Page 3 of Everything About You

“Rhodes, over here!”

Rhodes Hamilton is walking toward me on the sidewalk.

The Rhodes Hamilton.

Golden sunlight filters through the verdant trees, floods the sidewalk, and shines on the blue awnings of Harry Winston. It

highlights his bright blond hair, illuminates his piercing blue eyes, and dances over his long eyelashes. He’s ethereal, with

glowing skin and deep pink lips.

It’s like he is straight out of a fairy tale.

If princes had reputations for excessive partying, polluting the planet with private jets, and breaking hearts while wearing

watches that cost more than a car.

Come on, Milo. He’s hot, but he’s Rhodes Hamilton .

London’s resident fuckboy, if I recall the wording correctly.

His outfit is cool, which is to be expected: nineties-cut denim, mid-height Adidas, a patchwork plaid shirt over a white tee,

and a green Nike belt bag across his chest. Plus, a gold chain around his neck that’s probably worth more than I can even

imagine.

These types of guys are always in effortlessly cool outfits. This is textbook I don’t even have to try, and you can’t even help but look at me.

I want to roll my eyes.

What are all these paparazzi doing here anyway? Rhodes shouldn’t even be famous. He’s famous by association—his family is famous. Rhodes is a walking tabloid headline.

When he’s closer and our eyes lock, it’s like an involuntary surge of electricity starting at the base of my feet and shooting

through my entire body, all the way up to the top of my skull. I don’t know what the feeling even is. He’s objectively very

attractive, but all I can think is how I know guys like him.

Just this past spring break, I had my own run-in with one of Citrus Harbor’s resident fuckboys. Guys like that have this way

of making you feel like you’re different—you’re the exception. They make you feel special before they disappear. It’s all

about the chase and getting what they want.

My stomach sinks just remembering how shitty it felt to stare at my phone waiting for a text that was never going to come.

Celeste and I listened to podcasts about how some guys are lessons and sometimes you have to give yourself your own closure.

If that podcast was right, the saddest part is that he wasn’t the only guy who seemed to embody this particular lesson, and

I somehow still hadn’t learned it by the time he came around. Practically every guy I dated was some version of the same truth—snakes

with different stripes, but all venomous.

Another paparazzi shouts something and Rhodes Hamilton glances over, offering a slick grin and a slight wave.

Guys like this only care about one thing: themselves.

Rhodes stops in front of me, and now I am the victim of that captivating smile.

“Sorry about all this.” He holds out his hand, and after I don’t take it for a moment, it falls back to his side and he laughs

it off, eyeing the photographers before turning his attention back to me. “You’re Milo, right?”

I blink.

In what world does Rhodes Hamilton know who I am? What the fuck is happening?

“I am.” I clear my throat and stand up straight. “How did you... how do you know my name?”

I wonder if Celeste and I have ingested some of her aunt’s mushrooms or something. I’m sure she has them in her apartment,

honestly, given some of her more abstract tendencies.

Holy shit, Celeste is not going to believe this.

Chip and the rest of the guys are all going to absolutely lose their minds.

And just wait until I tell my brother—

“Milo...” Rhodes furrows his brow, now a bit more serious. “Milo Hawthorne, the tennis star? You’re playing at Roland-Garros,

right? In the French Open?”

“What?” My jaw falls open. “I am definitely not playing at Roland-Garros, nor do I see that happening in the near future.

Or, like, ever. I’m—”

Rhodes laughs now, patting me on the shoulder. “I’m only joking, mate. I looked you up. Saw your submission, of course. Cheeky.”

My face burns. So, what was that? Some condescending excuse of a fucking joke?

This is exactly what I’d expect from some douchebag who comes from a family of world-famous athletes. Just because I’m not

playing in the French Open, my entire award-winning career as a tennis player can be reduced to some punchline.

“Funny.” I almost want to wipe my shoulder free of any trace of his touch.

He narrows his eyes. “Sorry?”

Shaking my head: “Why did you look me up?”

He points over my shoulder. “I’m an apprentice too.”

Then he breezes past me.

“All right, boys, that’s enough for today. If you’re good, we can arrange something another time, yeah?”

I turn to watch him put his hands in his pockets and smile as they get their final shots.

The doors to Maison Dauphine swing open, and the woman I saw before is giving Rhodes Hamilton the biggest, warmest greeting

I’ve ever seen, complete with a hug and a squeeze of the shoulders.

But. Wait... what ?

I’m stuck in a vacuum where Rhodes’s words play on repeat.

