MILO MCLAREN hated Valentine’s Day. The morbid commercialization of love made him sick. It was the time when flowers, chocolates, and cheesy greeting cards became depression triggers for the currently unattached. Ah, good ol’ Singles Awareness Day. The only reason he wasn’t wallowing in a self-imposed pity party was because—
Ding.
The elevator doors opened to the offices of Rebel, the popular fashion magazine. Besides the typical work frenzy he walked into on a daily basis, the reception area and glass-walled bullpen where the cubicles were located were bedecked in every conceivable Valentine’s Day paraphernalia. Love vomited all over the place, and no surface was spared.
Cupids shooting magic arrows hung from the ceiling. Hearts clung to the walls. And red roses were everywhere. Each employee desk boasted a vase of them, standing out on the cluttered surface. The cloying scent stung his nostrils. Even the clothing racks had red bows tied to each end.
The urge to run in the opposite direction consumed him, but to miss work because of his personal issues was unforgivable. So instead, he prayed, but his prayer for a swift death was interrupted by a wave of confetti and the shouted words of “Happy Valentine’s—”
The greeting cut off at about the same time the toxic scowl he reserved for magazine layout day and uppity diva models manifested, contorting his classically handsome features into a demon mask only a handful of people were immune to. The two standing before him weren’t included in that group. They immediately paled and took several steps back as he exited the elevator.
“Who died?” Kasey, the top-knotted, hipster-glasses-wearing receptionist asked, referring to Milo’s black-on-black vintage-inspired Marc Jacobs suit.
“My dignity,” he said, sliding his scowl toward the art director’s assistant.
The always colorful Garret, in suspenders and plaid, whose hair currently screamed pink, cringed before he leaped forward and began dusting gold and red shiny squares off Milo’s shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” he muttered on repeat. “Please don’t fire me.”
Milo’s confetti shower chilled him to the bone. He took a deep breath and enunciated each word he spoke. “Please tell me you haven’t been throwing confetti at each person who comes out of this elevator?”
He narrowed his gaze at the culprits who thought they were being cute. The idea that their boss might have walked out to this in her couture was enough to make him draw blood.
Kasey shook her head so hard he was afraid her topknot would fly off. “Only you. Promise!” She waved her hands for emphasis… or as a defensive maneuver against possible attacks.
He swatted away Garret’s fretting hands. “And why did you two think I needed glitter rain this morning?”
Clasping his hands together, Garret said, “You’ve been absolutely gloomy. Valentine’s Day should be a happy occasion. Why don’t you let me take you out tonight?”
“Hey!” Kasey scowled. “That was my idea. Go out with me instead!” she demanded of Milo.
A long and protracted sigh left Milo’s lungs once the realization hit that his two friends were just looking out for him, for his happiness. On a regular day, he would have found their antics cute. But not today of all days. Not today. He willed the annoyance away as he ran his fingers through his thick chestnut waves and dislodged several more foil squares.
“As much as I enjoy playing for both teams, I’m not one to shit where I eat, and I’d advise the both of you to do the same.” He gestured at the floor with a sweep of his hand. “Clean this up before Cassandra gets here.”
“She’s already here,” Kasey said as Garret scampered away to, Milo assumed, fetch a broom.
“What?” His heart made a beeline for his throat while he checked his watch. “She doesn’t usually get in at this hour.”
“She’s been here since six.”
And it was already eight. A different kind of annoyance ignited in his chest. He always got here before the boss. Always.
“Did she tell you why?” he asked, not bothering to mask the rising panic in his tone.
Rebel had no set working hours. Schedules varied depending on the task assigned. From editors down to assistants, staff came in when they needed and left when they were done. Days could start as early as six, sometimes earlier, and could end as late as midnight.
There were special circumstances, such as a double-issue layout, where no one went home at all for two or three days straight. The longest anyone had ever stayed at the office was a week, and that was because someone accidentally downloaded a virus into their network. It ate up everything needed for the coming issue.
Milo had blocked out most of that incident, yet he still experienced facial tics when he remembered it. Safe to say that idiot no longer worked for Rebel—or anywhere in the fashion industry, for that matter.
