly handsome face. He doesn’t take it off. Instead, he picks up the purple wig and gently sets it over my hair, his fingers brushing my cheek as he tucks a stray curl behind my ear.
The color is criminal, but the way he’s looking at me—soft, warm, like I’m the most beautiful disaster he’s ever seen—makes something dangerous bloom in my chest.
“You look ridiculously beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice softer now.
“So do you.”
He keeps his hand near my face a second longer. “I like ridiculous.”
My breath catches. “Me too.”
For a moment, we just sit there—two idiots in wigs, surrounded by the most unhinged outfits ever assembled—our hearts beating way too loud for people who swore this was just fun.
Then Milo leans in, and I meet him halfway.
The kiss is slower than yesterday, sweeter, as if we’re both trying to memorize this exact moment. His hand cups my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. I sigh into his mouth, my fingers curling into the hair at his nape as if I could hold onto this bubble a little longer.
When we finally pull back, foreheads still touching, his voice drops. “We should probably get ready for tonight’s chaos…”
“Yeah…” I whisper.
Neither of us moves right away.
Eventually, I force myself up, smoothing my hands down my dress. “Shower. Then we meet back here for the grand unveiling?”
He nods, eyes warm. “Sounds like a plan.”
An hour later, I’m fully decked out in the outfit Milo picked for me—complete with bright pink eyeshadow and matching lipstick. I slip into the platform heels, add the jangly bracelets and the rainbow boa, then check myself in the full-length mirror.
I look like a disco ball had a glittery love child with a flamingo.
Still laughing under my breath, I head to the living area. Milo is already waiting, standing in the middle of the room like a man who has accepted his tragic fate. Arms braced on his hips, propeller hat slightly crooked, neon-green wig glowing.
I stop in my tracks.
For one suspended heartbeat, we just stare at each other.
Then we both absolutely lose it.
I double over, laughing so hard my stomach hurts. Milo throws his head back and laughs too—deep, unrestrained, the kind that makes the propeller on his hat spin even faster.
“You…” I gasp, pointing at him as tears stream down my face. “The socks. The flamingo. Milo, you’re a walking fever dream, baby. Stupidly hot in this mess.”
One dark brow lifts above the star-shaped sunglasses. “Right back at you.”
“Flattery will not save you from spinning that propeller on stage.”
“I’m embracing the propeller,” he says solemnly, reaching up to spin it dramatically. “It’s very aerodynamic. Excellent for karaoke.”
“You’re an idiot,” I laugh.
“Your idiot,” he replies softly.
The words land warm and heavy in my chest. My laughter fades as I look at him—ridiculous wig, a flamingo floaty around his waist, Crocs, and all.
Underneath the chaos is a steady, quiet, devastating Milo.
The man who makes me laugh until my cheeks hurt and kisses me like the world might end tomorrow.
I swallow hard. “We should take a picture before we leave. Three more squares after this one.”
He nods. “Excellent plan.”
I prop my phone on the kitchen table, set the timer, then run back to him. His arm slides around my shoulder like it belongs there. I wrap mine around his waist. We strike the most unhinged poses we can—me flashing peace signs, him spinning the propeller dramatically.
The camera snaps seconds later.
We don’t move for another five.
When I finally reach for my phone, we look ridiculously happy. I quickly send the picture to Aria, tuck my phone into my bag, and glance up at Milo.
My heart does cartwheels it has no business doing when I realize he’s already looking down at me.
“Ready to go massacre some karaoke and traumatize everyone?” I ask.
He adjusts the green wig with mock seriousness. “Born ready.”
I reach for his hand, and his fingers instantly lace through mine. I squeeze once. He squeezes back. Then I tug him toward the door, laughing into the warm tropical night, heading straight into whatever beautiful chaos awaits us next.
Because tonight we’re checking off the last squares on the bingo card.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m checking off a few squares in my heart I didn’t even know were there.