Page 19 of Everything About You

The Hamilton flat is otherworldly. It’s actually more of a private mansion, which makes sense given everything I know about

Rhodes’s parents. Three stories of French windows overlook a cobbled courtyard complete with potted palms and shrubs at the

entrance, and once we’ve walked into what appears to be an obscenely large sitting room, I can see that there is a private

garden in the back.

Rhodes has kicked off his shoes at the front door, haphazardly, like we aren’t in a miniature French palace. One of them even

knocks against a tall chinoiserie umbrella vase, and he doesn’t seem to notice. I’m careful when I take mine off, placing

them neatly and making sure the toes don’t touch the wall.

Apart from the door closing and our footsteps, there’s an almost eerie stillness here. It’s so big and so empty. Sunlight

bathes the sitting room, intensified by the large, ornate gold mirrors, but all the high-end furniture looks untouched and

unlived in.

“ Chez moi ,” Rhodes says, spreading his arms out and taking a slight bow before laughing. “Sorta.”

I follow Rhodes through the sitting room into the kitchen, which is massive and obviously renovated while still somehow fitting the style of the house.

It has one of those really big, fancy stoves that look like they are just meant to make your kitchen more Instagram worthy.

The crown molding details on the absurdly tall ceilings are carried throughout the apartment, from the living space into the kitchen and into the breakfast nook that sits beneath more windows.

“All right, Milo, what are you in the mood for?” He pulls open the fridge, and I take a seat on one of the wicker bistro stools

at the pearly island.

“Shouldn’t we—”

“I’ve got it all. Plenty of things to cook. Could do a pasta dish? Also have leftover pizza—you should’ve seen the waiter’s

face.”

I cock my head. “What do you mean?”

Rhodes furrows his brow. “The waiters hate it when you don’t finish your food. Haven’t you noticed?”

“I haven’t noticed that,” I say.

What I do notice, however, is that Rhodes has made this kitchen feel a bit more like... his. There are some matchbooks

on the other side of the island—the fancy kind, like you get from a nice restaurant or hotel. There are also some museum pamphlets

and magazines and his passport, plus an Armoury United cap that looks stiff, like it’s never been worn.

“Leftovers aren’t really a thing here,” Rhodes says. “Except pizza, I guess. But I believe it’s a cultural thing? I reckon

they find it disrespectful if you don’t finish your food.” He frowns, turning to the pizza box on the top shelf. “It’s an

honest mistake, really. Eyes were a bit bigger than my stomach.”

I stifle a laugh. “You don’t have to feed me.”

Really, I’m a bit uncomfortable with this whole situation. Why has Rhodes invited me over? I just tried to fuck up his apprenticeship. Like, majorly.

Then, as if he reads my mind, he chuckles. “I’m not going to poison you.”

“I’m not entirely sure I’d blame you,” I offer.

Rhodes closes the refrigerator and leans over, propping his elbows up on the island across from me. “You’re not hungry?”

“We just have a lot of invitations to get through, don’t we?”

“Sure.” He shrugs, standing up and heading over to one of the cabinets and pulling out two wineglasses. “You didn’t answer

my question, though.”

My stomach answers for me, annoyingly, with a growl that’s just loud enough for Rhodes to hear across the kitchen. He offers

a smug smile, sets the glasses down on the island, and walks toward the arched doorway on the opposite side of the kitchen

from where we entered.

“Right, come on. Let’s go pick a wine, and then we can decide on dinner based on that.”

I don’t have a chance to interject with any follow-up questions or comments, because he’s gone. Following him into another

hallway, we turn and head down a curling wooden staircase with an iron railing. It looks like an ancient castle down here—uneven

stone floors and walls, vaulted ceilings and columns. It sort of smells like an ancient castle down here too, though there

are huge Diptyque candle jars on nearly every console table, as if they’ve had the same thought.

“Before you judge my family for being pretentious, this wine cellar has always been here.” Rhodes says, guiding me up one small step at the end of another hallway and tugging on the handle of an aged wooden door.

“This place having a wine cellar isn’t exactly surprising,” I say. He shoots me a look, but then his lip curls up in amusement.

I wince. “I didn’t mean that to sound like an insult. It’s incredible. I’ve just honestly never seen anything like this.”

“It’s okay, Milo.”

The cellar is more modest than the rest of the property, all stone with another arched entrance to a wall of shelved bottles

that become backlit as we get closer.

“Do you have any preference?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I don’t really know a ton about wine.”

He nods. “That’s right, the drinking age is twenty-one in America.”

