He spends way too long thinking about my request before he eventually takes my offering with a little pucker of his brow.
‘Boo!’ I yell with a smirk, making him wince and give a little startled jump before he quickly composes himself and slowly lifts unamused blue eyes to mine. I smile. ‘I don’t bite.’
He’s full to the brim with aggravation, I can tell, but he’s giving me nothing but his cool impassiveness. It doesn’t affect my smiling face, though. I’m properly grinning. ‘Sass,’ he says simply, firming up his grip, refusing to humour me as he takes the lead.
I follow, changing the hold of our joined hands as we wander down the street so our fingers are entwined. I keep the direction of my stare forward, only allowing myself a brief glimpse of Miller. I don’t need to look, but I do, seeing him gazing down at our hands and feeling the flex of his grip as he gets used to his hold. He really hasn’t held a woman’s hand like this before, and while the thought delights me, it also tarnishes the immense comforting feeling that I relish in when he holds me by my nape. Is that how he holds all women? Do they get the rush of warmth bolting through their body when he does that? Do their eyes slowly close and their neck flex a little in absorption and satisfaction? These questions have my hand tightening around his and my head turning to gaze up at him, just to get a good fill of the look on his face, just to see how uncomfortable our connection is making him. He’s stiff as a board, his hand constantly flexing in my grasp, and his expression is almost mystified.
‘You okay?’ I ask quietly as we turn onto Bury Street.
The even beats of his expensive shoes hitting the pavement falter very slightly, but he doesn’t look down at me. ‘Fine and dandy,’ he says, and I laugh, letting my head fall onto his upper arm.
He’s far from fine and dandy. He looks awkward and inconvenienced. Miller, despite being dressed in exquisite finery that blends into London-by-day just fine, is exuding an air of unease. I look around as we continue towards Piccadilly, seeing businessmen everywhere, all suited, some on mobile phones, some carrying briefcases, and all look perfectly comfortable. They look full of purpose, probably because they are. They’re on their way to brunch or a meeting or maybe to the office. And as I return my eyes to Miller, I realise that he’s lacking that purpose right now. He goes from A to B. He doesn’t wander, yet he’s trying his hardest for me. And failing terribly. My mind dips momentarily into the possibility that Miller looks so out of place because I’m attached to his arm, but I toss that thought out just as quickly. I’m here and I’m staying, and not just because Miller says so. The notion of attempting to continue my life without him in it is unthinkable, and my train of thought alone sends a chilliness coursing through my current contentment, making me shiver into his lean body. My spare arm lifts without instruction and my palm wraps around his upper arm, just below my chin.
‘Olivia?’ I leave my head and palm exactly where they are, lifting only my eyes to find him looking down at me with mild concern etched on his face. I force a tiny smile through the anxiety that my wayward thoughts have spiked.
‘I know and love my sweet girl’s look of bliss, and she’s trying to fool me now.’ He stops and turns into me, making releasing him unavoidable and tremendously painful, but I allow myself to be detached. Masses of blond ponytail are collected from my shoulder and released to cascade down my back before his palms encase my cheeks. He bends a little, making sure his face is level with mine; then he reinstates a little of my contentment by blinking so incredibly lazily, I think he might not ever open his eyes again. But he does, and I’m blasted back by the unreserved comfort that’s pouring relentlessly from every fibre of his beautiful being. He knows. ‘Share with me your burden.’
I smile on the inside and try to mentally pull it together. ‘I’m fine,’ I assure him, taking one of his hands from my cheek and kissing his palm gently.
‘Overthinking, Olivia. How many times do we need to go over this?’ He seems cross, although continuing to be super gentle.
‘I’m okay,’ I insist, diverting my eyes from the intensity of his questioning stare, letting them fall down the length of his body to his posh brogues. My mind captures every fine thread of his attire and the outstanding quality of his shoes. And then I think of something and look across the street. ‘Come with me,’ I say, taking his hand and tugging him into the road.
He follows obediently, with not a murmur of protest, to the end of Bury Street and a little way down Jermyn Street until we’re standing outside a men’s clothes store – a boutique-style one, all stuffy and proper, but I see something I like the look of.
‘What are you doing?’ he questions, looking nervously at the shop window.
‘Window-shopping,’ I answer nonchalantly as I drop his hand and turn to face the window, taking in the solid wooden mannequins dressed in top-quality men’s wear. I can see mainly suits, but they’re not what have my attention.
Miller joins me, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, and we both just stand there for an age, me pretending to browse, when all I’m thinking is how I’ll get him in there, and Miller twitching nervously beside me.
He clears his throat. ‘I think that’s enough window-shopping for now,’ he declares, taking my neck to lead me away.
I don’t budge, not even when his strong fingers increase their pressure a bit. It’s hard, but I root myself to the spot, making moving me of the utmost difficulty ‘Let’s go in and take a look,’ I suggest.
He stills, halting his attempts to get me shifting. ‘I’m particular about where I shop.’
‘You’re particular about everything, Miller.’
‘Yes, and I’d like to keep it that way.’ He tries to move me again, but I dip from his hold and head hastily for the entrance.
‘Come on,’ I urge.
‘Olivia,’ he calls, his tone laced with warning.
