But I can't do that because I promised you guys a book, and honestly, the world needs to meet Milo. So this is a baby step. If you want a toddler step, you can head over to my sister's blog and enter her giveaway for a chance to win 1 in 3 copies of her new YA paranormal romance OR the 1 e-ARC of American Girl On Saturn itself! (And here's a surprise for you - even if you win her book, you'll still get the first two chapters of AGOS b/c it's featured at the back!)
And now, a Milo/Chloe teaser just for you guys! :)
Selfishly, I hope this lead doesn’t pan out. It’s awful of me to feel that way, I know, but I don’t want the guys to leave. This lockdown has become our normalcy. I don’t want to go back to silence. I want our house to be full of echoes of Xbox games, Aralie’s arguments with Jules, Benji’s shower songs, and Milo’s guitar. Can’t we just keep them forever?
Right now, Milo is my butterfly – wanting to bleed his ink to give the world some color. Yet he’s trapped under glass, being observed and maintained like a research specimen. All the while, I sit here telling him how beautiful his colors are and how the world needs to see them, but behind closed doors, I’m aiding and abetting the mad scientists who want him in a jar.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks.
I walk across the treehouse toward him, and we settle onto the small futon that serves as Emery’s couch. He wraps an arm around me and pulls me closer to him. Mmm, I’ve missed the scent of his body wash. Paige was right – he smells delicious.
“Talk to me,” he says. “What’s on your mind?”
Oh, you know, I just want you to stay here forever trapped under glass even though I’m fully aware that the world needs you to bleed for it.
“If you were a butterfly, what color would you bleed?” I ask.
He looks at me like I just asked him to pluck his eyeballs out. Then his face softens a bit.
“Blue,” he answers. “And you, Ms. Branson?”
I think about my own question for a moment. I don’t want to be typical and say my favorite color like he did.
“Orange,” I say.
He studies my face. “Why orange?”
I try to dream up some pretty line about the sunrise and how the pinks and oranges streak across the sky, but it’d sound prettier in a Sebastian’s Shadow song than from my mouth. So I tell him the truth.
“Because blue burns orange,” I say. “I figure no two colors could ever be closer than those igniting a flame.”
“Maybe you should be the one writing lyrics instead of me,” he says. “That’s deep.”
“Shut up,” I say, looking away at the fuzzy pink rug that Emery must’ve brought up here in the last two days.
“Hey, I was serious,” he says. He reaches for my cheek and turns me back to face him. “I’ll be the blue to your orange any day.”