‘I have a request.’ Miller’s whisper in my ear wipes my smugness clean from my face. I don’t want to confront him, but I’m given little choice when my shoulders are clasped and I’m turned in his hold. I brace myself, knowing what I’ll find. I’m right. He’s expressionless with a familiar hint of disapproval in his eyes.
‘What?’ All satisfaction has been drawn from my body by the condemnation leaking from Miller in droves. I’ve overstepped the mark.
His hands slide into his pockets. ‘What’s true and who says it?’
My lips stretch to the point of ripping. ‘You know what and who.’
‘Elaborate,’ he orders, not returning my delight.
It makes me grin harder. ‘In Harrods?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well’ – I shift and quickly scan our surroundings, seeing too many shoppers in close proximity to speak of such a thing – ‘I’ll tell you later.’ He’s doing this on purpose. He knows.
‘No.’ He moves in, bringing his chest to mine, breathing down on me. ‘I’d like to know now. I feel in the dark.’ If he’s struggling to maintain his seriousness, then he’s not showing it. He’s perfectly composed, even grave.
‘You’re playing.’ I step back, but he’s having none of it and closes the small space that I’ve created.
‘Tell me.’
Damn him. I search deep for my sass and piece together an explanation on an embarrassed whisper. ‘Feet and a male’s’ – I cough – ‘manhood.’
‘What about them?’
‘Miller!’ I fidget, feeling my cheeks heat under the pressure.
‘Tell me, Livy.’
‘Fine!’ I snap, reaching up on my tiptoes to push my mouth to his ear. ‘Big feet are said to equal big cocks.’ My face flames as I feel his head nod thoughtfully against me, his hair tickling my cheek.
‘Is that so?’ he asks, maintaining all seriousness. The bastard.
‘Yes.’
‘Interesting,’ he muses, then blows hot breath into my ear. It knocks me even more off-kilter and my stability fails me, sending me on a little stagger forward. I collide with his chest on a gasp. ‘Okay there?’ His tone is loaded with conceit.
‘Fine and dandy,’ I mutter, forcing some strength into my weakness and pulling out of his chest.
‘Fine and dandy,’ he muses quietly, a roving eye watching me struggling to compose myself. ‘Oh look.’ He nods over my shoulder, prompting me to turn. ‘Here are my size elevens.’
I chuckle to myself, earning a poke in the back by Miller and a puzzled look from the sales assistant. ‘Elevens!’ she sings, making my laughter cross the line into uncontrollable body spasms. ‘You okay, miss?’
‘Yes!’ I yell, turning away and picking up the first shoe I can find, anything to distract me from the size elevens. I cough when I look at the size, seeing it stated in big, bold type that the shoe I’ve chosen to distract myself with is, in fact, a size eleven also. I fold over on a titter and shove it back.
‘She’s fine,’ Miller confirms. I’m not looking at him, but I know he’s staring at my back, appearing expressionless to the assistant, but he’ll have that playful twinkle in his eyes. If I could face Miller and the flirty assistant without snorting all over them, then I’d be swivelling fast to catch the wonderful sight. But I can’t stop laughing, my shoulders bouncing violently.
Studying the random shoe carefully, grinning like an idiot, I listen to the crumpling of tissue paper as the assistant removes the boots from the box. ‘Do you need a shoehorn, sir?’ she asks.
‘Doubt it,’ Miller grumbles, probably inspecting the boots and mentally complaining about their lack of leather soles. I pull it together and rotate slowly, finding Miller sitting on a suede seat, wrestling his foot into a boot. Observing quietly, as does the assistant, I think how lovely the boots are, all casual in soft, worn brown leather.
‘Comfy?’ I ask hopefully, bracing myself for his scoff, but he ignores me and stands, looking down at his feet before hastily returning to sitting.
He undoes the laces and places the boot neatly back in the box. I want to scream my excitement when I see him shift it, making the pair as neat as possible amid the tissue paper. He likes them, and I know that for sure because he has an appreciation for his possessions and those boots are now his possession. ‘They’ll do,’ he says to himself, like he doesn’t want to admit it out loud.
