IT SNOWED all through Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. Cold, miserable flakes fell from the sky to settle as gray slush on the ground. Milo frowned as he stared at the clump of the sooty white stuff by his feet.
It described his mood perfectly—gray, miserable slush. Or grush as he liked to think of it. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and shoved his gloved hands deeper into his pockets.
Ten days after Kaz note-bombed him, Milo’s confusion persisted. What could have Kaz meant by the question? He wanted answers so badly that it left him in a half-daze.
Ten days of Milo startling every time the phone at his desk rang. Ten days of staring aimlessly at the elevator doors as if by magic, Kaz would walk through them. As if he would have anything to do on their floor other than meet with Cassandra, which Milo would know about since he handled her calendar and arranged her schedule. Ten days of worrying over nothing.
What was he hoping for, anyway?
His life wasn’t some romantic comedy where he would get swept off his feet by a dashing man and they would ride together toward the sunset of their happily ever after. Like he said at Santino, there was no such thing as happily ever after. Love crushed. That was what it did best.
“Pull your head out of your ass, Milo, and get in the game,” he said through chattering teeth. Enough distractions.
The only reason he stood outside the massive white tent erected for the House of Suzuki show was because Kaz would be inside. Then again, he did say he was a silent partner. That didn’t mean he had to be at every show or major event. But this was Mercedes-Benz—the fashion event on their side of the planet.
If there was one affair he had to attend for business, it would be this one. And Kenji was his best friend. Not inviting Kaz would be like Tommy not inviting him to any of the shows he walked.
Cassandra was already inside, probably wondering where the hell he could be or chatting it up with Kenji. At these things, one could never be certain the kind of mood she would be in. Since she’d taken a liking to the up-and-coming designer, Cassandra stayed pretty mellow. Maybe Milo could call in sick?
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Garret called from the entrance of the tent. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Milo closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer for strength. What Garret said was code for “Cassandra has been looking everywhere for you.” He fisted his trembling hands inside his coat pockets to steady them. He didn’t know whether they shook from the cold or from his hesitation to come inside.
So what if Kaz was here? It didn’t change a thing.
Milo had no time for him. His only mistake had been leading Kaz on—and he blamed that on the tequila. He’d been nursing newly opened wounds from seeing Celeste happily engaged and had his guard down.
The attention he was given that night drove away some of the gnawing loneliness he felt. Sue him for going a little too far. That didn’t mean Kaz had any claim on him.
“Come on!” Garret whined. “I’m freezing my cute tush off.”
Somehow, losing his job by running away didn’t seem as bad as it had in that moment. He didn’t work for the money. In fact, his trust fund ensured he didn’t have to work a day in his life. But why run away from something he enjoyed doing? All for a guy who embodied sexual attraction?
He still woke up from dreams of Kaz’s mouth on the most intimate part of him, so turned on that it physically hurt not to relieve himself of the tension. One man scared him. Why? What was so bad about seeing him again? Maybe he could act like nothing happened.
Taking a deep breath of the bracing winter air, he turned around and faced the massive white tent that was quickly filling with a Who’s Who of the fashion industry. Kenji’s show was the hottest ticket in town. From A-list actresses looking for their next award season gown to top magazine editors and fashion bloggers, everyone who was anyone was invited to this thing. He’d heard from the event coordinator that they had to turn people away because the venue wasn’t big enough.
Garret’s lips were blue by the time Milo made his way up the stairs toward the tent entrance. Considering his hair was currently green, the look clashed horribly. A woman with a clipboard spoke into the wireless headset she had on, relaying the news that all guests had been accounted for. The show would start in less than twenty minutes.
“I’m asking you this again,” Garret said as he followed Milo into the chaotic excitement of the tent.
Rows and rows of black-cloth-covered seats were juxtaposed against the long white runway. At one end, the photographers and members of the press were gathered. Toward the middle front row sat the VIPs.
People were seated according to importance. Cassandra would sit dead center. Her opinion was all that mattered.
“Why were you outside in this weather? Don’t tell me you plan on getting sick before Paris Fashion Week, because you might as well kill everyone at Rebel to save them from the wrath of Cassandra if that happens.”
“I just needed some air,” Milo said.
He tugged off his gloves with his teeth, stuffed them into his pocket, and then adjusted the seat that would be Cassandra’s. He would be sitting opposite her rather than at her side, because she wanted a report from the other side of the catwalk… as if the dresses would magically transform from across the aisle.
Milo was happy to do it, since it sharpened his fashion instincts. He often imagined himself as an editor in chief when he sat at these shows. What would she think? How would she judge which was noteworthy and which was just plain unfashionable?
At the head of the runway, he climbed the steps and veered left toward a short corridor that led directly into backstage. If the front was an excited chaos of people, the back was a frantic energy of movement.
Blurs of color zipped past. The brushes of makeup artists flew in when touch-ups were needed. Half the models were still in hair, while the other half were getting into Kenji’s elaborate creations. At least three assistants were needed per dress.
In that war zone, Kenji was as calm as a sand garden—with scissors in his hand, no less. The lavender-haired designer snipped at a stray thread, fussed over a hemline, and at times even helped the model into a dress. He was in complete control of his universe. His creations were already stunning backstage. Milo imagined them under the bright lights of the catwalk, and it took his breath away.
It was promising to be a magnificent show.
