I’m speechless and feeling rather uncultured and intimidated. ‘I knew that,’ I grumble, picking up my own glass. ‘You’re such a smart arse.’
He’s fighting a smile, I know it. I wish he’d just loosen up with the sophistication and uptight manners that being at a dinner table especially brings, and flash me that heart-stopping smile. ‘I’m a smart arse because I appreciate beautiful things?’ He raises his perfect eyebrows as he raises his perfect glass containing the perfect wine, taking a perfectly slow and suggestive sip with those perfect lips.
‘Appreciate or obsess about?’ I put the word out there because if there’s one thing about Miller Hart that I’m absolutely certain of, it’s that he’s obsessive, and he’s obsessive about most things in his life. And I hope that one of those things is me.
‘I’m more inclined to appreciate.’
‘I’m more inclined to obsess.’
He cocks his head, amused. ‘Are you talking in code, sweet girl?’
‘Are you good at cracking codes?’
‘The master,’ he utters low, licking his lips, making me squirm on my chair. ‘I’ve cracked you.’ He tips his glass toward me. ‘I’ve also conquered you.’
I can’t argue with him; he has, so I reach over and take some bruschetta. ‘This looks delicious.’
‘I concur,’ he says, taking a piece for himself. I sink my teeth in on a satisfied hum, quickly noting that I’m being looked at in disapproval again. My chewing slows, wondering what I’ve done now. I soon find out. He picks up his knife and fork and makes a stupidly slow display of slicing his way through the bread before slowly taking the piece from the fork and setting his cutlery down neatly. He starts to chew as he watches me heating with embarrassment. I need to take some lessons in refinement.
‘Do I annoy you?’ I ask, setting down my bruschetta and following his lead.
‘Annoy me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Far from it, Livy. Except when you’re being a little reckless.’ He hits me with a disapproving look, which I choose to sidestep. ‘You fascinate me.’
‘With my common ways?’ I ask quietly.
‘You’re not common.’
‘No, you’re right. You’re a snob . . .’ I pause briefly as he coughs his surprise. ‘Sometimes,’ I add. My beautiful man in disguise is generally a gentleman, except when he’s being an arrogant twat.
‘I don’t think well-mannered classifies as snobbery.’
‘You’re more than well-mannered, Miller.’ I sigh, resisting the urge to put my elbows on the table. ‘I quite like it, though.’
‘Like I’ve said before, Livy. Take me as I am.’
‘I have.’
‘As I have you.’
I recoil on the inside, a little injured by his remark. He means that he’s accepted my shameful history and lack of manners, that’s what he means – I’ve accepted him for being a part-time gentleman with a fascinating compulsion to have everything in his life perfect, while he’s accepted me for being a careless tart who doesn’t know her white wine glass from her red. He’s right, though, and I’m glad he’s accepted me, but he doesn’t need to remind me of my shortcomings.
‘Overthinking, Livy,’ he says quietly, snapping me from my mental deliberation.
‘I’m sorry. I just don’t understand . . .
‘You’re being silly.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘Stop it!’ he shouts, shifting his recently placed wine glass at the same time. ‘Just accept that it’s happening, like I said it would.’ I retreat in my chair cautiously, keeping quiet. ‘I’ve already told you that I don’t necessarily understand, but it’s happening and there is nothing neither I nor you can, or should, do about it.’ He swipes his glass up, making his action of a second ago completely pointless, and takes a violent swig – not a sip, he doesn’t savour the taste; he swigs it.
He’s really mad.
‘Shit,’ he spits, slamming his glass down and grabbing his head. ‘Livy, I . . .’ He sighs and pushes himself out of his chair, holding his hands out to me. ‘Please, come here.’
I sigh too, getting up from the table on a frustrated shake of my head and making my way around to him, quickly climbing onto his lap and letting him apologise with his thing.
‘I apologise,’ he whispers, kissing my hair. ‘It upsets me when you talk like that, like you’re not worthy. I’m the unworthy one.’
‘Not true,’ I say, pulling back so I can get his lovely face in my sight. And it really is lovely, his signature shadow holding fort and his light-blue eyes glistening. Reaching up, I take a wave of his hair and twist it gently between my fingers.