There was only supposed to be one apprentice.

“So happy you are here,” the woman says. Her French accent is beautiful, but when she turns to me next, her top lip curls

up like she’s smelled something bad and her brows turn down like she’s been given a surprise she’d have been fine without.

While I wouldn’t say she’s quite disgusted , I certainly don’t imagine she’s happy I’m here. She’s my height in heels, with perfectly coiffed shoulder-length brown hair and a pearl-and-gold necklace that is attention stealing but not gauche. “And you must be Milo.”

Rhodes gives me an odd look, one brow lifted, and mouth half turned up. I have no idea what it means or what he’s thinking,

but he must catch himself, because he switches back to his more charming grin and then turns back to the woman.

“Yvette. Quel plaisir de vous revoir! ” Rhodes says.

Yvette, whose name I recognize from some emails, is very pleased to hear this. She giggles, in fact, ushering us into the

boutique. “Oh, your French is getting better! Bien joué ! ”

While trying not to obsess over what it means that Rhodes is also an apprentice, I am still in awe of the size and luxury of the store. It’s all a bright ivory, the main

floor broken up into three large rooms: apparel, accessories, and beauty. Throughout the store, however, there are tall, slender

mannequins in various poses that are effortlessly chic, like a group of Audrey Hepburn-esque models.

Each mannequin wears a piece from the current season—pieces that are not to be seen anywhere else. A silk midi dress, a feathered

gown, a fitted tweed suit, the feminine blushes and creams sparkling and just asking you to touch them to see if they’re possibly

as soft as they look.

Farther back and to the left, where even more expansive shopping continues, some of the best-known garments are displayed

as an exhibit for visitors who will recognize and appreciate the history of the house.

It’s strange to be here like this—with only a few lights on, no music, no bustling customers or elegant salespeople in their tailored black suits.

The normal ambiance is removed, and yet there is another that seems to exist entirely within the clothes on the mannequins and hanging from the racks—not in large quantities, but by threes, like art displayed purposely for sophisticated patrons.

“We’ll head back this way,” Yvette says, walking by a round mahogany table of carefully folded silk scarves. “I trust you

both had no trouble finding us this morning.”

“Of course. Everyone knows the Maison Dauphine flagship,” I offer.

Yvette doesn’t say anything, and I notice Rhodes looking at me from the corner of his eye.

Okay, don’t try so hard. Noted.

It smells of vanilla and something else sweet, but a bit more earthy—overall, a gourmand scent, which Maison Dauphine is famous

for.

Rhodes scans the room while we walk.

“Yvette, the dress you chose for my mother to wear to the Grand Prix was absolutely stunning. I meant to tell you sooner,

but that one over there reminded me.”

“Oh, you’re sweet. It was such an elegant look on her. She is the perfect Lady Dauphine.”

So sweet. My chest is on fire. He’s deploying his charm on Yvette, and she’s eating it right up.

We go through a heavy wooden door and are let into a stairwell that is certainly not as aesthetic or glamorous as the boutique, all while Yvette and Rhodes giggle about how gorgeous his mother looked in one of the spring dresses.

As we climb the stairs, I get a wave of nostalgia. Or rather something a bit worse.

I’m reminded of a summer tennis camp where I was constantly snubbed because the coach preferred his best friend’s son over

me. It was entirely personal and not at all merit based.

But this isn’t some tennis camp at the country club. Even if Yvette clearly likes Rhodes more than me, it doesn’t matter.

It’s not like she’s going to be my boss.

“As I am the director of public relations for Maison Dauphine, I oversee the PR assistants, interns, and now apprentices.”

Okay. Shit.

Well, not everything is a competition, Milo. It’s fine. He’s not here to steal your thunder.

But he is. Completely and without even trying to at all.

It seems his reputation is no problem here. All that matters, apparently, is that he’s famous and wealthy and incredibly attractive.

Of course anyone is going to dote over him, and the staff at Maison Dauphine is only human. His mother does wear the clothes

all the time. I’m sure his motive isn’t to upstage me.

He just does it naturally.

I take a sharp breath.

The problem isn’t that I want attention for the sake of having attention. I just envisioned this going so differently. I imagined

I’d show up and there would be a team of people who were just so thrilled to see me.

They’d be so excited to meet the young, creative, innovative mind behind the Waitlist campaign.

They’d want to pick my brain or tell me they thought I’d done such a brilliant job—after all, they must think that, since I was chosen out of all the other entries.