Page 20 of Everything About You
“Well, I’ve been to New York and LA. That’s it. Oh, actually, I’ve been to Orlando. Obviously.”
“Obviously? Why do you say it like that?”
Rhodes pulls a face, walking around to lean against the island beside me. “British people love Mickey Mouse, Milo.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m fairly confident in saying this.”
“Well, I don’t know what else there is to show you. You’ve seen America.”
He throws his head back as he laughs. “Well, I haven’t seen the White House.”
“That’s true. I haven’t either, to be fair.”
Rhodes’s lips part and he blinks. “You haven’t been to the White House?”
“No. Rhodes, America is really big—”
“I know, mate,” Rhodes says, reaching over and placing his hand on my shoulder. “I’m only messing with you.”
His touch is alchemizing—like he’s Midas and the only thing I want is to turn golden to match everything about Rhodes. Butterflies
dance around in my stomach, and I’m not sure if they’ve been here the entire time, but they’re uncontrollable now.
There’s something brilliant about the color of his eyes—like a sparkling sea—that I’ve never seen in my entire life.
“What is it?” Rhodes asks.
“Hmm?”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He pulls his hand back, lips forming a tight smile.
“I’m not looking at you like anything. Or any specific way, I mean.”
He nods. “Okay, Milo.”
“Okay, Rhodes.”
Rhodes opens the refrigerator and pulls out a huge blue Ladurée box with silver etching along the sides that I instantly recognize.
“I don’t know if these go well with wine,” he says. “But help yourself if you’d like.”
I open the box and take a lemon macaron. “You just have boxes of macarons in your fridge?”
“When in Paris,” he says.
Studying the box, I lift a brow. “You haven’t eaten any of these.”
“Je prévoyais de les manger.”
I know he said something like he intended to or meant to eat them, and as quickly as my brain will allow, I respond to ask
when: “ Quand ?”
“Je ne sais pas.”
“ Quand les as- tu ... ” I glance off. How do I ask when he bought them? “ Achetés ?”
He grins. “Je les ai fait livrer hier .”
Something about yesterday. I nod.
“They wouldn’t last two days in my fridge,” I say.
Rhodes furrows his brow. “En francais?”
“I can’t.” I frown. “I don’t know enough.”
“Je savais que tu les mangerais . C’est pourquoi je les ai achetés pour toi .”
I catch that last part, though.
That’s why I bought them for you.
“For me?”
“Pour toi .” He nods. “I mean, for us, I guess. After how they cheered you up after the Versailles event, I thought it’d be a nice gesture
before the gala. But since you’re already here.”
My chest swells. Blood rushes to my face.
Rhodes was thinking of me and bought a box of macarons.
I swallow. “Rhodes. Why are you being so nice?”
Brandishing a knife and splaying out a salmon onto a cutting board, he chews on his bottom lip. “Dunno. Is it bad?”
“You got these macarons even thinking I’d switch those boxes and screw you over?”
Rhodes shrugs. “Look, I come from a very competitive family, Milo. I grew up in a very competitive world. If there’s one thing
I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t judge a person by one low moment.”
“I guess that’s... very mature.” I say. “This is just not how things are supposed to go.”
“They’re just macarons,” Rhodes says. “It’s not a ring.”
The very idea nearly makes me choke on the bite of pistachio I’m chewing.
“Look,” Rhodes says, slicing the fish. “I’m not going to stop being nice to you just because we’re competing for a job. I
want it, and so do you, and I know that means...” He sucks his teeth. “I know at the end of all of this, one of us is going
to be disappointed, but I still like spending time with you.”
This brazen display of sensibility makes my eyes sting with warmth.
Why am I conditioned, though, to not take it at face value? Even when my entire being is practically swaying to the symphony
of these nice words, and when I’m consumed with butterflies, I can’t help but wonder if it’s all some ploy so that he wins
at the end.
“We had an agreement, though. We have to keep things professional.”
“Getting my coworker some macarons isn’t an HR violation. Or is that just something you expect from guys like me ?”
I wince. “No, but... you’re making us a salmon dinner and opening a nice bottle of wine.”
