Page 27 of Everything About You

I’ve been absolutely giddy since Rhodes and I kissed.

The rest of the gala was honestly uneventful compared to the kiss. I almost met Rhodes’s parents, but they were in and out

quickly, I think really just to get their photo taken. He didn’t seem too upset by it, but Ollie and Phoebe ditched pretty

early as well.

I suppose it’s a good thing nothing of note happened—everything went according to plan, and we made great content that got

approved and posted. Nobody at the gala seemed to recognize me from the photo, which gave me peace of mind that maybe it didn’t

blow up to be some large-scale issue.

After the gala, Rhodes had to dash away to go meet his family, and he kissed me again outside the Louvre. It felt like a fairy

tale.

Rhodes Hamilton was kissing me. I was kissing Rhodes Hamilton. Under the stars in Paris.

He’s had a busier Saturday than me already, having a brunch with the Hamiltons before they are off to London—a brunch that was heavily photographed, which I know since Celeste has already forwarded me an Instagram post from two different American tabloids.

Rhodes: You free by chance?

I glance down at my ratty plaid pajama bottoms, and then around me at the takeout containers and the various cords I have

connected to charge my phone and laptop and AirPods. It looks like I am practically plugged into this couch, with Gilmore Girls playing on the screen. Lorelai’s absurdly fast talking has been a nice reminder of home somehow. It’s season three, and I’ve

seen it a million times, but somehow I’ve spent hours here already, gripped like this is my first viewing, and drowning in

coffee.

Me: I am free!

I’ve sent the text, but I retroactively study what I’ve written.

Exclamation point? A bit eager, Milo.

Groaning, I lock my phone. I don’t want to sit here and wait for the little gray bubble with the three dots. I don’t want

to acknowledge the fact that texting with Rhodes gives me a delightful if not nearly nauseating stirring in my stomach.

Rhodes: Brilliant

I stare at the preview of the text on my lock screen. I stare, and I wait. Because surely he’s going to say something else, right? What kind of line of questioning is this? How is it only brilliant that I’m free? Why isn’t he saying anything else?! He must have a reason for—

Rhodes: Let’s hang out

Rhodes: We had brunch in the 6th, would you want to come meet me around here? I have a couple of hours to myself before we’ve got

some fitting for Ollie

Rhodes: Have you explored much over this way?

It’s silly, but there’s something oddly comforting about him so unabashedly texting me like this. In my previous experience,

texting guys can be like pulling teeth. A simple, short response to a message can feel like a rare gem sometimes, even when

they are interested.

Me: I haven’t been over there too much, so I think that would be fun!

Jesus Christ with the exclamation points, Milo.

Rhodes doesn’t respond for about ten minutes, but it’s fine because I’m up and cleaning my mess before jumping into the shower.

I throw clothes around the room in search of the perfect “casual stroll through the 6th Arrondissement with a guy I just kissed” outfit. It should be put together but effortless. Flattering but casual. Parisian but still me. Whatever that means.

Rhodes drops me a pin, and after consulting two maps apps, I figure the best course of action is to walk back to the Pont

de l’Alma station and take the train to Saint-Michel Notre-Dame. I’ve gotten pretty good at the New York subway after trips

with my mom for apparel-buying conferences and other boutique-related trips, and it turns out the Paris Metro isn’t that much

different once you figure out the start and end points and the colors of the lines.

As I ascend the steps, I realize I’ve been sweating profusely on the entire train ride, which is mortifying, but luckily I

decided on a green button-down that’s so green it’s almost black in certain lighting. I shouldn’t even be nervous. Maybe,

in fact, I’m not?

Maybe this is... excitement?

Rhodes is standing on the sidewalk, scrolling on his phone. When I reach street level, it’s like he senses I’ve arrived, and

I think his face might light up as he spots me.

“There he is!” He rushes over and pulls me in for a quick hug, which is new for us. He’s stepping back just as quickly, studying

my face as if trying to judge how touchy he should be at this point. “My brave metropolitan traveler. I’m impressed you’re

so savvy, Milo.”

His brave metropolitan traveler. I hope I’m not blushing, and my face is already probably flushed from working myself up over

this exact moment.

“It’s honestly not that hard. My mom and I learned the subway, and it’s kind of similar.” I say, gesturing over my shoulder toward the station. Then, like a little kid, beaming, I can hardly contain my excitement. “Oh my god, I didn’t tell you. You’ll get to meet my mom!”