“She’s been on a conference call all….”
The second the words conference and call were uttered, Milo didn’t bother listening to the rest. He hurried to his desk outside Cassandra’s frosted-glass office. The door was closed. The dark silhouette inside indicated her presence. Shit.
He didn’t bother to remove his coat and scarf as he dumped his bag on the floor, bent over his computer, and cued up today’s schedule. He cursed under his breath and inhaled sharply, his lips disappearing into a tight line. At the top of the list was the conference call. He’d been so distracted this past week that he’d completely forgotten about the prep.
Paris Fashion Week in March was one of Cassandra’s biggest events of the year. It took at least six months to plan and coordinate the trip. Logistics alone were a nightmare. Meetings, fashion shows, dinners with designers… the list of things to do went on and on. As her executive assistant, Milo held sole responsibility for pulling everything off without so much as a hiccup.
Instant disappointment punched through his chest. Totally dropped the ball on this one. He bowed his head and massaged the back of his neck as he gathered his courage to enter the lion’s den. His hatred for this day had gotten him into this mess, and like Kasey and Garret cleaning up the confetti, he’d have to sweep his way out.
He clicked Print and straightened as the schedule spat out. He pulled off his scarf and shrugged out of his coat as he composed the appropriate apology for being late. Much groveling might be involved. Maybe even some self-flagellation.
Milo swallowed and tugged on the lapels of his suit jacket before he grabbed the schedule from the printer tray and rounded his desk to stand in front of what the interns called “the door to hell.” Many an onion-skinned person had run out of this office in tears. Even Milo had shed a drop or two when Cassandra was feeling particularly vicious.
Not bothering with a deep breath, he knocked once and pushed in. The best editor in chief in the business stood behind her desk with arms crossed. She wore a sleek suit with exaggerated shoulders and covered entirely in peacock feathers. One of the perks of her position was having all her clothes custom made by the best designers.
She was a goddess, and the designers were supplicants making offerings so she would shower them with her blessings. Making it into the pages of Rebel meant making it in the fashion world. So yeah, keeping Cassandra happy was a full-time job for everyone.
She spoke in rapid-fire French just as he nudged the door closed. Someone at the other end replied via the phone’s speaker, and she shook her head. Her silver hair, cut in a severe bob with razor-sharp bangs across her forehead, followed the movement. She spoke again and crooked a finger at Milo.
The walls of his throat closed at the sharp look she gave him. She was a strikingly beautiful woman. If she didn’t love “behind the scenes,” she could easily have been a model like his mother.
He approached her desk, which was cluttered with fashion magazines, newspapers, and sample swatches. While she continued to argue with whoever it was, he clipped her schedule onto a board hanging on the wall and then proceeded to tidy up. Over the years he had trained himself to anticipate Cassandra’s every need.
Magazines with Post-its were always left open. Magazines without them were closed and stacked on the left side of the desk. Newspapers were folded and went on the right side.
He picked up the cloth swatches, and Cassandra pointed at the rack of clothing samples slated for the fall issue. He nodded and busied himself with matching pieces of fabric. Looking at the selection, it seemed military-inspired leather jackets were making a comeback, but instead of the usual camo, they came in jewel tones. That meant silver jewelry and chunky belts.
Milo prided himself on knowing how to predict trends. It took him years to get the nuances, but when he did, it was like opening a door into a magical world not many were able to enter. With his father always away on business, his supermodel mother had no choice but to bring him along on photo shoots and fashion shows. He grew up among models, photographers, makeup artists, and designers. Instead of trucks and blocks, he played with makeup brushes and helped pull together outfits.
Being in the fashion industry seemed like the perfect fit for him from the get-go. An internship at eighteen had propelled him to his present esteemed position. A million people would kill to be in his Prada loafers. It didn’t matter that his boss also happened to be his mother’s best friend and his de facto godmother, or that his father owned the publishing company the magazine belonged to.