My grin is back. He will concede, damn him. ‘Do. You. Like?’
Tying his laces with the utmost care, he turns his face up and studies me. ‘Yes.’ He draws the word out with raised brows, daring me to make a big deal of it.
I can’t hide my happiness. I know it, Miller knows it, and when I grab the box, then turn and thrust it into the assistant’s hand with a huge smile, she knows it, too. ‘We’ll take them, thank you.’
‘Wonderful, I’ll place them behind the counter.’ She’s off with the box, leaving Miller and me alone.
I scoop up the jeans and T-shirt. ‘Let’s try these on.’ His sigh of tiredness won’t make me give in. Nothing will. I’ll get him kitted out in a casual outfit if it kills me. ‘This way.’ I march off in the direction of the changing rooms, knowing Miller is following because my skin is alight with the signs of his close proximity.
I turn and hand him the clothes, then watch as he takes them without a word of complaint and disappears into the changing room. I take a seat to watch the hustle and bustle of Harrods, spotting every walk of life: the tourists; the people here to treat themselves, like Nan and her fifteen-quid pineapple; and the people who clearly shop here on a regular basis, like Miller and his bespoke suits. The mix is eclectic and so is the stock. There’s something for everyone; no one leaves empty-handed, even if it’s a simple tin of Harrods biscuits that they’ll give as a special gift or save for Christmas. I smile, then whip my head around when I hear a familiar cough.
My smile widens into silly territory at the sight of his expression, stressed and challenged – then falls away when I cop a load of what’s below his neck. He’s standing barefoot in the doorway, jeans hanging low, a perfect fit, and his T-shirt clinging in all of the right places. I bite my lip to stop my mouth from falling open. Fucking hell, he looks too sexy. His hair is all ruffled from where he’s pulled the T-shirt over his head, a flushed look on his cheeks from the stress of it, which is laughable. There’s no buttons to neatly fasten or hem to tuck in, no belt to secure or tie to knot, no collar to arrange, making it a stress-free task.
Supposedly.
He looks stressed to breaking point. ‘You look amazing,’ I say quietly, taking a quick glimpse over my shoulder, finding what I knew I would: women at every turn staring, mouths agape at the otherworldly man before them. Closing my eyes on a calming suck of air, I leave the sight of the dozens of observers and confront my spectacular part-time gentleman. Miller adorned in the finest of fine suits is a sight to behold, but strip him bare of all of the exquisite cloth and throw him in some worn jeans and a plain T-shirt, then we’re bordering unreal.
He fidgets and pulls at the T-shirt and kicks his feet out, uncomfortable with the hems of the jeans. ‘You look amazing, Olivia. I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’
I restrain my smirk, Miller’s agitation giving me the strength to do so. I need to win him over, not irritate him further, so I move in slowly, watching as he notices me nearing. He stops fiddling and follows my path until I’m looking up at him. ‘I beg to differ,’ I whisper, my eyes running all over his bristly face.
‘Why do you want me in these clothes?’
His question brings our eyes together. I know why, but I can’t articulate my answer so he’ll understand. He won’t get it, and I also run the risk of angering him. ‘Because . . . I . . .’ I stumble all over my words under his crowding frame. ‘I . . .’
‘I’m not wearing these clothe
s if the reason is simply to make you feel better about us or if you think it’ll change me.’ He slides a palm onto my shoulder and rubs soothing strokes into my tense muscles. ‘I’m not wearing these clothes if you think it’ll stop people interfering . . . looking . . . commenting.’ His other hand rests on my other shoulder, his arms braced, his head dipping to hold our eyes level. ‘It is me who is the unworthy one, Olivia. And you help me. Not the clothes. Why don’t you see that?’
‘I—’
‘I’m not finished,’ he cuts me off, firming up his grip and drilling into me with warning eyes. I’d be stupid to argue. His suit has gone, but this casual attire hasn’t chased away his authority or powerful presence. And I’m glad. I need that. ‘Olivia, take me as I am.’
‘I do.’ Guilt consumes me.
