It’s just not part of my bodily functions.
They decide on Thai and quickly place the order through the app. It doesn’t take long to arrive at Milo’s home in Tribeca.
The building he lives in is known for its security, with plenty of A-list celebrities residing here. The doorman is the same one I saw when I was here last time with a previous client. He nods at us, and Milo shoots him that blinding smile that has the doorman’s mask cracking just a bit.
“That’s Romeo,” he says to me in a chipper tone. “He’s such a sweetheart and has been here long before I moved here. You should ask him about his daughter sometime. Make sure to ask about her art. She’s a watercolor painter and makes some of the most ethereal works I’ve seen.”
As we enter the elevator, Milo happily describes some of the paintings she’s done that he’s seen. Ray scans his key card and presses the button to the penthouse—because of course Mr. Super Famous Idol lives on the top floor—and we quickly ascend.
The door opens to a large living room and an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that offers a view of the city skyline with the waterfront in the background. The setting sun dips low and bathes the entire world in soft oranges and pinks.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Milo asks, coming up beside me. “The view of the sunset is the reason I got the place. It’s one of my favorite things in the world.”
He turns back to the window, and his face goes soft. Not that he was ever hard to begin with, but the storm has left his gray eyes, giving him a look that’s almost serene.
I don’t know what’s more beautiful: him or the sunset.
The factthat I find myself watching him instead of the view that’s worth buying a penthouse for is telling enough.
“I’ll show you around the place, since I doubt Milo will remember to,” Ray pops beside me and says.
I jolt toward him, hoping he didn’t catch me staring at Milo. I’m struggling with the fact that maybe I’m more superficial than I realized. I can’t believe I’m getting worked up like this over a pretty face. Mentally berating myself for these inappropriate thoughts, I quickly follow Ray.
Even indoors, Ray walks like a man on a mission. He shows me through the rooms on the first floor. There’s the gym, what looks like a hobby room, a full bathroom, and a guest room.
“You can stay here if it gets too late, but don’t feel pressured to spend the night. I want to emphasize that you can leave whenever you want once you’re off the clock.”
I nod, unsure how to respond to that. If an event runs late, it’s not unusual for my client to offer a place for me to stay the night, but Ray’s words are just downright strange.
I don’t have time to dwell on them since Ray’s already rocketing ahead, walking up the spiral staircase. I race to keep up.
“That’s Milo’s room,” he says and points to the door on the left. “His studio is next door, but that room is off-limits. He’s particular about that space.”
He concludes the short tour by leading me back downstairs to the living room. Milo is sitting on a barstool, crunching on a juicy red apple while still admiring the view of the sunset.
There’s nothing special about the apple, but he’s devouring it like it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten. And to my absolute horror, he pops the entire thing into his mouth. Seeds, core, and all.
I really hope he’s just too lost in the beauty of the view to realize what he’s just done. Little did I know that I’m just scratching the surface of the goblin that is Milo Tobitt.
Ray’s phone pings, and he lets us know he’s heading downstairs to grab the takeout. He’s back minutes later to drop off the food, steals a spring roll from the bag, then leaves, stating there’s a metaphorical fire at the office that he needs to deal with.
Leaving just Milo and me.
Alone.
Milo takes Ray’s whirlwind in and out in stride, calmly fetching plates from the cabinet. I’m unsure of what I should do.
Since I safely escorted Milo home and there isn’t anything else on the schedule for the rest of the day, technically, I’m only on call and could return home until he needs me.
“Come sit and grab some food.” Milo places a plate in front of me.
“Oh, no, it’s fine. I shouldn’t. I should really let you rest and—”
“You’re not really going to make your new best friend eat alone, are you?” he asks in a way that I can’t tell whether he’s teasing or being serious.
“We met, like, a few hours ago at the airport,” I reply without really thinking about it. I mentally berate myself for the slipof the tongue, since offending my client on day one isnotthe way to make a good impression.
Piece of cake, my ass!
