Rowan
Milo is strangely quiet and distracted throughout dinner. He looks happy enough, munching on his plate loaded with half of each main, but it’s the lack of conversation that gives me pause.
I haven’t known Milo long, but I bet it’s rare for him to be quiet for this long. He himself said that he’s a chatterbox!
Thinking that I’ve done something to piss him off, I offer to head home after all, but he insists once again that I stay. He clearly wants me there, but it’s like he’s lost in his own world as well.
We don’t linger after dinner and quickly say our goodnights. Milo is still in a daze and is quick to run upstairs.
It isn’t until I’m in bed in the guest room that I hear the soft keys of the piano. The music sounds somber and heavy, and it swiftly pulls me into sleep.
The music is still playing when I wake. Soft lights stream in through the blinds; the light is as soft as the song that’s playing.
It’s the same melody I heard last night, but it’s no longer filled with melancholy. It’s completely changed into an upbeat tone, cheerful, with a sense of hope.
I lie in bed for a couple minutes, enjoying the music, letting it sink into my bones, and I’m surprised by just how good it is.
There’s something whimsical about it, and maybe it’s the vibrations of the bass or whatever they use to make music, but I find myself relaxing into the mattress.
A few minutes later, I realize it’s playing in a loop after the same bridge repeated for the third time.
The loop is confirmed when it’s still playing after I wash up and walk out to the living room in the tiny PJs Milo got me last night.
I hadn’t been lying when I said they were comfortable, but not enough not to feel like I was being restricted while I slept, so I’d just slept in my underwear instead.
The living room looks the same as we’d left it last night, save for a bag sitting on the kitchen island with a folded note that has my name on it.
I unfold the note and find scribbles that say: told them to go to the big-and-tall store. ;)
It’s signed with a winky face that has me chuckling to myself. Even on paper, Milo’s playfulness comes through.
I rummage through the bag and find sweatpants and a few shirts in different sizes.
Since Milo isn’t up yet, I just strip and try on the first pair of sweatpants and long-sleeved shirt I find in the bag. They’re a little loose, but they fit well enough that I don’t feel the need to try on the other clothes.
I put everything back in the bag and head upstairs to see if Milo’s awake. The door to his bedroom is wide open, and his bed looks like it hasn’t been slept in, so I continue forward to his studio.
The door is slightly ajar, and I find Milo slumped over his desk in deep sleep. His hair is a mess, with strands of blond sticking up every which way that has me thinking that he’s been up all night running his fingers through his hair.
Hints of darkness mar the skin under his eyes. He must have stayed up all night working on his music and arranging clothes for me. I know he’s an adult—he’s only a couple of years younger than me—but I can’t shake this protective instinct that wells up when I see him like this.
I want to take care of him. Not in the way it’s required for my job, but in the way I take care of people who are mine. Mine to keep safe and happy.
No. Not mine.
My inner caveman needs to take a hike. Milo is nothing but a client, no matter how captivating he looks, even with exhaustion etched on his face. I smile when he starts munching like he’s dreaming of eating.
Is he dreaming about the pasta he scarfed down last night? Or the after-dinner apple he had, the one that made me wince as the seeds and core crunched in his mouth.
He baffles me with his strange actions sometimes, but I can’t look away. It makes me want to keep my eyes on him, waiting to find out what other surprises he’ll give me.
He moans in his sleep, and the sound goes straight to my crotch. I wonder if every noise that comes out of his mouth sounds lyrical because he sings for a living, or if the world put this sexy man in my path as a test for my job.
Either way, I can’t keep standing here watching the man sleep. But I can’t leave him like this either, especially not when I catch him shivering into himself. It wouldn’t take any effort to carry him to his bed, but I don’t want to risk waking him.
I settle for grabbing the afghan I found on the couch and tucking it over him. I’m rewarded with a sigh of satisfaction as he snuggles into the warmth. He looks so cozy now that I’m finding it harder to leave him be.
I know I should. I should get the hell out of here while I can. There are no events on the schedule today, so I’m technically on call. I don’t have to be here—be around Milo—unless he wants to leave his penthouse.
The image of Milo sitting on the large couch by himself and staring out the window last night pops into my head.
Milo hadn’t noticed me yet, and he was on the phone, but his silhouette looked so tiny and lonely.