Nepotism might have been in play when he was starting out, but he didn’t get to where he was now without clawing his way up. Outsiders thought the fashion industry was all clothes and pretty things when in fact it was far more bloodthirsty than a night inside the octagon of a UFC fight. In his world the gloves were off, there were no rules, and may the best trend win.
Once the swatches were put away, he picked up Cassandra’s slim coffee cup and brought it to her personal Nespresso machine. He placed the empty cup below the nozzle, popped in an espresso capsule, and pressed the Start button. As it gurgled and dripped, the scent of coffee filled the office.
Milo felt more at home here than in his own apartment. The walls were covered with all the latest sketches from designers, all the furniture was sleek and modern, reflecting the tastes of their owner, and the view of the city was simply breathtaking.
He was staring absentmindedly into the distance at the swath of green that made up Central Park when slim arms wrapped around his waist from behind. Cassandra rested her chin on his shoulder, and he braced himself for cutting words. Instead, he got a kiss on the cheek before she let go and stepped back. He turned around, a frown forming on his lips and forehead.
“Oh, my dear boy,” she said, pursing her lips and cupping his face with both hands.
Instant warmth chased away his fear. “I’m sorry for being late.”
The slap was swift and unexpected. It was hard enough to sting but not hard enough to leave a mark. She wagged a finger at him. There was the scary woman he’d grown up with.
“I understand the special circumstances surrounding this day, which is why I will forgive you for your tardiness,” she said in a clipped tone.
He nodded and closed a hand over the one she still kept on his cheek. “Won’t happen again. The conference call—”
“That is no longer your concern,” she interrupted him. “Kenji Suzuki is already at the studio for his shoot. As I have more calls to make before I can join him, I would like you to—”
“I understand,” he interrupted her in return, stepping out of reach.
“Very good.”
He smirked. “I’ll keep him happy until you get there.”
Her lips quirked in what passed for a smile as she waved him away.
Relief settled on Milo’s shoulders once he left the office. He knew why Cassandra sent him to entertain the up-and-coming Japanese designer instead of one of her editors. He’d spent a year in Japan.
At the same time, this was a test. If he couldn’t pull this off, then he wasn’t worthy of climbing the ranks to become the next editor in chief. God only knew what Cassandra would put him through then—most likely demote him to taking care of the interns. A shudder went through him. He’d take a slap any day, thank you very much.
He grabbed his tablet from his desk and hurried back toward the elevator. Not a speck of confetti anywhere. Kasey was already taking calls behind the semicircle of the reception desk.
Good. A semblance of normalcy had returned to his workplace. All he had to do now was ignore the decorations for the rest of the day.
“Going to the studios?” Garret asked, sidling closer, a manila envelope and his own tablet in his hands.
“I have Suzuki-babysitting duty until Cassandra finishes her calls.” He glanced up at the numbers counting down on the LCD panel above them.
“Have you seen the House of Suzuki dresses?” Garret gushed. “I still can’t believe they’re made of hemp.”
The September issue of Rebel was all about innovation in fashion. Hemp was the hot fabric of the moment, and no one manipulated the coarse material better than Kenji Suzuki. His designs took on shapes and forms any origami master would be proud of.
The art of paper folding was most evident in the centerpiece of his collection, which boasted a thousand cranes and was connected to the tradition that whoever folded a thousand paper cranes would have a wish granted. It was also connected to eternal good luck. Milo had only seen pictures of the designs. To actually get to see the dresses in person had him as giddy as a kid on Christmas Day.
“Each dress is a total work of art,” Garret mused as they entered the elevator. “And worth a small fortune. I heard actresses are already lining up to wear his clothes for awards season.”
“Why are you headed to the studios?” Milo asked as he pushed the button for the floor they were headed to.
There must have been some heat in his tone, because Garret flinched. “Cassandra chew you out for being late?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry for the way I acted earlier.”
“Just because today is—”
“Let’s not rehash.” He sighed. “So, why are you headed to the studios? Please don’t tell me it’s to ogle the Suzuki designs.”
“That,” Garret said with a wide smile, “and I have to deliver these proof changes to the photographer of the autumn jackets spread.”
