5
Spencer
The first week goes by fast, and Milo gets the hang of it, rearranging my life one calendar block at a time.
Tuesday, he moves the co-packer call to an email exchange instead of a meeting, and it takes eleven minutes instead of forty-five.
Wednesday, I come downstairs and there’s dry cleaning already hung on the hooks by the garage door, pressed and bagged, and I don’t remember telling him where the cleaners was, which means he found it himself.
Thursday, my phone doesn’t ring once with a call I don’t want to take, because Milo’s screening them all, texting me one-line summaries instead: consultant wants Monday, told him no, brand call moved to Thursday bc Andy has a thing, and not one of them needs a reply.
Neither of us has mentioned the dressing room.
It sits between us, showing up in small places: in the extra half-second before he hands me my coffee in the morning, like he’s trying to avoid our fingers touching, in the gap he leaves now when he leans over my shoulder to show me his phone.
I’ve started leaving doors open instead of pulling them shut behind me, some instinct telling me a closed door with the two of us on one side of it is a bad idea right now.
By the second Friday, I’ve mostly convinced myself it never happened at all, that I imagined my thumb on his throat and that starved look in his eyes.
I’m sitting at the kitchen island Friday morning, going through emails on my phone, when I catch a reminder I never passed on to Milo.
“I forgot to tell you I’ve got a photoshoot today.”
Milo looks up from the stovetop, where he’s plating an omelet. Because apparently the four-minute breakfast guy lost that argument somewhere around day three, and neither of us has revisited it since.
“Photoshoot?” He slides a plate in front of me, unbothered that I never asked for it. “Like sponsor stuff?”
“Something like that.” I don’t look up from my phone when I say it.
“Cool. What time?”
“Eleven. You’re coming.”
“Okay.” He’s already reaching for his own phone, thumbing the appointment into the calendar.
I could tell him what kind of shoot it is, but I don’t.
I tell myself it’s because it doesn’t matter, because a shoot’s a shoot and he doesn’t need the specifics to do his job, holding my schedule and my coffee and standing off to one side looking useful.
That’s the story I hold onto the whole drive over while Milo is scrolling something on his phone in the passenger seat, humming along under his breath to whatever’s coming through his earbuds.
The studio’s in a converted warehouse space downtown with exposed pipe running along the ceiling. We’re barely inside when a door down the hall swings open and my teammate, Kane Dalton, comes out of it wearing a silk robe that’s doing absolutely nothing to conceal what’s underneath.
“Sup, Rhodes.” Kane spots us, grinning. “I’m done for today. You should’ve seen it. Very artistic, if you know what I mean.” His eyes cut past me to Milo, and his eyebrows go up. “And who’s this?”
“My PA,” I say. “Milo. Milo, Kane Dalton.”
“Didn’t know you had a PA,” Kane says to me, but he’s still looking at Milo. “When’d this happen?”
“Two weeks ago,” Milo says, before I can answer for him, and he’s got that grin fully deployed now, the one I’ve learned means he’s decided to enjoy himself. “He stalked me by a dumpster and offered me a job. There were rats.”
“There weren’t rats.”
“There could’ve been rats. It was a dumpster, Spencer. I’m establishing atmosphere.” Milo’s still grinning at Kane. It’s the same grin he’s been running on me for two weeks straight, except watching it land on someone else doesn’t sit right.
Kane laughs. “I like him,” he tells me, then turns back to Milo. “Careful with this one. He’s got a face like he’s mad about something at all times, but he’s actually a teddy bear once you get past it.”
“I’ve noticed the face,” Milo says. “Haven’t gotten to the teddy bear yet.”
Kane tips his head back with a chuckle and his robe shifts, the silk parting another inch at the collar. That’s when I clock where Milo’s eyes have gone. Not subtle about it either, a slow drag down Kane’s chest, and something hot and ugly coils in my gut and stays there.
I guess this confirms the assumption Kirsten hinted at before. Not that I care. It’s not my business. Milo’s allowed to look at whoever he wants. Kane’s spoken for six ways from Sunday anyway, so it’s not even a real threat.
Wait. A threat?
“Anyway.” Kane rolls his shoulders back. “Can’t wait to see how the jockstrap shots turned out. Rowan’s gonna lose his whole mind.” His grin widens. “I sent him a teaser text an hour ago just to torture him a little.”
Milo’s head snaps up. “Jockstrap?”
“Yeah.” Kane looks between us. “Wait. How does your PA not know that?”
“I, uh, forgot to mention it,” I say.
Milo scans the studio then, spotting the rolling rack near the far wall and the lighting rig angled low, a setup built to catch skin. The alarm moves through him before he wrestles it back down into mild confusion.
“Huh,” he says. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”
Kane’s taking it in, saving it up for the group chat, I suspect.
“Anyway, I gotta go. Nice meeting you, Milo,” he says, backing toward the hallway. “Keep him loose.” He points two fingers at me on his way past, the universal Kane gesture for we’ll be discussing it later, and then he’s gone around the corner.
A woman with a headset and a clipboard materializes almost the second he’s out of sight, glancing between me and Milo. “Mr. Rhodes? We’ve got your dressing room set up down the hall, second door. You’re up in ten.”
“Thanks,” I say.
She nods and peels off toward whatever’s next on her list, and it’s just me and Milo again.
“I don’t need you for this part,” I say. “Go grab something from the coffee station. I’ll text you if I need anything.”
Milo looks at me then, and I expect him to crack another joke, but he doesn’t.
“Yeah. Okay.” He’s already turning, shoulders more relaxed than they were thirty seconds ago, like he’s relieved to have somewhere else to be.
I watch him go, picking up his pace toward the front of the studio, and I don’t ask myself why I told him to tag along today in the first place.