Rhodes grins. “Oh?”

“Yeah, she’s coming to visit. It’s a surprise, so I’m not supposed to know. But she’ll be here. In Paris!”

“That’s awesome, Milo. I’m glad you guys will get some quality time together. And not work related!”

“I know,” I say. My cheeks are actually sore from smiling so much. “I’m so excited.”

Rhodes nods. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

“It’ll be great. So how was brunch?”

“It was nice,” Rhodes says. Then he rolls his eyes and shrugs. “What am I saying? It was annoying.” He nods. “It was really

annoying.”

Rhodes starts to walk away, and I follow.

“What? That’s it? No additional details?”

“Well, if you were a fly on the wall, you’d have no idea they were all here in Paris for the Maison Dauphine gala.”

“I’m sure they were mostly here to see you.”

With his brows pressed together, Rhodes’s lips form a tight line. “You’d think they were here to tell me all about Ollie’s

footie career. As if my being away for a few weeks has rendered me completely unaware and out of the loop. As if I don’t know

literally everything he’s doing at all times.”

I sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” He shakes out his shoulders. “Let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about... anything else.” Then he points

across the street. “Have you been to Shakespeare and Company?”

I shake my head, eyeing the small green shopfront. “I haven’t.”

“I really like it,” Rhodes offers.

“Oh yeah?”

Then he chuckles. “Sure. When I fancy a stroll through the stacks, I’ll pretend I know how to read for a bit. It’s nice.”

Laughing, I stand beside him as we wait to cross. “You might even enjoy the shop if you actually learn how to read.”

“Why would I do that? Who needs to know how to read?”

“That’s a good point,” I agree. “It’s probably much more fun to just guess what the books are about based on the vibes.”

Rhodes nods. “Some of them have pictures inside.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Come on, we’ll go have a look. It really is a nice little bookstore. It’s a tourist trap, to be sure, but I think you’ll

like it. You do strike me as the type to love the smell of old books.”

I roll my eyes.

“No?”

“I may or may not have an old-book-scented candle.”

“Whoa, I’m good.”

When we get to the store, there are a few people queued up outside. It seems they’re limiting the number of guests in the

shop at a time. I half expect Rhodes to seek or get some kind of special treatment—do famous people stand in line?—but he

doesn’t. We go to the back of the line and wait until it’s our turn to go in. As we wait, I admire how everything is vintage

and riddled with character—the painting of Shakespeare above the door, the writing in chalk on panes, the mismatched wooden

benches, and the sign that reads ANTIQUARIAN BOOKS, which seems like an objet d’art itself.

Once we’re inside, the shop is as charming as I’d expect, with old wood everywhere and hanging ivy.

Mosaic tiles and signs with antique lettering—one seems to lead to a room called the Blue Oyster Tearoom, and some others are in French, which I should probably be able to understand by now.

As far as the smell of old books goes, it blows any candle out of the water; it’s as if the magic of the pages wafts through the air.

Rhodes leads me through the crowded rooms, past tufted seating and whimsically uneven stacks of books on every possible surface.

His finger trails along some of the spines.

“I do love the idea of reading,” he says with a smile that gets a few odd looks from customers around us.

Then he starts up some crimson stairs that creak a bit, with an ascending inspirational quote hand-painted on the risers.

He wanders away, and I find myself at the top of the stairs looking at myself in a big mirror surrounded by wood detailing,

almost like it’s part of something, like a bench or stall that has been repurposed.

I snap a quick mirror selfie—I am still a tourist in Paris, after all—and I try to make it quick and unnoticeable, but Rhodes

rushes over, slinging his arm around my shoulders and offering a big, cheesy grin.

We get a few together, and then he gestures toward my phone. “Send me those, yeah?”

“I’m sure they’re—”

“I’m sure they’re cute.” He lifts his brows and then leads me into another room, beneath another hand-painted quote.

This one is about not being inhospitable to strangers in case they’re angels in disguise, and it’s the absolute cheesiest thought I’ve had, but as I watch Rhodes turn around—with his gorgeous blue eyes and flowy blond hair—to make sure I’m following, I think I might get that quote the most of any in this store.

It’s a cheesy enough thought that I both cringe at my own brain and blush, shaking it off and hurrying to join him in the

next room of books.

This room is the first we’ve had to ourselves, and he gestures around.

“Do you like it?”

There are a few verdant plants in the corners of the room, which also has exposed rafters, a built-in bench lined with pillows