16
Milo
Spencer’s hand finds the small of my back the second we’re through the door, warm through the silk of my shirt, and it’s the only thing keeping my feet moving forward instead of backward.
“I still think this is a terrible idea,” I say under my breath.
“The food’s good and they’re discreet. Nobody here films a table full of players.”
“That’s not the part I’m worried about.”
“I know.” His thumb sweeps against my spine. “You’ll be fine.”
I wore the wine-colored shirt tonight, the one that goes translucent under certain lights and clings everywhere it touches, and I know exactly why I chose it.
The pants are new too, fitted through the thigh, and I caught Spencer staring at my ass in the hallway mirror before we left the house, unapologetic about it, which is new for him.
Two months ago he’d have looked away. Now he just looks.
The restaurant hasn’t changed. Same low light, same smell of garlic and browned butter that used to live in my clothes no matter how many times I washed them.
Walking back in as a customer instead of an employee turns my stomach over, like my body hasn’t gotten the memo that I don’t work the floor here anymore.
I spot our table before the hostess even points us toward it, because five professional football players tend to be visible from across a room.
Dalton’s got his elbows on the table, mid-sentence, and Barrett’s beside him, listening to every word of it, his knuckles moving in a slow line between Dalton’s shoulder blades.
Harlow’s across from them with a dark-haired guy I haven’t met, who has to be Bennett, because their shoulders are pressed together.
Knox has an empty chair on one side of him and Cole on the other, and he’s scrolling his phone without reading it. Cole sits back and watches the room.
“There they are,” Dalton announces. “You guys are twenty minutes late. What happened?”
“Traffic,” I say, sliding into the chair Spencer pulls out for me.
Dalton looks at me for a second, then at Spencer, and smirks. “Ah. Traffic.”
My ears go hot, but the dark-haired guy saves me by putting his hand out across the table.
“Hi, Milo. Good to finally meet you. I’m Bennett.”
“You too.” I shake it, then lift the same hand at the table generally. “Hi, everyone.”
We’re two minutes into menus when I see him coming, and my whole body goes still before my brain’s caught all the way up.
Alan, my old boss, is wiping his hands on a cloth tucked into his waistband as he moves toward our table with the walk he does for VIPs: shoulders back, chin up, a smile stretched onto his face.
He takes in the table, a lineup of professional athletes in his dining room, and then he gets to me and stops in his tracks.
“Milo?” His eyebrows climb. “Is that you?”
“Hi, Alan.”
He recovers fast, the smile snapping back into place, but not before I catch the half second when he didn’t know who he was looking at. “I didn’t recognize you right away.” He gives a short laugh, aimed at no one. “You look… well. You look good.”
“Thanks.”
“So. This is a surprise.” His eyes flick around the table, then back to me, and whatever he works out, he doesn’t like it. “How have you been?”
“Good. Really good, actually.” I keep my voice easy, the same one I used on difficult tables. “How’s the kitchen? Is Marcus still doing Tuesdays?”
“Marcus, yeah. Marcus is still with us.” Alan shifts his weight. “Things have been… tight. You know how it is. We had to make some cuts after you—” He stops himself, clears his throat, moves on. “Anyway. Staffing’s been a challenge.”
“I bet.”
“You heard from Emily?” he asks, like he’s grateful for anywhere else to put the conversation. “She left a couple weeks after you did. Didn’t even give proper notice.”
“She’s doing great, actually. Found a place in the East Village that treats her well.” I smile at him, sweet as I can make it. “She’s really happy there.”
“Good. That’s good.” Alan’s rubbing the cloth between his hands now, and he glances at the table again, at seven people who have all gone quiet and are all, very clearly, listening. “Well. Enjoy your dinner. Dessert’s on the house.”
He retreats toward the kitchen at a pace just shy of fleeing.
The second he’s out of earshot, Spencer leans back in his chair and says, “That’s the guy who fired Milo.”
“That guy?” Dalton’s practically rising out of his seat to get a better look at Alan’s retreating back. “That’s him? He looks like a guy who’d fire somebody for being too good-looking.”
Knox sets his phone face-down. “He sounds like a prick.”
“Absolute clown,” Dalton agrees. “You want me to say something to him? I’ll say something to him.”