‘Then let me put my suit back on.’ He’s begging me with his absorbing blues, and for the first time ever, I realise that Miller’s suits aren’t just a mask; they are armour, too. He needs them. He feels safe in them. He feels in control in them. His perfect suits are a part of his perfect world and a perfect addition to my perfect Miller. I want him to keep them. I don’t think forcing him to wear jeans will lighten him up in the least bit, and I wonder whether I even want him to lose his uptight demeanour. I understand him. It’s of no consequence to me how he behaves in public, because for me, he’s worshipful. Loving. My finicky fine Miller. It’s me who’s the issue here. My hang-ups. I need to get a grip.
Nodding, I take the hem of his T-shirt and pull it over his head as he lifts his arms willingly. A mass of lean, cut flesh is revealed, drawing more attention from shoppers nearby, even the men, and I hand the crumpled T-shirt to the assistant, keeping my sorry eyes on Miller. ‘It’s not suitable,’ I murmur. Miller smiles at me – a grateful smile that yanks painfully at my selfish, fallen heart.
‘Thank you,’ he says softly, taking me in his arms and pressing me against his naked chest. My cheek rests into a pec and I sigh, sliding my hands beneath his upper arms and holding him tightly.
‘Don’t ever thank me.’
‘I’ll always be thankful for you, Olivia Taylor.’ He mimics my words and kisses my forehead. ‘Always.’
‘And me you.’
‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. Now, would you like to remove these jeans?’
I let my gaze fall to his thighs, a stupid move because I’ve just been reminded of how incredible Miller looks in denim. ‘No, you go.’ I push him into the changing room, eager to deprive my eyes of the glorious vision, especially since it’s quite apparent that I won’t be seeing it again. ‘I’ll wait here.’
Happy with myself, I take a seat, feeling a million eyes on me. From every direction. But I don’t humour any of the onlookers and instead retrieve my phone from my bag . . . to be greeted with two missed calls and a text message from William. My body sags on an almighty groan. Facing interested stares is suddenly very appealing.
You’re maddening, Olivia. I’m sending a car for you this evening. 7 p.m. I presume you will be at Josephine’s. William.
My neck retracts, as if taking my eyes further from the screen will change what the message says. It doesn’t. Irritation consumes me and my thumb bashes over the touch screen automatically.
I’m busy.
There. He’ll send a car? Like hell he will, and I don’t plan on being there anyway. Which prompts me to send another message.
I won’t be there.
I don’t need the curtains twitching and Nan’s inquisitive nose pushed up against the glass. She’ll fly into meltdown if she sniffs William out. His response is instant.
Don’t push me, Olivia. We need to talk about your shadow.
I gasp, recalling his vow when he walked out of Miller’s apartment yesterday. How does he know? I spin my phone in my hand, thinking this is the ammo he needs to follow through on his threat. I’m not confirming it, despite my overwhelming need to know how he knows, and just as I reach that decision, my phone starts ringing. I tense and automatically stab at the Reject button before I send him a quick text, telling him I’ll call him later, hoping it’ll buy me some time. I phone Nan to tell her that my battery is dying and I’ll call her from Miller’s, earning a rant about pointless mobile telephones. Then I turn my phone off.
‘Olivia?’
I look up and feel all irritation and panic evaporate from my body at the sight of Miller restored to his normal, perfect, suit-adorned self. ‘My phone’s died,’ I tell him, tossing it carelessly into my bag and standing. ‘Lunch?’
‘Yes, let’s eat.’ My neck is grasped and we’re on our way without delay, leaving behind a casual outfit that I love but don’t care for now and a flurry of women reassessing Miller now that he’s changed. They still like what they see, which is a given. ‘Well, that’s half an hour of our lives together that we’ll never get back.’
I hum my agreement, trying not to let my mind wander too much, yet appreciating that no matter how much I pray, William Anderson isn’t going away, especially if he knows about my shadow.
‘It’s a good thing we’re no longer limited to one night.’
