Page 161 of Elite Connections: an LGBTQ Romance Charity Anthology

The car isright outside when I get to the lobby of Milo’s building, and we drive away before I even care to check for paparazzi.

The farther away my driver takes me, the tighter my chest feels.

What have I done? How did it get to this? And how do I make it all go away? How do I get to see Milo’s hazel eyes again?

Because I’m a sucker for punishment, I go back to the article and read it and reread it. This J. Robson really did a number on my life and Milo’s. He interviewed people who know him. Talked to old flames. He even twisted a quote from Milo’s grandma from a few months ago to sell his story.

“Just don’t let my husband find out.” Which, of course, is not a usable quote by any means when the person who spoke it doesn’t know what’s happening. But J. Robson took it and ran with it, using it to paint Milo in the worst light possible.

I don’t even dare open my Instagram or any social media. I don’t think I can deal with the critics in the comments, but most importantly, I don’t think…

Oh, fuck it.

I open Instagram, and just before the app jumps to the comment I select, it gives me a brief look at the picture. Milo and I cuddled up in front of Fontana di Trevi, just about to kiss. The blue of the waters behind us makes us pop even more from the background and, if anything, makes Milo’s eyes look brighter than ever, like stars are dancing inside them.

Agh! That’s what I was trying to avoid. More reminders of how good we are together. How perfectly we fit in each other’s arms.

Dear Lord. I’m in love with my escort, and there’s no way I can have him for real.

There isn’t. I’ve been paying him for six months to be my fake boyfriend. I’ve been plastering his picture everywhere online to get my stock up like he’s a tool at my disposal. He was supposed to be. He hasn’t been since I set my eyes on him though. But how can I tell him that? Would he even believe me? And what if he turned me down because I destroyed him.

I have half a mind to ask the driver to take me back to Milo’s so I can ask him if it’s been as real for him as it has been for me, but…

I can’t do that in the middle of a media storm. And I don’t think he wants to face me right now. The way he turned his back to me at his apartment…The dejected, sad, and justified dismissal. No. I can’t tell him how I feel. Not now. Not like this. Not in person. Not without completely collapsing before him and asking him for forgiveness on my knees.

Right. Focus, Keaton. One problem at a time. First, let’s save my ass.

I log into my finance page and look at the share price for Cinderfella. The news broke early enough to affect today”s market, and it’s already reflected. Plummeted. The price has plummeted. We went from $83.55 all the way down to $5.

Fuck my life.

I try to think of what I can tell them. What I could possibly present them with that would save my ass, but all I keep coming back to is Milo’s words from last weekend.

“Are you going to spend the rest of your life worrying about the numbers? When do you get to live?”

They kept ringing in my head throughout the whole trip, making me feel a little down for creating those emotions for him.

And they ring in my head again now. This time, though, I feel the heat rise inside me, and it takes all my upbringing not to growl.

He’s right.

He’s fucking right.

Am I going to spend my whole life worrying about the board and numbers? Am I seriously going to dictate how I live my life so they don’t take it away from me?

By the time we pull into the Cinderfella headquarters, my anger has turned to determination, yet the heartache is still there, pinching at my chest like an oncoming heart attack.

I may be able to fix the Cinderfella problem, but that doesn’t fix what I’ve done to Milo’s life. And it still doesn’t bring him back to me.

The mere thought of sleeping in my own bed tonight turns my stomach.

How do I fix this? How? Think, Keaton. Think.

How do I fix the damage, and how…?

How do I make him mine? And more importantly, how do I become his? Does he even see me as more than a client? How can I ask him without offending or amusing him?

The driver lowers the window between the front and the back where I’m nestled and says, “We’re here, sir.”

But I barely hear it because I have a thought. An idea. And it doesn’t solve the problem. It doesn’t even remotely fix the damage. It’s also the cheekiest or nastiest thing one could do, depending on how he feels about me. But it’s an idea, and if it’s all over anyway, why does it matter? If there’s even a slight chance I could have him for real this time? Then it’s worth it.

I go back to my home screen and bring up my contacts list.

“Gracie!”

“Mr. Sinclair. I saw the news,” my Elite contact responds.

I run a hand across my face and sigh.

“Forget about the news for a moment,” I answer and tell her my random, crazy, weirdest thought ever.

I don’t know if it will work. I don’t know if it will get me in even bigger trouble, but…I have to try.

At this point, I have nothing to lose. And a whole lot to gain.

With that sorted, I get out of the car, march into the building, and take the elevator to meet the board.

As expected, their faces are not happy to see me. Now that I know what to do with them, it’s actually quite entertaining to see these bitter queer men glaring at me as if I’m the scum of the earth.

And it becomes even more so when I dump my briefcase on the table and stretch my arms as if I want to embrace them all.

“Gentlemen? You can all fuck right off.”