Milo merely shoots me a grin as he loads his plate up with a little bit of each dish. Fried rice on the left, pad thai in the middle, Panang curry on the right, and a couple pieces of roti to top it off.
“You gave me food. That practically makes us BFFs.”
“You must have tons of those, then,” I reply, then immediately regret it when a flash of something passes through his once clear gray eyes.
They’re stormy now with a hint of what? Sadness? Loneliness?
Which is ridiculous to think about. America’s most beloved idol lonely? I’m sure there are lines as long as Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade of people desperate to get an ounce of attention from him.
Then again, those aren’t really the kind of people you have anactualfriendship with.
“Just Ray and Ethel.” He takes a bite of the roti, then looks up at me. “And now you! We need to share a meal to celebrate this moment!”
He pointedly looks at the plate that’s still in front of me. I hesitantly pick it up, scoop myself some food, and take a seat across from him.
I don’t know whether what I’m feeling is pity or guilt for bringing it up, but I hate the way he looks so small sitting at the large table all by himself.
Milo doesn’t seem to linger on the topic of his friends and happily digs into his food.
“This is so worth the extra miles I’m gonna have to put on the treadmill tomorrow,” he comments over a mouthful of rice.
I look over his slim frame. “You look like the type that could eat whatever he wants without gaining a single pound.”
Milo laughs. “I wish! Those days are long over,” he says woefully and pats his flat stomach. He eyes my body. “You look like you grow muscles in your sleep. And that scowl. You must have been born to be a bodyguard.”
That gets a startled laugh out of me, which has Milo grinning widely.
“He laughs, boys and girls! I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life.”
“Again, we met, like, five hours ago,” I remind him.
He waves me off and uses a piece of roti to pretend to wipe a tear from his eyes. “They grow up so fast,” he says with a sniff, then tosses the roti into his mouth.
I watch him for a second, still trying to figure the guy out and make a profile out of him. He’s eccentric, for sure, but he’s nothing like those socialites who make snobby their whole personality. I can’t call him down-to-earth, but neither is he dripping with fake hospitality and kindness like some of my previous clients.
He’s just…Milo.
Just like how Riley scoffed, “That’s just Ruben,” when his pants dropped from tripping while trying to escape Raina’s wrath. It’s going to take months of groveling for our sisterto forgive him for ruining her rug, and even then, his dessert privileges might be revoked for the rest of the year, if he’s lucky.
Despite not really knowing Milo—like I’ve been telling him, we only met today—I get the distinct feeling thatthisis who he really is.
Not the guy with the perfect smile and a body that played Ken doll for hours without complaint, or the idol on TV with the scripted replies and faux cheer, butthisman right in front of me.
The one who eats apple cores like it’s part of the food pyramid or claims a scowling giant is hisnew BFF just because I got him some snacks.
He’s so different from what I imagined.
Unexpected.
And maybe that’s why it’s hard not to be drawn in by him.
4
Milo
There’s one surefire way to get into my heart, and if you guessed food, then you’re partially correct. Food is literally the foundation of life, and it’s one of the best things on this earth, so it sucks that I have a job that forces me to count calories.
Not that I’m doing that tonight. I deserve all the greasy takeout after the fitting from hell. One might think running around all day is exhausting, but they haven’t tried standing still forhourson end.