I gasp and twist my neck in his palm to see him. He’s staring blankly forward, not a hint of irony on his face. ‘I want more hours,’ I murmur, seeing blues full of recognition flick down to me.
He dips and kisses my nose chastely before straightening and leading on. ‘My sweet girl, you have a whole lifetime.’
Happiness bombards me and I slip my arm around his waist, hugging his side, feeling his forearm rest against the top of my spine so that he can maintain his hold while accommodating my demand for closeness. The chaos of Harrods is no longer registering. Nothing is, except memories of a one-night proposition and all of the events that have led us here. My fallen heart bursts with happiness.
Chapter Twenty-One
I flap the fleece blanket and let it settle on the grass, visiting each corner to get it as straight as possible in the hopes of reducing any obsessive need that Miller may have to fix it. ‘Sit.’ I point on my command.
‘Whatever was wrong with a restaurant?’ he asks, placing two M&S carrier bags on the grass.
‘You can’t picnic in a restaurant.’ I watch him lower himself awkwardly to the ground, pulling the tails of his suit jacket from beneath his arse when he sits on them. ‘Take your jacket off.’
Blue eyes hit me, awash with shock. ‘Why?’
‘You’ll be more comfortable.’ I drop to my knees and start pushing his jacket from his shoulders, encouraging him to pull his arms out. He doesn’t complain or object, but he does watch worriedly while I fold it in half and lay it as neatly as possible at one end of the blanket. ‘Better,’ I conclude, grabbing the carrier bags. I ignore the slight twitching that Miller’s body has developed. It requires no acknowledgment, because within a minute he’ll be rearranging his jacket to fit his compulsive need, whether I acknowledge the issue or not. I could iron it into position and it would still be wrong. ‘Would you like prawn or chicken?’ I hold up two containers of salad, just catching him quickly yanking his eyes from his jacket.
He tries his damn hardest to look unbothered and unaffected, flicking an indifferent look at me and then signalling between the bowls with a casual flick of a hand. ‘I really don’t mind.’
‘I like chicken.’
‘Then I’ll have prawn.’
I can see the muscles of his eyes pulling his blues in their sockets towards his jacket as I hand him the prawn salad. ‘There’s a fork in the lid.’ I pop the lid of my salad and settle on my haunches, watching as he inspects the container.
‘It’s plastic?’
‘Yes, it’s plastic!’ I laugh, placing my bowl on the blanket and taking Miller’s. I remove the lid, snap the fork into one, and plunge it in the array of salad and prawn. ‘Enjoy.’
He takes the bowl and has a little poke befor
e taking a tentative mouthful and chewing slowly. He’s like a science project. The need to study him in action is overwhelming. I follow his lead and take my own salad and fork, popping a forkful in my mouth. It’s all done absent-mindedly, my desire to continue my engrossed examination of Miller too much to resist. I bet Miller Hart has never sat on his arse in Hyde Park. I bet he’s never eaten a salad from a plastic container, and I bet he’s never entertained the idea of disposable cutlery. It’s all very fascinating – always has been, probably always will be.
‘I hope you’re not overthinking.’
I’m pulled so fast from my musing by Miller’s declaration that I drop a lump of chicken into my lap. ‘Shit!’ I curse, scooping it up.
‘See,’ Miller says, his tone full of smugness. ‘That wouldn’t happen in a restaurant and you’d have a napkin.’ He pops a forkful of lettuce in his mouth and chews smugly.
I glare at him, unamused, and reach for the bag, pulling out a handful of disposable napkins. With precision and on a sarcastic hum, I wipe up the mayo smearing my floral dress. ‘Problem solved.’ I screw up the paper and toss it to the side.
‘And a waiter would be available to clear our litter.’
‘Miller,’ I sigh. ‘Everyone should picnic in Hyde Park.’
‘Why?’
‘Just because!’ I point my fork at him. ‘Stop looking for issues.’
He snorts and rids his hands of his salad bowl, then moves stealthily towards his jacket. ‘I’m not looking. They are quite apparent without the need to search for them.’ He collects his jacket and refolds it before placing it gently down. ‘Seasoning?’