I stop on the shop step and swing around, plastering a huge smile on my face. ‘Nothing fills you with greater pleasure than seeing me so happy,’ I remind him, leaning up against the door frame and casually crossing one leg over the other. ‘And it would make me really happy if you would accompany me into this shop.’
Blue eyes twinkle but narrow, as if he’s trying to conceal his amusement at my smart-arse comment. His lips are twitching, too, which only broadens my happiness into overwhelming elation. This is just perfect because Miller loves it when I’m happy, and I couldn’t be any happier right now. I’m being playful and he’s reciprocating . . . nearly.
‘You’re very hard to resist, Olivia Taylor.’ He shakes his head wistfully, propelling my happiness further as he takes the few remaining strides towards me. I stay on the shop step, looking down at him, unable to wipe the smile from my face. He keeps his hands to himself and reaches up with his lips, bringing them close to mine. ‘It’s almost impossible,’ he whispers, engulfing my face with his soft breath and my nose with his manly scent. My resolve wanes, but I quickly snatch it back and disappear into the shop before I’m swallowed up and led away from the store.
On entering, I’m immediately given the once-over by a stout man, who appears from the back of the store. He looks like he’s just wandered out of an estate in the English countryside. His tweed suit is crisp and neat and, on closer inspection, I notice the knot of his tie is as perfect as Miller’s. Stupidly, I think that Miller will approve of this, which will only enhance his good mood, so I pivot to face him, but deflate fast when I find he’s disappeared from the door and is now looking through the shop window again, his mask slipped back into place. He’s hovering, looking around cautiously . . . dubiously.
‘Can I help you?’
I leave Miller contemplating whether he’s going to venture into the store and return my attention to the store assistant. Yes, he can help me. ‘You do casual wear?’ I ask.
He laughs a pompous laugh before signalling to the back of the store. ‘Why, of course; however, we are far more renowned for our suits and shirts.’
My eyes follow the direction of his pointed finger and find a section to the rear of the store with just a few rails of casual garments. It’s quite sparse, but I’m not risking leaving to try and get Miller to a shop with a wider range. It’ll give him too long to worm out of it. And on that thought, I swivel again to see if he’s braved venturing into the shop. He hasn’t.
On a sigh loud enough for him to hear, even from outside, I turn to find the assistant again. ‘I’ll have a look.’ I go to pass him, but he shifts on an uncomfortable shuffle of his portly body, blocking my path. I frown and throw him a questioning look as he runs disapproving eyes down my floral dress, all the way to my exposed pink toenails.
‘Miss,’ he begins, returning his beady eyes to mine, ‘you’ll find most shops here on Jermyn Street will be of the . . . how should I say?’ He hums in thought, but I don’t know why. He knows what he wants to say, and I know it, too. ‘The higher end of the clothing spectrum.’
My sass runs and hides. I’m not his typical clientele, and he isn’t afraid to voice it. ‘Right,’ I whisper, too many unwanted thoughts running through my mind. Like posh people eating posh food and drinking posh champagne . . . all of which I serve to them from time to time.
He smiles the most insincere smile and starts fiddling with the sleeve of a nearby shirt on a mannequin. ‘Maybe Oxford Street would be more suitable.’
I feel foolish, and this rotten man’s reaction to my enquiry has only confirmed my constant worries, and he hasn’t even seen Miller. That’ll shock him. Me with a finely dressed specimen such as Miller?
‘I believe the young lady would like to be shown the casual department.’ Miller’s voice creeps over my shoulders and makes them seize up. I’ve heard that tone. Only a few times before, but I’ll never forget or mistake it. He’s angry. I note the shop assistant’s widened eyes and stunned expression before I chance a very wary glance at Miller as he joins me in the store. To the man not trying to help me, I know he’ll look perfectly composed, but I can see the brimming fury. He’s not happy and I expect Mr My-Garments-Are-too-Posh-for-You will know about it very soon.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Is the young lady with you?’ I can see the surprise and it eats away all of the reassurance that Miller constantly fills me with. It’s gone. I’ll face this daily if I continue to try and immerse myself in Miller’s world. I know I’ll never leave him – not ever, not a chance – so it should be something that I must either learn to accept or learn to deal with better. I have copious amounts of sass for my uptight, part-time gentleman, but I seem to struggle on some occasions beyond that. Like now.
Miller’s arm slips around my waist and pulls me closer. I can feel the tightness of his strung-out muscles, and panic makes me want to remove him from the store before they release and knock this old guy on his plump arse. ‘Would it matter if she wasn’t?’ Miller asks tightly.
The man shifts and shuffles in his tweed, laughing nervously. ‘I thought I was being helpful,’ he insists.
‘You weren’t,’ Miller retorts. ‘She was shopping for me, not that it should matter.’
‘Of course!’ Stout Man gives Miller a quick appraisal, nodding his approval before carefully pulling down a white shirt. ‘I believe we have much that you would find appealing, sir.’
‘Probably.’ Miller shifts his hand to my neck and starts rubbing that reassurance back into me. He never fails. I’m warm and feeling less exposed to the demeaning words that have been directed at me, despite him being perfectly polite in his insult. Miller steps forward and runs a fingertip over the luxury material of the shirt, humming his approval. I watch him cautiously, still sensing those coiled muscles and knowing for damn sure that that hum of approval was entirely fake.