Which is a ridiculous thought, considering he’s beloved by so many—as my niece pointed out to me when she called to scold me last night.
She had insisted I’d broken the first rule of being an Itty-bitty—ignoring me when I clarified I wasn’t one—that Milo belongs to everyone, and nobody is allowed to gatekeep anything regarding him.
It sounds like a bunch of nonsense and a massive invasion of privacy, but I guess it’s the price of being in the public eye.
But when I saw him sitting there by himself, I had been struck by the realization that this man, who seemingly belongs to everyone—America’s darling, they call him—didn’t belong to anyone at all. Didn’t belong anywhere.
He never said the words out loud, but I wonder if it’s the loneliness that drove him to ask me to stay. Even if it’s a multimillion-dollar place, money can’t fill the void of loneliness.
A strand of blond hair falls over his sleeping face, and I instinctively use my finger to brush it away. This is when I know I’ve fucked up, because Milo’s eyes pop open.
A look of confusion passes through those grays as his eyes meet mine, and my hand springs back to my chest.
“You looked cold, so I was covering you with the blanket,” I try to explain, though it doesn’t excuse the fact that I’ve been standing here for the last five minutes watching him sleep. Not that I’ll ever confess that to him.
It takes a second for him to blink the sleep away, and then he’s beaming up at me.
“You’re still here,” he rasps.
“Sorry, should I have left before you woke up?”
“No, no. I’m glad you didn’t leave. It’s nice to wake up with someone here.”
His words tug at my heartstrings. “I’m glad I’m here too,” I whisper, shocking myself that I said that out loud. I hadn’t meant to, as it’s totally inappropriate, but Milo’s smile widens and pushes that thought away.
His focus turns to the machinery in front of him. The same melody has been playing on repeat for who knows how long, but he closes his eyes for a moment to enjoy it like he’s hearing it for the first time.
His eyes open in a satisfied squint that reminds me of a cat bathing in the sun.
“It’s a beautiful song,” I say when he presses a button and the music stops.
His grin is goofy and adorable when he looks up at me again.
“I like it too,” he agrees and stares at the computer screen in front of him. I’m smiling at the surprise in his tone, considering he’s the one who created the song.
“I was feeling inspired last night,” he admits and looks up at me again. Our gazes meet, and his eyes widen when they find mine. He quickly turns back, looking forward again, and slips his bottom lip between his teeth.
He did that last night, too, when I mentioned his former bandmate. A nervous tic, maybe? But what does he have to be nervous about now?
I remember Ray telling me how Milo is particular about his studio, and how I shouldn’t even be in here.
“I didn’t touch anything,” I quickly add.
That has him looking at me again, confusion clearly written in his eyes.
“Your studio, I mean. I didn’t touch anything in here. Sorry, I shouldn’t have entered without your permission in the first place,” I ramble.
Milo studies me for a good minute before bursting into laughter. He’s laughing so hard he’s slapping his thigh, and I’m left to wonder what exactly is so funny.
“I’m silly for worrying,” I hear him mutter quietly to himself, then he shoots up to his feet. The afghan slides to the floor, but Milo doesn’t bother picking it up.
“Let me wash up, then we’ll get something to eat,” he tosses over his shoulder and is out of the room before I can even respond.
I pick up the afghan, fold it, and return it to where I’d found it on the couch. Milo bounces down the stairs a couple minutes later in leggings that curve around his ass and a tight shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination, including the outline of his belly button ring.
I have to look away.
“Ray usually comes over to cook me some disgusting variant of egg whites, but he texted to say he’s needed at the office. So it looks like it’s just you and me today!”
Milo looks ecstatic about that fact, and I’m left still trying not to look at him and risk a boner. I tug at my sweats, thankful that they sit loosely.
My movement catches Milo’s eye, and I quickly drop my hand so it doesn’t look like I was adjusting myself.
“Look at that, they fit! Now I know where to find clothes for the man mountain,” Milo exclaims.
I break out a tiny smile. “Thanks for these, by the way. Let me know how much I owe you.”
He waves me off. “You got dinner last night, so we’ll call it even.”
I doubt takeout is anywhere close to what he must have spent procuring these clothes in the middle of the night, but Milo’s attention is somewhere else.
“I know I have eggs in here somewhere. I must, since Ray is always shoving egg whites down my throat,” he says and opens his fridge.