“Your boss changed his mind again?” Milo asked in reference to the picky and often prickly art director.
Garret rolled his eyes.
“Cassandra’s not going to like that. We’re already over budget for that shoot.” A genuine grin spread across his lips. “Looking forward to the bloodbath at the next editorial meeting.”
“I’ll bring the popcorn.”
He and Garret stepped out of the elevator into a long corridor filled with framed, blown-up covers of Rebel. The best of the best hung along these walls, including his mother, who had graced the cover no less than ten times throughout her modeling career. Milo stopped at the one Stella von Stein was best known for—a close-up of her gorgeous face.
She had no makeup on except for pink lips and a shaved head. Her wide-set hazel eyes—so much like his—stared at him unflinchingly. Besides the chestnut color of his hair that he inherited from his father, everything else came from his mother—perfectly symmetrical features and the kind of full lips people paid plastic surgeons good money for. He came from a rare gene pool. Cassandra always joked that if he wore a dress, he could pass as his mother’s sister.
“The Breast Cancer Awareness issue,” Garret murmured in reverence.
Milo remembered the day the doctors gave his mother the diagnosis. Instead of panicking about the potential end of her career, she posed nude post-surgery and chemo, baring it all for the world to see. Bravest thing he’d ever seen anyone do. He was so proud of her that his chest ached.
Unwilling to confront the swell of emotion, Milo resumed his trek toward the main studio at the end of the hall. He checked the shoot’s location on his tablet and then pushed through the double doors. Garret followed him.
They stepped into the whirl of activity without missing a beat, used to the hustle of a photo shoot. The makeup station lined one side of the thousand-square-foot space where artists painted frantically on human canvases and racks of exquisite clothing lined the other. In a corner sat equipment and photography gear.
At the far end were the craft services tables with large silver platters. No one dared touch food and then touch clothing. A girl was once fired for picking up a cube of cheese before she handed a silk skirt to a model. The designer wasn’t happy.
Speaking of a designer, Milo pulled up Kenji’s profile on the screen and quickly searched for him in the melee. Garret pointed him out. He looked pale in a crisp white suit and had lavender hair combed to one side to bare the shaved side. He wore burgundy lipstick and false eyelashes. His arms were crossed, and he bit down on the long fingernail of his pinky while he watched the model pose in front of the camera in a soft pink structural dress that resembled a giant water lily.
“Who’s that?” Garret asked.
Judging from his friend’s hum of appreciation, he was referring to the tall man in a gray three-piece Brioni suit Milo had last seen in the spring collection catalog. That suit wouldn’t be available in stores until next year. The fact that he wore it meant he had considerable pull and a lot of money.
He stood beside Kenji with the poise of someone who knew what wearing a good suit could do. He had his hands in his pockets, which emphasized how broad his shoulders were. A linebacker couldn’t have done any better. Milo had worked with more than enough male models to know that the way the perfectly tailored suit sat contentedly on his body meant he sported some serious muscle underneath.
“I don’t know,” he finally said.
For some reason he was unable to tear his gaze away from Kenji’s companion. His jet-black hair was combed away from a face that boasted high cheekbones and a clean-shaven square jaw. It wasn’t his stunning looks alone; it was the air that surrounded him.
He was a man who stood on solid ground and was comfortable in his own skin—someone who didn’t care what others thought. At least that was Milo’s impression of him at first glance. Confidence personified.
“Well, he’s hot,” Garret added matter-of-factly.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Milo reminded him, scowling.
“I will leave if you promise to tell me his name later. Extra points if you get his number.”
Ignoring his too-eager friend, Milo stepped forward and dusted off his Japanese. He hoped to hell he wouldn’t mess up.
Kenji noticed him first and eyed Milo. Then he grinned as he whispered to his companion, “Kare wa utsukushīde wa arimasen?”
A sudden blush washed over his face. He’d just been called beautiful by a designer with features so feminine they rivaled those of the models in this shoot. He stood frozen, not because of the cool assessment that came from the man in the Brioni suit, but from staring into steel blue irises that seemed to undress him and see through him all at once.