10. Milo

"You're on the news,"Rhett says as soon as he sees me Monday morning.

"I know," I say, sprawling over the front desk so I can speak to him. "Are you okay?"

I haven't seen him since I told him the news of my job via text.

"Am I okay? Let's see. You're dating my boyfriend, you're famous, and you're getting some rich dick. Yeah. Sure. I'm fine." He crosses his hands to add emphasis, and I bite my lip.

Is he really upset about the Keaton thing? I mean, I know he has a crush on him. I just don't think it's real.

"I'm just messing with you, idiot." When I dare to look back up to him, he's all smiles and cheek. "Did you really think I'd be upset? I thought I gave you my blessing."

I shrug. "I know how you feel about Keaton."

He whistles. "Oh, he's Keaton now, is he? Relax, I know he's a job. And also, I know he's not mine as much as I'd want him to be. I'm not crazy."

I boop his nose in response and lean in closer.

"No. Just a groupie. And I'm sure your own Prince Charming is just around the corner, hon."

Rhett grimaces.

"My Prince Charming? Please. I'm a realist, ho-ney. Also, princes is the more accurate word, and I'll take them charming, dashing, or naughty. And preferably all at once."

I can't help the laugh that escapes, and Rhett fixes his fictional perm, all too proud of himself.

"Yeah, that sounds more like you."

"So, tell me everything. Is he good? Is he hot? Is he big?"

I roll my eyes and jump off the desk. I think the time for chit-chat is over.

"Yes, yes, and you know I can't answer that."

"He must be big. He looks big. I've studied him thoroughly."

I ignore his comment and go straight to the staff room, where there's a freshly made pot of coffee with my name written all over it.

"Am I right to assume Madelyn isn't here today?" I ask as Rhett follows me.

"You know it. But come on, M. Tell me something. Anything."

As soon as I locate the coffee maker, I bolt straight for it and fill a cup.

"You know I've signed an NDA."

"NDA, Schmen-D-A. You know you're dying to tell me." Which isn't exactly a lie.

"Fine." I plonk myself at one of the tables, and he follows suit with his own cup of coffee. "I thought he was going to be a real dick. You know my opinions of him."

"Yeah, yeah." He nods. "Rich dick. Capitalist dick. Smug dick. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Did you fuck?"

I gasp in fake modesty, and Rhett side-eyes me.

"Jeez. Let a lady paint a picture first," I tell him.

Which is what I do. I tell him about the atrocious dinner date with unappetizing courses and how chivalrous Keaton was to respect me and take me out for some proper food. I tell him about our conversations that started out fun from the get-go. I tell him about our conversation about the job and what it entails, and of course, I tell him about the sexting because Rhett and I share everything. Even toothbrushes if need be.

"Damn! I was hoping for some hot, angry sex, but this is better," he says at the end, hugging his mug close to his lips and blowing the steam rising from it my way.

"Angry sex? Why?"

"Because up until last week, you hated his guts."

"I didn't."

Okay, I did. I so did.

"You definitely did. But it seems like the rich dick also has a magic dick."

"And he's too much of a tease to beat me with it." I sigh.

"Tease? He fucking dick-pic'd you on the first date."

"True. But he didn't come up."

"Oh, I'd wager he came up all right."

The coffee almost goes down the wrong hole, but a little cough clears up the black gold, and I stare at my friend.

"And it wasn't a first date, was it? It was, like, the first day on the job." Despite our clear communication and openness, I've found myself getting carried away, thinking any part of that night or our chats was genuine.

It's all for clout, I keep reminding myself. It's all to save Cinderfella. And his ass. He's no different from any of my other clients.

"Wait, do you…do you care?"

I freeze and stare at my best friend.

"Huh?"

"Do you care? That he's just a client? You've had lots of hot clients before, and you never cared that it wasn't ‘real.' Do you care now?"

Do I?

I mean, I had a great time messing with him at the restaurant and an even greater time getting to know him over proper food. Sure, the sexting was unusual for me since I only sext clients if they request it, and most don't, but none of it was out of the scope of my job.

So why does the fact that it's fake bother me all of a sudden? Because it does. I can feel it in the tightness of my stomach, in my curled toes, and my clenched teeth. Every time I think about it, I get annoyed.

"Pfft. Care? Me? No. I was just saying," I end up telling Rhett, taking generous gulps of my coffee to cover up the awkwardness.

