Chapter 3
Beau
“So, this is it.”
Milo, it turns out, is a timid little mouse when he’s at home. He somehow makes his big, six-one frame seem so small. It’s a skill unlike anything I’ve seen before. I wish I knew why he was making himself small. He should be uplifted and made to feel exactly as large as those big, expressive eyes.
I turn to look down the street, noting the trees with swings hanging from their branches and bicycles littering the yards.
I think I feel something for this guy. At first, I thought maybe it was just pure lust, but he intrigues me more than that. Something about him calls to me. I just haven’t figured out what.
I roll up to his home with two suitcases and a duffel bag in the bed of my truck.
I wasn’t really attached to any of the things in the apartment I shared with Bianca in Dallas, so I let her keep most of it.
The rest of my stuff is in a storage unit back in Texas.
It’s not like I need a La-Z-Boy while I couch surf.
I didn’t miss the confused look Milo gave Darlene when I pulled up. She’s still giving exaggerated groans when I hop out, but I choose to ignore her complaints.
“You know our contracts are worth millions of dollars, right?” He eyes her sideways, but I give her the loving pat she deserves.
Darlene was the first thing I ever bought for myself way back in high school, before I made it big.
She’s been my protector for over a decade.
I’m not giving up on her just because she’s a little older.
“I don’t need anything flashy,” I say with a bright smile, making my grin all toothy and sincere. “I’ve had her since I was eighteen,” I explain. “She’s kept me safe all these years, and I don’t want to turn my back on her.”
My phone rings, and I pull it from my pocket, looking at the caller ID. A sense of dread fills my stomach like tiny bees, flipping and fluttering about when I see who it is.
Dad.
Nope, I don’t have the energy for him right now. Not while I’m trying to move into my new normal.
I silence it and slip it back into my pocket. Looking up, Milo is staring at my pocket, a question on his face.
“You’re just … ignoring it?” he asks. There’s concern on his face. “Don’t you get in trouble?” He looks up and meets my eyes. The worry seems genuine.
I can’t help myself.
I double over and laugh and laugh and laugh.
Standing up, I wipe a tear from my eye, the laughter dying on my tongue. But he looks confused.
“Oh, are you really serious?” I’m shocked, my jaw dropping a little at this grown man who looks genuinely concerned that I, another grown man, might get in trouble with my dad for not answering his call.
“Dude, I’m twenty-seven. He’s just calling for a handout.
” I shrug. “Do you really still get in trouble with your parents?” I raise a brow in question, genuinely curious.
He looks perplexed, staring at me for a moment before continuing slowly.
“My mom freaks out if I don’t answer,” he explains carefully. I can tell he’s holding back, but we just met a day ago, so I don’t push it. “She’ll keep calling until I do answer.” He pauses for a moment, feet shuffling. “She just worries, that’s all.”
I’m not entirely sure what to say to that.
This man is a multimillionaire and one of the top goalies in the league at only twenty-three years old.
I did a little googling, so sue me. And he’s still scared to upset his parents.
I guess I can understand that to an extent.
It’s not like I don’t still give in to my dad.
You sometimes just feel like you owe your parents for raising you and keeping you alive, but when is enough, enough?
I’m lucky in the sense that my parents don’t give a fuck about me, so it’s a lot easier to blow them off now that I’ve accepted it. My dad just calls every few weeks to ask for money, and my mom… I don’t know where my mom is. And I don’t care to know.
My history with my mom is not one I like getting into without a stiff drink.
“You’re a grown man, Milo.” I suddenly feel serious. “You have an entire life you’re living that shouldn’t revolve around what your parents think.” I shrug, tipping my head down, because maybe I went too far. “Sorry, it’s not my business.”
I give my shoulders a little shake, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable conversation from my brain. I shove the thought of my mom into a mental box and lock it tight. Right now, I need to focus on the gentle man standing in front of me.
“So, give me the tour.” I try to smile, but I know it’s shaky at best and a grimace at worst. I hate thinking about my mom.
He reaches out and snatches my suitcases from me, spinning on his heel and wheeling them back to his house. What a fucking gentleman.
It looks nothing like how a professional athlete’s house is supposed to look.
Bianca was in charge of decorating our apartment in Dallas, and she knew exactly how it should look according to some made-up rules in her head.
All sleek edges and neutral tones. Milo’s home is different.
It’s smaller, very soft around the edges, and instantly warm.
It’s the kind of house that feels like it exhales as soon as you step inside.
The entryway is a narrow nook, with hooks crowded by jackets and a little wooden bench with scuffed legs. There’s a woven basket underneath, filled with mismatched scarves and gloves. I get the sense that he keeps extras around just in case someone else might need them.
I stop as soon as I walk into the living room. It is an absolute cottagecore fantasy. The couch is deep and overstuffed, draped in knitted blankets, with a warm yellow lamplight on the side table. He has a whole damn fireplace, framed by stone, with a few logs stacked and ready to light.
And the books. Books everywhere. Books on the mantel. Books on the coffee table. Books spilling off shelves.
