Page 18 of Milo
“Why is he coming here?” he asks abruptly.
For a second I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Then I remember. Simeon.
“Well, he’ll want to accompany his art. There’s a lot of money involved.”
“And he’s doing that himself? Don’t bigwigs like him bring their entourage with him to wipe his brow, bring him champagne, and separate the red Skittles from the other colours?”
I shake my head, a smile playing on my lips. “I think that was the Roman Empire you’re talking about. Either that or Mariah Carey.” He grins suddenly, the sunny warmth of his smile lighting his face. I feel happy inside when I make him smile. I dismiss that thought instantly and sip my tea. “He said he wanted to talk some more with me,” I mumble.
His lips purse. “We do have phones for that,” he says primly. His gaze sharpens. “I’m not sure I want–” he starts to say and trails off.
“Not sure you what?”
He jumps as if he’s drifted off into his own thoughts. I look at him sympathetically. He must be tired. He works so hard.
He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “I’m just being silly.”
The conversation moves on, but later when I lie in bed, I wonder what he was going to say about Simeon. I also wonder about what the skin on his chest would feel like under my fingers and tongue before I make myself stop.
Chapter
Four
I can’t stuff this Jack back into his box.
Niall
I have my hands full of dead tree branches when Frank, one of my men, ambles up. “You’re needed, Niall.”
“Needed for what?” I grunt, pulling the mass of the branches that we’ve just sawn down from a copse of trees and feeling them give slightly. “Am I needed to help Phil find the bottom of his tea flask?”
He laughs. “Now, you know he doesn’t start the day well without three cups.”
“I know and have the scars to prove it.” I pull again. “Motherfucking things. What the hell are they stuck on?” I look up. “Tell me they’re stuck on Phil’s inert tea-less body and I’ll cheer the hell up.”
“Get out of the way, lad,” he says, shoving me politely to the side. He nods over to the fence lining the field. “You’ve got visitors.”
I look up, shielding my eyes against the autumn sun which is lying low. Then I straighten so quickly I nearly fall over. “Shit!” I mutter.
Frank grins and releases the hand that’s just saved me from going arse over tit. “Bit eager, boss.”
“Shut up,” I grumble. “It’s my goddaughter.”
He sticks his tongue in his cheek, obviously trying not to laugh. “Aye, of course. Your goddaughter. Well, you’d best be getting over there quick or that good-looking lad will take your goddaughter away.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter and walk off, hearing his laughter behind me. I try not to smile when the laughter turns to a groan as he too tries to clear the branches. I look up and see Milo leaning on the fence.
He’s wearing old holey jeans and mid-calf lace-up boots with a red and white t-shirt and buttoned-up cardigan and over the top, he’s slung an old grey canvas jacket. It should look ridiculous, but he has an unerring sense of style so that whatever he puts on looks right. He’s windswept and rumpled, his pale sharp cheekbones dusted with red which seems to echo the shade of the leaves all around. It’s like he’s a chameleon taking on the colours from the land that I love so much, making him one with it.
I shake my head of the flowery thoughts and pull off my thick work gloves before wedging them in the back pockets of my jeans. I eye his deep brown hair which is tied up in some sort of messy bun arrangement which I shouldn’t find as charming as I definitely do, judging from the tightness in my jeans.
I sigh and swear under my breath.Why now?Why has the fucking universe decided to screw with me now by making mesuddenly notice how fucking lovely he is? I’ve gone years looking on him as a younger brother. Someone I owed the same loyalty and kindness to as I do my own siblings. Maybe more because something about Milo has always just simply called to me and touched a soft spot inside me that nobody has ever reached before.
I’ve watched over him all these years and felt this strange protectiveness towards him. He’s always just seemed so brave to me, coping with his nerves and stutter in such a dignified and stalwart way. Gideon had always found it incomprehensible how soft I was towards his brother, why I welcomed him around us.
The simple truth is that I like his wit, intelligence, and sharpness. Others seemed to miss it, seeing him as being stupid just because he stammered. Even now people see the hunched shoulders to hide his height, his blushes and the frequent pauses and hitches in his speech, and they classify him as needing protection. They never seem to see what I do. The flash of his eyes when someone is rude, the humour shining clear in those brown depths that he doesn’t share easily. They don’t stick around long enough to get through the stammer to hear the caustic wit that lies beneath.
After I’d brought him home with me toChi an Mor,I watched over him carefully and noted the way he slowly came back to life like a plant sending shoots up through the cold ground. I’d annotated the life coming back into his eyes, the gradual cessation of his stammer and the way he unfurled a bit more every day, coming out from his shell like a rather gawky tortoise after hibernation.
