Page 17 of Everything About You

I’m not as superstitious as a lot of the athletes I know, but ever since the sixth grade, I always had this deep fear instilled

in me that if I ever cheated to get ahead, I would not only lose, but I would get seriously hurt, one way or another.

I can’t remember exactly when it started, but I think it might have been something my mom said or maybe a pro tennis player,

even, since I went through a phase of researching them as obsessively as I researched Maison Dauphine to prepare for this.

In the heat of the moment on Monday, I went against years of superstitious caution to best Rhodes, and now I am sweating bullets

in the back seat of a town car on the way to the Tuileries.

Rhodes is beside me, perfectly calm as always.

He had to take a call the moment we got in the car, and now politely apologizes as he hangs up. I’m not ready for us to launch

into conversation after how quickly yesterday became a therapy session about my family life, so I tell him I need to focus

on some emails.

For this event, we’re both in thick white T-shirts that have the tiniest Maison Dauphine monogram on the sleeve.

We’ve tucked them into cropped blue pants just as we were instructed.

All the PR assistants and, well, everyone else seem to wear whatever they want to these things, but I’m guessing the reason we get strict uniforms must be because we’re the only apprentices.

That, or because we’re both guys and Yvette doesn’t want to risk us misrepresenting the brand, which is only women’s wear.

I’m struggling to catch my breath back here, wanting to roll down the window, and Rhodes is nonchalantly scrolling through

Instagram, excited for his perfect plan to pan out.

What have I done ...?

Specific superstitions aside, I’ve always been a fan of the more general idea of karma.

Do unto others... what goes around... those kinds of things.

But now I’m terrified of karma. What if I threw away all this hard work just to pull one over on Rhodes and lose it all anyway?

The fresh air is much needed after the awkwardly quiet car ride, no matter how short it was, and it’s beyond cool to see the

event come to life just like in the renderings. There are signs along the dirt path that will direct our guests to the garden,

which has been transformed into an extravagant floral wonderland. The perimeter is secured by gold velvet rope, and there

are tall installations of greenery decorated with perennial blooms.

Rhodes is off, hopping on the phone like always, and I look around for Yvette or Haydée, though neither of them is anywhere

to be found.

“Milo!”

Sophie’s voice is like music to my ears, especially right now, when I am so nervous I want to hide among the rows of trees farther down the path.

I turn to find her hurrying toward me, wearing a midi skirt, button-up, and white tennis shoes.

She looks exactly like her photo, actually, with dark brown skin and curly black hair, her eyes and smile both wide with delight.

She pulls me in for a hug, which is so welcomed, and then she takes a tiny step back.

“It’s nice to meet you in person. I feel like we practically know each other, anyway.”

I nod. “I know. You have no idea how nice it is.”

“French offices a nightmare?” she whispers.

I shake my head. “Not a total nightmare.” An image of Rhodes flashes across my mind. “Maybe some slightly nightmarish aspects.

But I’m sure the New York offices have nightmarish aspects, too.”

Sophie’s eyes bug. “You have no idea. Luckily, in PR, we don’t deal with as much of it in New York. Honestly, the magazines

can be a bit wild. And there are some stylists in the city who are a lot. Overall, though, I bet you’d love it.” She studies

me. “Are you okay?”

I try to stand up a bit taller. “Yeah, totally. Just a little nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous,” Sophie says. “This event will go off without a hitch.”

“I hope so.”

“It will. Influencer events like these are some of the easier ones. It’s all about making sure they feel like they’re getting

a luxurious, hosted experience, and from there it’s all a piece of cake. Which, by the way, Café 57 was incredible.”

I shrug. “Not as incredible as Amalia Astor.”

“That was absolutely nuts,” she agrees. Then, sensing she said the wrong thing, she shrugs. “But a lot of people were trying to figure out the Café 57 thing. Like, why was there all the malbouffe or whatever. There are some luxury YouTubers who have made entire videos speculating. Have you seen?”

“I watched a couple.”

I play it cool, but I totally watched them all. My idea was not only selected and implemented, but it was well received and achieved its goal: to create some additional mystery and intrigue. It’s surreal seeing people share their photos and videos

and theories, all stemming from my pop-up.

Sophie nods. “It was a hit. Really. And this will be a hit too. Should we do a quick walk-through?”