He glares at me with raised eyebrows and sass.

"Uh-huh. Because that's a reasonable time to answer a question. Does Milo Bryce have a thing for his billionaire client?"

"A thing? Come on. What are we? Twelve?" I put my mug down, determined to clear my mind of whatever's gotten into it.

I don't have a thing for Keaton Sinclair. Keaton Sinclair is one of the richest people in the world and is paying me a generous amount to perform a service for him. We have nothing in common. He likes posh, pretentious food and lying for the cameras, and I like real talk and a full stomach. He spends his days picking which car, air jet, or yacht he'll take, and I spend mine selling my body to make ends meet—not that I'm complaining.

Which is to say we're miles apart. Worlds even. There's nothing for us to bond over even if we tried.

And while yes, he may be attractive—so, so attractive—that's not enough to temper our differences.

That's his only flaw. Well, it's not really a flaw, but it is a flaw in my situation. He is irrefutably fucking hot, and I never use words like irrefutably, so that tells you how hot he is. And his cock…

Let's just say I almost choked on an image—yes, choked on the image alone—when he sent it to me.

But that doesn't mean anything. I can still enjoy his body without developing a "thing" for him. I've done it with countless others. And boy, had I slept with some hot men since I turned legal—and a couple before that. What's another ten? Another man added to my very impressive tally. That's all.

"Uh-oh. You've got a thing."

As soon as Rhett speaks, I realize I've taken my time answering him again.

Fuck my life.

"No. No thing."

Determined to be believed this time, I head for the door.

I definitely don't have a thing, and all the reasons I've already counted are reasons I can't and won't develop a thing in the future.

I can be sexually attracted to a man, and I can engage in illicit activities with said man without developing a thing. I'm a grown man. Sex doesn't have to mean feelings. In fact, it never has for me. Which is probably why my relationships haven't lasted long up until this point. Not that I've had many, but it's probably why I'm good at what I do.

"I'm going to see my queen. Are you coming, or are you playing with your thing?" I open the door and look back at Rhett, who stays where he is and watches me over his cup of steamy coffee.

"Uh-huh," he says with the same sass as I close the door behind me, and once I'm clear from view, I roll my eyes and take a deep breath.

The queen is in her bed when I enter her room, and I immediately forget about rich dicks, annoying best friends, and things.

"Morning, Queenie. How are you today?"

Grandma smiles and pats the edge of her comforter reassuringly as I draw the curtains open to let the daylight in.

"Very good, thank you. Yourself?"

"I'm splendid," I answer her, and despite the blank stare, I take comfort in being in her company.

"You're a very handsome boy, you know that?"

"You think?" I choke back a sniffle and take a seat beside her.

No matter how far she slips, she never forgets to remind me I'm beautiful, which is its own special comfort. I don't know if it's a guttural reaction, a remnant of her old self, or just plain magic, but as long as she tells me that, I know she's okay.

"Oh, you're gorgeous. That's why you must go."

"What? Why?"

"Because if my Georgie sees you, he'll want to ravish you instead of me, and I can't have that."

I nearly drop to the floor, but thankfully, I still have half a mind to stop myself.

"I very much doubt that, Queenie. You're way more beautiful than me."

My queen beams at that and irons out the comforter again.

"In fact, I just saw Georgie, and he wanted me to give you this."

I open my backpack and take out a box of Turkish delights and a juice and put them in her lap.

Sugar has been her guilty pleasure for as long as I can remember, and it only got more intense with her dementia. So, even though it's probably not the best for her health, I sneak her in some of her favorite treats every time I visit. What's the point of living in the dark and growing old if you can't enjoy some of life's best pleasures?

"Oh, that saucy man. He knows me too well." She rips through the box in record time and demolishes its contents.

While she's busy eating, I pull out my vintage film camera and look at her through the wide lens. Her almost platinum-blonde hair reflects the light. The icing sugar sticking to her nose and corners of her mouth is a telltale of her character. She looks so radiant. So content.

It fills me with so much happiness seeing her like that. So innocent and sensitive, yet with so much history behind those hazy eyes and weathered wrinkles. It's one of life's simple joys. I bet Keaton doesn't have simple joys like this. I bet his simple joys look like million-dollar suits, snacks made from endangered game, and sparkling wine shipped straight from France.

Agh. Who cares? Forget about him, Milo.

Apparently, that's easier said than done.