“I mean, we drank at parties, but not wine. Plus, Europeans have such a different culture when it comes to wine, I think.”

“This is true,” Rhodes says. “Though, in England, it’s not like we’re having wine with meals in secondary school the way they

are in France. At least we weren’t, and my mates certainly weren’t. Ollie always wanted to have wine if my parents did. They

let him, in fact, and now he’s a proper wine snob. You can’t take him anywhere; he’ll ask obnoxious questions just to prove

he knows what he’s talking about.”

I laugh. “Is that right?”

“Honestly. Okay, this is one of my favorites.” He picks up a bottle—they all look the same to me—and holds it up, grinning

like a proud dad with a newborn. “I think we should have this, and I’ll make some salmon.”

“Are you sure?”

Rhodes is already ushering me out of the cellar, shutting the door, and heading up the stairs.

“You honestly do not have to cook,” I say. “If I’m being honest, I’m confused why you are cooking for me when I... well,

if anything, I should be cooking for you. To apologize.”

He shrugs, stopping a few steps above me and turning around. “We’ve got to eat, Milo. It’s not a big deal. I’d be cooking

for myself anyway. I don’t mind. Besides, you can get a head start on the invitations while I make dinner.”

I roll my eyes as he starts back up the stairs. “That’s why you want to cook. So I do most of the work.”

“You’re much more cynical than one might initially assume,” Rhodes says with a laugh.

Once we’re back in the kitchen, I sit on my stool, and he places the wine bottle and the glasses in front of me.

“Let me grab the card stock,” he says, holding up a finger before rushing off again.

I sit there in the silence as his quick footsteps get farther and quieter.

On the counter beside the refrigerator, there is a photo of the Hamilton family in a thick silver frame, between some cookbooks

and a floral ceramic jar. It’s cozy, with them all gathered around this kitchen island making gingerbread houses. Rhodes and

Ollie are pulling faces in sweaters and Christmas pajama bottoms, while their mom poses with a huge grin and Liam Hamilton

offers an award-winning smile while stretching his arm out for the selfie.

“Right, here you are.”

A mint-green box thuds against the countertop, and my attention is yanked away from the photo.

Rhodes removes the lid and studies the contents of the box, crossing his arms and pursing his lips.

He then lifts his chin and huffs before grabbing the wine and fishing through one of the drawers for a corkscrew.

“Why were you looking at the invitations like that?” I ask.

“Like what?” Rhodes grabs the neck of the bottle and then glances over at the box. “Oh. I’m just wondering if that’s all of

them.”

My jaw falls open. “What do you mean?”

“I could have sworn there were more.” He waves me off, uncorking. “I’m sure I’m only imagining it.”

While Rhodes pours us wine, I pull the box closer and find a printed spreadsheet with all the names and addresses for the

invitees.

“It’s sort of sadistic they make us double-check these,” I say.

Rhodes nods, bringing over a black gel pen and setting it down in front of me. “Feels like a power move.”

“But why? We’re already at the bottom of the totem pole.”

He shrugs. “Sometimes things like this serve as a reminder of that.”

“Consider me reminded.” I shake my head. “It’s fine. We’ll get through them.”

“That’s the spirit,” Rhodes says. “Right, we’ll have it all done in a pinch.”

“In a pinch,” I say, putting on an English accent.

He quirks a brow. “What was that?”

“That was me being British.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I was just joking around.” I roll my eyes.

Fighting a grin, he nods. “No, no. Don’t stop there. Go on, then. Give us some more.”

“No, that was all you’re getting.”

“What if I do an American accent?” Rhodes asks. He holds up a finger, and with great Midwestern articulation says, “I’d love

to visit a Five Guys in America.”

Uh- mayr - icuh . It’s so boldly pronounced.

I bark a laugh. “A Five Guys?”

“Yes,” he says, continuing with an accent that has his mouth making the oddest shapes. “America is the birthplace of Five

Guys. We have them in London, and they’re delicious, but the guys —there are five of them—they’re American.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, determined not to snort at his impression.

“Rhodes, I don’t know what you think that is, but it’s not quite an American accent.”

He guffaws, deflating a bit as he turns back to pull something from a drawer. “It was an American accent. I’m not sure you’ve

spent enough time in America if you don’t know that.”

“You’re probably right.” I sigh.

“Maybe you could show me around.”

“Around America?”

He lifts his shoulders. “Sure.”

“What? Like some Great American Road Trip?”

His eyes light up. “Is that a thing? Do you all just go driving around America?”

I shake my head. “Not exactly.”