I follow her to the gold rope, where a bouncer in a black suit lets us in. It’s still early, so there aren’t any guests, and

security is doing their best to stop people from taking photos as they pass by. I’m sure things are being posted early, but

that’s fine since the main event will be the bag unveiling toward the end.

At the far end of the garden, there are tall shrubs with MD monograms placed strategically in gold, and five stone pedestals

are lined up among the shrubs, just like in the newest renderings in the event-planning deck. The glass enclosures are empty,

though, missing the items from Rosie Hamilton’s collection. The sight makes my stomach drop.

This is so ridiculous. All this anxiety, and it’s my own freaking doing. If I had just let Rhodes have this, I could have

maybe enjoyed this event. Now I’m just waiting for someone to realize the items aren’t here and for all hell to break loose.

“So, just a quick refresher—though I’m sure you’re super on top of everything—we have a citron pressé bar,” Sophie says, gesturing to her left.

“It’s basically an elevated lemonade stand.

Super refreshing. And then next to that, there is a little cart where people can grab finger sandwiches, small pastries, that sort of thing.

There will be waiters walking around with other hors d’oeuvres, which I’m sure you remember from the brief. ”

We walk around, and I do my best to admire the way all of this has come to life—the citron pressé bar and the photo booth and the harpist. At every turn, however, the pedestals seem to taunt me, whisper how terrible a person

I am.

Rhodes is over with Yvette, and the boxes that should contain the vintage pieces are on a table beside them.

He flashes a smile, and for a moment, that grin is all that exists, I think.

Jesus, Milo, come on.

Only, there’s no way anyone wouldn’t think he looks handsome right now, with the Louvre off in the distance behind him, surrounded

by flowers, and practically some sort of Greek god—tall, sculpted, drenched in the golden sunlight.

“We really just want the creators to enjoy themselves,” Sophie says, bringing me back to reality. “They’ll get some content,

and then, of course, the main event will be the unveiling of the resort bag. It’s gorgeous. Have you seen it yet? I know everyone

is going to be obsessed.”

I shake my head. “I haven’t.”

“Oh, you have to.”

I nod thoughtlessly before glancing back over to Rhodes. When Yvette walks away and he’s left typing on his phone, my heartbeat

quickens.

“You know what? I just remembered something super important. I need to remind Rhodes. I’ll be right back.”

Sophie grins. “Sure. When you get back, we can try the citron pressé . It’s to die for.”

I don’t really know what a confession is going to do now, especially since the damage is done, but I can’t take this anymore.

I’m too superstitious and too guilt ridden to stand by and watch my terrible scheme unfold.

I hurry over to Rhodes and tap him on the shoulder. He glances down, looking over the rims of his gold Ray-Bans and quirking

a brow.

“Milo, you’re all fidgety.”

“I’m not fidgety.”

He cocks his head. “You’re scowling and your breathing is a bit off. What are you stressed about?”

Shaking my head, I swallow. “No, look, I need to tell you something.”

“Okay, just one second.” He holds up his phone. “I’ve got to send a very important email, and it really must go now.”

I take a deep breath. “No, I need to—”

He holds up his finger, repeating: “Just one second, okay?”

Watching him type, his jaw flexes a bit, and his bright pink lips are pursed in a way that makes them look way too kissable.

God, I wish things were different. I wish we didn’t have to compete with each other, and we could have just gone to dinner, and I could have found out what

it was like to feel those lips on mine.

Of course, that thought is fleeting. These are the cards we’ve been dealt.

The longer I wait, the more I realize a confession isn’t going to help much. He’s going to freak out, rightfully so, and then we’re not going to have any solution. The items are in London now, and there is no way we’re going to get them here in time.

“All right,” Rhodes says, pocketing his phone. “What is it?”

I take a deep breath.

“You’ve got something in your hair.” He reaches forward, palm warm as it brushes against my forehead, and his fingers twist

something out of my curls. My breath catches, and I’m not sure if his does, but he holds out a small little yellow petal between

us before flicking it away. “Little bit of flower, it seems. Odd.”

“Really odd.”

He sniffles, which seems to be more of a response to being uncomfortable. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—I don’t know why I did

that.”

“It’s okay, I appreciate it.”

“Right. So, what did you need to say?”

The harpist begins to play, and Sophie rushes over to us, tugging at my sleeve. “We need some help setting up a few of the

high-tops, do you mind?”

I shake my head. “Of course not, I’ll be right there.”