“It’s okay,” I say, laughing. “You really don’t have to defend me.”
“They’re right,” Bennett says. “He was an idiot to fire you.”
“Guys, it’s fine,” I say, but I’m smiling into my water glass, because it feels good, this instant closing of ranks. I’ve never needed anyone to fight my battles, but It’s nice anyway.
We order, the wine comes, and Dalton, two glasses in, decides it’s time to tell a story.
“Okay, so, does everyone know how I figured out Rhodes had a thing for Milo?” He doesn’t wait for permission. “This was back at our June training. We’re running routes, and Rhodes has never blown a coverage on me in his life. I want that on the record. I have never once—”
“Get to the point, baby.” Barrett says it low, knuckles still working slow circles against Dalton’s back.
“The point is, I run a fake I’ve run at him two hundred times, never worked once, and this time he bites on it like a rookie who’s never watched film in his life, and I’m standing in the end zone looking back at him going, what just happened, and I follow his eyeline, and you know where it goes?
” Dalton points across the table at me with his fork.
“Straight to the sideline. Where Milo’s stretching his arms over his head. ”
I look at Spencer. “Really? It was because of me?”
“Yeah, it was you,” Spencer says, and he turns to say the rest to me, as if the others aren’t there. “You standing there in that shirt…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, just leans over and presses a kiss to my temple.
“See, this is what I’m talking about.” Dalton turns to Barrett and grabs his hand off the table, squeezing it. “Don’t they look cute together?”
“They do look cute together,” Barrett confirms.
“See,” Dalton looks vindicated.
“So who’s replacing you as Rhodes’ PA?” Harlow asks me, tipping his chin at Spencer. “Now that you jumped ship for pastry.”
“We’re doing interviews,” Spencer says. “Milo sits in on all of them. Does the vetting.”
“Obviously the position’s not live-in anymore,” I say dryly. “That one’s taken.”
Spencer’s eyes cut to me, and there’s heat in them all of a sudden, banked low. He leans in close enough that only I catch what he says next.
“I love it when you get possessive.”
My mind goes straight to yesterday morning, his office door half open, me walking in on a conference call I wasn’t supposed to interrupt, his voice cutting off mid-sentence when I dropped to my knees under his desk and he had to keep talking, hand fisted in my hair.
“Get a room,” Knox says, picking his phone back up.
“Why are you in such a mood tonight?” Spencer asks, and I’m grateful for the redirect before my face gives away exactly where my head just went.
“He’s cranky because he hasn’t seen Adrian in two weeks,” Cole says.
“I’m not cranky, I just miss him.”
“Aww, you’re adorable,” Dalton says. “When are you seeing him next?”
Knox sets his phone face-down on the table. “He flies in tomorrow, actually. I can’t wait.”
“Thank fuck,” Dalton says. “You’ve been unbearable.”
Knox flips him off and Dalton laughs.
Dinner goes easy after that. Barrett and Cole discuss a new coach neither of them likes, Harlow and Dalton talk about the upcoming season, and Bennett helps Knox brainstorm surprise date ideas for the weekend with Adrian.
I sit there with Spencer’s arm slung over the back of my chair, and I don’t think about Alan again until we’re standing up to leave.
“Milo.” Alan’s at my elbow before I’ve made it to the door, voice pitched low. “Can I get a word?”
The others file out ahead of me into the street, discussing whose place they’re going to for drinks. Spencer stops just inside the door and waits.
I step aside with Alan, out of the traffic by the door.
“I just wanted to say.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I hope there’s no hard feelings. It was a tough spot, the restaurant, you know how it’s been since the spring, and you were always one of the good ones, Milo. I mean that.”
“It’s okay, Alan.” And, because I mean it: “Thank you for firing me.”
He blinks at me.
“I’m serious,” I say. “It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I don’t wait for him to figure out what to do with that. I turn and walk back to Spencer, who’s watching me with a question already forming.
“You alright?” he asks.
I get a hand in his collar and kiss him, hard, right there inside the door where anyone could see, and he makes a low sound against my mouth and his arms come around me like he’s been waiting all night for it.
“Never been better.”
I take his hand and lead him out into the night toward the loud, ridiculous, ours crowd on the sidewalk.
THE END