“We have to eat,” he says, shrugging. “And when in France, you should enjoy some nice wine.”
This isn’t in my head, though; I know it. I know there’s clearly more to these nice gestures. Is he simply trying to change my mind? Or are my instincts right, and is he just a much more
cunning competitor than me?
I work through the invitations and eat a few more macarons while he cooks.
When he’s done, we eat salmon and asparagus and potatoes. He lights ivory candles on the table, insisting it gives a French
ambiance, and we drink wine while we eat.
He tells me about his family traditions in this apartment—how they’ve done Christmas here twice, and how then this entire
kitchen is draped in fresh garland and berries, and how they always come here during the summer for at least a week. He tells
me about a time he shattered a cookie jar and tried to glue it together, which was unsurprisingly a failure. He tells me about
Ollie’s ex-girlfriend making out with an Irish rugby player in the very seat where I’m enjoying my salmon.
With each story and each sip of wine, as we laugh harder and catch each other stealing more glimpses, I know this is not professional at all.
After dinner is done, I scrub the plates and we get back to the invitations.
My phone buzzes, and I realize I’ve missed several notifications, but most recently a text from Sophie.
Sophie: Want to grab dinner?
Me: I just ate
Sophie: No worries! I’m just hanging alone tn. You’re welcome to come chill if you don’t have plans
Me: Rhodes and I are actually working on some invitations right now
Sophie: Omg? It’s getting kind of late
Sophie: Are you at the office? I can help if you want
Me: We’re at his apartment
Me: He had the card stock here
Sophie: Oh, I see, I see
Sophie: So you and Rhodes are at his apartment
Sophie: After nine p.m.
It’s already after nine? I swallow and focus on our thread.
Me: It just made more sense to finish them here than bring them back to the office
Sophie: Of course, of course
Sophie:
Me: No, no, no
Me: Truly just working
I send her a photo of the invitations spread out on the counter.
Sophie: Avec du vin!
With wine.
I wince. This is not something I need spreading around the office. Sophie and I are friends, but I don’t know if she’d tell
anyone.
Me: We’re only friends
Me: And we’re actually almost finished with the invites, where are you staying? I’ll come chill
“Let’s knock the rest of these out,” I say, pushing my glass of wine away on the counter. “I have to go, I totally forgot.”
Rhodes blinks, shifting on his counter stool. “Oh. Okay, yeah. I mean, if you have to go, I can finish the rest.”
“No, I’ll help you.”
“It’s all right,” Rhodes offers. “It was my task to begin with.”
“You made me dinner,” I say. “And got me macarons. I can help.”
Rhodes shakes his head. “It’s nothing. If you have plans...” Then he scratches the back of his neck. “What, um—if you don’t
mind me asking—where are you off to at half past nine?”
Oh.
I clear my throat. “I’m just going to hang out with Sophie.”
“Oh,” he says, exhaling as if relieved.
Did he think it was a date or something?
“Not that it’s my business anyway,” he adds.
I shrug awkwardly. “It’s a fine question.”
“Would she want to join us here?”
“I don’t think...” Damn, I don’t have a good response. “Well, we had this whole plan, that’s all. I just totally blanked
and lost track of time.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he blinks quickly, cheeks flashing a bit rosy before he turns his attention back to the invitations.
“Totally understand. We’ll finish these quickly, then.”
Once we’re done with the invitations, I thank him for everything, hurrying out with impressive speed. I’ll do damage control
with Sophie, ensuring she knows Rhodes and I are only coworkers and making sure she doesn’t tell anyone else we were working
late at his apartment—there’s no way I want that spreading around the office and having some absurd story added to it.
Because it would be absurd. It’d be absurd for us to be anything but realistic about the fact that we’re competing against each other.
No amount of macarons, unoaked wine, or lingering eye contact over a candlelit dinner changes that.
No quickening of my heartbeat, no tug in my stomach when he laughs.
Rhodes is the competition. He’s the opposition.
So it would be absurd if my feet met the sidewalk and I found myself missing his company and wanting to turn around.