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It feels dumb to be nervous, but I’ve heard a hell of a lot of stories about Miles Hamilton, and not one of them is good. He's the kind of guy who makes my job a whole lot of work. PR’s not easy to begin with, but when you've got the kind of guy who thinks he's a god just because he’s one of the best soccer players on an amateur championship level, well… that's when you really get in trouble.
Still, I’m good at what I do, and so I’ll be damned if I let some British bad boy get the better of me. No doubt he’s going to try and charm us all, and no doubt he’ll succeed on more than one of my colleagues. After all, everyone loves a Brit.
But I don't.
I can’t be so easily wooed by a fancy accent and a lot of cash. I’m not exactly struggling myself, even if I can’t afford to be complacent. The fact is, if this Miles Hamilton gets the better of me, I’m going to be on a job hunt by the end of the week. And that’s something I would prefer not to happen.
I drum my fingernails against the laminated piece of paper I'm clutching in my hands. Should I have used a fancy a font for it? Or would fancy be confusing? Did I use a big enough typeface?
I groan inwardly. All these are stupid things to wonder about. I have to put all this nervousness out of my head. This is going to be a professional relationship, nothing more, nothing less. He's bound by a contract just the same as me, and it's my job to make sure he sticks to it. At risk of cursing it, what could possibly go wrong?
Flight BA202 has arrived at Gate Eight announces the echoey speaker system, the words ricocheting off the smooth floors and walls.
I'm glad his flight's not late. It's already bad enough having to hang around the airport for someone who's going to be so totally ungrateful, let alone having to be here for hours and hours. I straighten myself up, rock back on my heels and put on my very best business smile. He’s not the only one who can be charming.
It takes about twenty minutes before people start filtering through the arrival doors. This is such a busy airport that the doors can hardly manage to shut between waves of people, but apparently this is a bit of a lull for this place. I guess eight forty-five a.m. is a weird time to get here. But if this is quiet, I’d hate to see what busy looks like around here.
I find myself immersed in a sea of British accents and people hugging, dropping sunglasses onto their faces and smiling. This must be his flight, so where the hell is he? It isn’t that hard to grab your bags from the carousel. Maybe he just got unlucky and his bags are last to come through.
My feet are starting to hurt by the time Miles finally sweeps his way through the doors, letting them part for him like that’s how every door should act towards him. He walks with the complete self-assurance of someone who thinks they’re the best, his high cheekbones catching the artificial light and his strong jaw relaxed as he settles into a smile, his blue eyes glittering as he looks around, letting me catch a full three-sixty view of him before he spots me.
I can almost understand why people find him attractive like this: it’s the confidence, the swagger, the boyishly floppy hair and the perfectly proportioned body. Even if he wasn’t notorious, he’d be striking. But he is a recognizable kind of guy, and before he spots me, a young girl stops him to shyly ask for his autograph. He indulges her, dropping all four of his suitcases to the floor.
I get that he’s going to be living here for four months, but I already know exactly how much stuff he’s had shipped over here because I was one of the people who helped to move it. Not that that’s part of my job, but apparently babysitting a grown adult is going to be full-time for me. And I know for a fact he doesn’t need any more stuff.
The girl thanks him and scampers away, and as he grabs his bags again, he looks about like a lost sheep before he spies me. He breaks into an easy grin but I refuse to be swayed by it. I will not be charmed. I have more important things to worry about, like my employment and his track record. He drags his suitcases and his enormous rucksack over to me and dumps them at my feet.
“Hey,” he grins, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. I try not to recoil in surprise. It’s not exactly a standard greeting for me. “I'm Miles.”
“I know,” I say, pursing my lips and forcing myself to smile back. I have to play nice. “Olivia Herrera. It's good to meet you.”
“All right, Olivia,” he says, holding out his hand to shake mine.
“Yes, I am, thank you,” I reply, but I quickly realize it wasn’t really a question because he’s looking at me in bemusement. I decide to change the subject. “And how was the flight?”
He shrugs. “Fine. Cramped. You'd think they’d have invented a plane for people with long legs by now, but apparently we're all still suffering." I let out a soft chuckle at that, glad to be experiencing the first emotion that isn’t annoyance towards him.
He quickly spoils that, though. “Can I help you with your bags?” I ask.
“Yeah. Cheers,” he says, pulling his rucksack onto his back and pushing past me. “Which way is the car?”
I let out an incredulous laugh. “I didn't mean I'd carry them all for you,” I say. “I’m not your maid.”
He blinks in non-comprehension for a moment, then realizes that my hands physically aren't big enough to drag four huge bags behind me.
“Oh yeah,” he says. At least he has the grace to look faintly embarrassed. He runs his fingers through his floppy hair and shoots me that dentist-whitened smile again. “Half and half?”
It takes me a moment to realize what he's even saying to me. But then he grabs two bags and starts marching away towards the exit. I grab the other two and follow quickly after, my heels clacking against the hard floor.
We step through the sliding doors out into the warm May air. A breeze catches my hair, and I sigh in relief at being out in the open again. But where I’m happy to feel the sun, Miles, lets out a groan. “Ugh. It's hot out.”
“It’s only seventy-five degrees,” I say, confused. It’s not hot around here until it’s at least ninety. He stares back at me again, his lips quivering like he's trying to calculate something to himself.
“Oh yeah, Fahrenheit,” he says at last. “Man, this is the stupidest system I've ever heard of. Why can't you guys just like use normal temperatures like everyone else?”
I frown, wishing I'd prepared slightly better for the cultural divide between us. “I guess it doesn’t get too hot for you guys, huh?”
“My phone says it’s twenty-four. That’s hot to me.”