The pandemonium reminded him why he loved fashion so much. It took him back to the days when his mother still walked—the sight of people running around like chickens with their heads cut off, the stinging scent of hairspray, and the screech of a producer herding models to line up. The chaos surrounding him seemed even more frenetic than ever.
Galvanized by a renewed resolve to focus on what he did know—that industry people spent billions of dollars every year on this—he fearlessly joined the fray. Garret vanished in search of his own boss. They had lots to do, since Cassandra wanted pictures of this show in the next issue.
The layout department hated having to move things around when most of the book—the final mockup of the magazine—was already locked in. But it was seemingly reckless decisions like these that kept Cassandra at the top of her game. A feature about Kenji during Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week would sell magazines.
Like a homing beacon drew him to her, Milo found said editor in chief standing a safe distance away from the stampeding mix of assistants, models, photographers, and whoever else scored invites backstage.
That day she chose to wear one of Kenji’s tamer creations—a black-and-cream hemp dress with raven feathers woven into the material to give it a purplish-green sheen. It was a bold move on her part, since it declared to the world that she supported the Japanese designer 100 percent.
Nearing her late forties and still stunning—even better-looking than many of the models half her age. With her signature sunglasses on to blunt the harsh runway lights, Cassandra sipped champagne from a flute, her arms crossed. Her silver hair was ironed flat and framed her face. The tight line of her mouth didn’t fool him.
She might look stern, but she wasn’t displeased at all. The slight pursing at the center of her lips said she liked what she was seeing. But no actual judgments could be made until after the dresses withstood the runway test. Sometimes, under those punishing lights, things changed. What looked good one moment could seem hideous on the catwalk the next.
He removed his coat and handed it to one of the assistants to put away. Then he approached Cassandra, squaring his shoulders as he did. The producer by the front announced ten minutes to the show. He crooked his arm toward her.
“Escort you to your seat?” he asked with a calm he hadn’t possessed minutes earlier. He was as Zen as Kenji now, with an underlying excitement for the spectacle they were about to witness.
Cassandra huffed once as a sign of her annoyance, but she took his arm anyway. “I would have you know that the only reason you’re alive right now is because I love your mother dearly and was there as you were pushing your way out of her vagina.”
“Ew, TMI!” Milo blushed scarlet. He glanced around to check if anyone had heard her and only sighed in relief when it seemed like the coast was clear. “Why would you have to bring that up? In public no less!”
“Because you decided to leave me alone when you should be by my side.” Without breaking stride, she placed her half-empty flute on the tray of a passing waiter. “You haven’t been yourself lately. What’s been bothering you?”
“Noth—”
“And before you think to lie to me and say ‘nothing,’ remember I am your godmother as well as your boss. Not only can I fire you, I can bitch slap you and not care about a potential lawsuit. Am I making myself clear?”
Suddenly Milo was ten years old again and experimenting on which lipstick shade matched his skin tone. He’d come to the conclusion that Lancôme’s Pink Posy worked best, but not until he’d massacred most of the samples scattered among the makeup station at one of his mother’s shows. It was Armani Prive, if he remembered correctly. Stella laughed it off while Cassandra spent hours talking the makeup director out of murdering him.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just sorting out some feelings.”
“I heard about Celeste.” She kissed him on the cheek when they reached her seat. “That bitch was a fool to break your heart. Too bad she doesn’t work in fashion.”
“Tuck your claws back in. She has her own life, and I have mine.” He held her hand as she arranged herself daintily on the seat.
“What life?” She frowned without looking up at him as she busily kept the complicated skirt of her dress from wrinkling. It was a feat that she managed to sit down. “You spend more time at the office than anyone else. You don’t take any vacation time.” She wagged a finger at him when he opened his mouth to respond. “Traveling the world to attend Fashion Week doesn’t count. When was the last time you went out with someone?”
Immediately he remembered Kaz sitting across from him, sipping wine while he ate ribs. Damn it! That didn’t count as a date, regardless of what happened afterward.
Kaz ran into him coincidentally and shared his table because the place was packed. So what if they had drinks at Santino after? Or that Milo spent the night at his place and passed out from jerking off while thinking of him?
To distract himself from the invasion of unwanted thoughts, Milo kissed the back of Cassandra’s hand. “Don’t worry about me. My mother does that enough for the both of you. Now, you and I have work to do.”
His boss waved him away and put on her fashion-professional face.
Milo made his way to his seat and settled in. He fished out his tablet from his breast pocket and cued up the lookbook Kenji’s people had sent out. Those in attendance could tap on the dresses they liked and could even make purchases or reservations on the spot using the devices provided for them.
He was busy scrolling through the pictures when the lights dimmed. Kenji stepped onto the runway and into a spotlight and polite applause. He spoke into a mic as purple as his hair and explained the inspiration for the geometric designs of his clothes. Then he thanked everyone for coming and asked that they enjoy the show.
The second he disappeared, Japanese pop music was pumped in and a cartoon of falling cherry blossoms played against the white wall that separated the front from backstage. As the first model rounded the corner, Milo recognized who was sitting beside Cassandra.
Time stopped.
The model’s commanding strut seemed to slow to a stroll.
The music dulled.
The temperature climbed.
All at once his senses became attuned to only one person. Everything else faded away.
“Kaz,” he said under his breath as his heartbeat kicked up.
And as if he had heard him, a slow, sensual smile stretched across Kaz’s usually firm lips.