“Wow.” I’m kind of speechless. This house is the polar opposite of the house I shared with Bianca, but in all the best ways.
The penthouse we had in Dallas was sterile.
Everything was constantly clean, and there was no personality.
It looked like it was transplanted directly from a magazine.
I distinctly remember her constantly flitting around the apartment any time there was the slightest mess, the smallest sliver of proof it was lived in.
But this…
This is a home.
The air even smells different, like new paperback books and citrus, instead of the floral scent heavily laden with notes of bleach that Bianca insisted on.
“I’m sorry it’s a mess.” He gestures around at nothing. This is the absolute cleanest mess I’ve ever seen in my life. Everything looks like it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be.
I shake my head and smile.
“Come on, show me the rest.” I leave my suitcases at the entry to the living room and follow him further into the house.
He walks us into the kitchen, and my jaw clenches.
This is exactly the kind of kitchen I’ve always wanted.
It’s cozy and a little cluttered in a comforting way.
Open shelves show off chipped ceramic mugs he clearly didn’t buy as a set.
There’s an actual kettle on the stove, a bowl of apples on the counter, and a window framed by linen curtains over the sink.
A small round table sits in the corner, the kind that really forces two people to sit close.
“Cozy,” I comment, nodding at the table and picturing breakfast there. Picturing breakfast there with him. And maybe he’s shirtless.
Fuck, and now I’m getting turned on.
I turn and palm my cock, flexing my calves to try to will it down.
“What else, Milo? Let’s see the bedrooms.” I start walking down the narrow hallway. The wall is covered in art, photographs of landscapes and birds and wildlife. “Did you take these?” I ask, my finger running along the frame of a particularly beautiful picture of some kind of flower.
“Yeah,” he says, coming up behind me. He has my suitcases trailing behind him. “Those are my hydrangeas; we passed them coming in.” He nods a little in confirmation. There’s the tiniest bit of a smile at the corner of his lips. As if maybe he’s proud of himself.
I hope he’s proud of himself. I’m by no means an art connoisseur, but there’s something about these photos that screams talent to me. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am.
We walk further down the hall, passing by what is obviously Milo’s room.
It’s all warm wood, a messy stack of books on the nightstand, and a chest at the foot of the bed.
It looks like a genuine antique, not something you buy just to make the place look antique.
Just the little glimpse I get makes me want to snoop and see what other fun treasures I might find.
“This is you.” He holds open the door, gesturing inside.
The bed is made, but the sheets don’t quite match. The window looks out at the small backyard garden with raised beds full of what look like very dead plants.
It makes me smile to think of him out in the backyard on his hands and knees. Maybe he has a sunhat on. Maybe he’s wearing cute little gardening gloves.
Fuck, I like the picture of that.
I try to discreetly readjust myself while Milo sets my suitcases by the bed.
“I’ll let you get settled,” he says, backing out of the room slowly, watching me. His eyes catch on mine, and I smile at him. He blushes, and it’s the prettiest sight. I like the way his freckles stand out as the pink floods his cheeks.
I get to work putting my clothes away and settling in. The house is quiet for some time as I work.
When I’m almost done, I hear Frank Ocean crooning in the living room. I venture out of the bedroom and see Milo curled up on the couch, a book in his hand. I don’t want to disturb him, so I try to sneak out, but I step in just the right spot for a loud, ominous creak of the floorboards.
Milo shoots up from where he’s sitting, the book flying to his chest. He’s breathing hard, but he spots me and laughs.
“I forgot you were here for a minute. Fuck, you’ve been so quiet.” His laughter turns into a chuckle. He grabs a bookmark and sets down the book.
“Whatcha reading?” I ask, walking over and plopping down on the couch near his feet. Fuck, this couch is comfy. I let out a deep groan as I get myself comfortable. He doesn’t answer, so I look up and smile at what I see.
Those cheeks are flushed, a bright, pretty pink blooming down his neck, and I bet spreading across his peachy chest. His pale blond hair looks almost yellow in the lamplight.
“What, are you reading something smutty?” I ask, waggling my brows at him. He barks out a laugh.
“How do you know that word?” he asks, still laughing.
“That’s not denial. What are you reading?” I try to peek at the cover.
“It’s a romance,” he says, grabbing the book and hugging it against his chest. I smile at him.
“I think you’re reading a naughty book.” I nod at the book in his hands. “Hey, I’m all for reading your porn instead of watching it.” I shrug. “C’mon, tell me.” I lean forward, turning my body toward him and reaching for his book.
He sighs a very dramatic, long-suffering sigh, and hands it over to me. My smile grows as I’m careful not to just snatch it from him. Reading the back cover, I see it’s a fantasy romance between former friends.
Two men.
Very interesting.
He’s clearly still closeted, whatever his orientation is, so why is he showing me this? Why is he trusting me, someone he just met? Why is he letting me get this glimpse of the real him?
Regardless of what his secret really is, regardless of what closet he’s hiding behind, I don’t plan on betraying his trust. I’m going to prove to him he’s not making a mistake by trusting me.
I look back at Milo already buried back in his book. I feel something settle in my chest, something I don’t quite have a name for.