‘We’ll agree to disagree.’ He drops his mouth to mine and reinforces his apology with a lazy dance of his tongue with mine. The world is right again, but the flashes of that temper he’s warned me of are becoming a concern. He always looks momentarily feral, and I can see with clarity his battle to rein it in.
After apologising thoroughly, he turns me around on his lap and feeds me some bruschetta, and then takes some for himself. We eat in a comfortable silence, but I’m a bit bemused that Miller’s table manners accept me on his lap, but it won’t accept the bottle of wine slightly off position.
It’s all calm and lovely until the sound of his iPhone breaks our peaceful supper, ringing persistently from somewhere behind me. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, lifting me from his lap and pacing over to a set of shelves by the fridge. I definitely see a look of irritation when he glances at the screen before answering. ‘Miller Hart.’ He walks from the kitchen, leaving me to settle back on my chair. ‘It’s no problem,’ he assures whoever’s on the other end of the line, his bare back disappearing from view.
I take the opportunity while he’s away from the table to study the set-up, again trying to work out if there’s a theory to his madness. I reach over and pick up the platter in a silly test to see if there is an outline which marks its place. Of course there isn’t, but it doesn’t stop me from picking up my plate to check under there too. Nothing. Smiling, I reach the swift conclusion that there are outlines for everything, but only Miller can see them. Then I take my red wine glass and stick my nose in the top before sipping cautiously.
My attention is pulled to Miller when he re-enters the kitchen and pops his phone back where it belongs in the docking station. ‘That was the manager of Ice.’
‘The manager?’
‘Yes, Tony. He takes care of things in my absence.’
‘Oh.’
‘I have an interview tomorrow. He was just confirming times.’
‘An interview for a newspaper?’
‘Yes, about the opening of London’s new elite club.’ He starts loading the dishwasher. ‘Six tomorrow evening. Would you like to come with me?’
My spirits lift to stupid heights. ‘I thought you didn’t mix business with pleasure.’ I arch an eyebrow at him, and he arches one right back, making me grin.
‘Would you like to come?’ he repeats.
I’m smiling properly now. ‘Where is it?’
‘At Ice. I’ll take you for dinner after.’ He casts me a sideways glance. ‘It’s rude not to accept a gentleman’s offer to wine and dine you,’ he says seriously. ‘Ask your grandmother.’
I laugh and start to collect the dishes from the table. ‘Offer accepted.’
‘Jolly good, Miss Taylor.’ There’s humour in his tone, and it widens my smile. ‘May I suggest you call your grandmother?’
‘You may.’ I slide the last of the dishes on the counter, leaving Miller to reshuffle and load. ‘Which drawer will I find my things in?’
‘Second from bottom. And be quick. I have a habit that I want to lose myself with under the sheets.’ He’s serious and stern . . . and I couldn’t care less.
Chapter 21
I drifted off to the calming tone of Miller humming sweetly in my ear, kissing my hair repeatedly and surrounding me in his thing. I know he got out of bed to pick up his boxers and shirt that I left strewn on the floor, but he was soon back, cuddling up behind me.
When I woke, he was already up, showered and suited with his side of the bed made. I lay there for a few moments, thinking how me entering his life has played havoc with his perfectly assembled and organised world before I was ordered to get up and get dressed. With a lack of other clothes, I was delivered home in my freshly laundered dress, much to Nan’s delight.
After showering, texting Gregory to advise him that I’m alive, and readying myself for work, I dart down the stairs with only twenty minutes to get my happy arse to the bistro. Nan’s waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, her cheerful face a pleasure to see, but the diary in her hand, not so much.
‘Ask Miller about dinner,’ she orders as I slip my denim jacket on. She flicks the pages of her diary and runs her wrinkled finger down the dates. ‘I can do tonight, but I can’t do tomorrow or Wednesday. Tonight’s cutting it a little fine, but I have time to pop to Harrods. Or we could do Saturday . . . oh, no we can’t. I have a tea and cakes meeting.’
‘Miller has an interview this evening.’
Her old navy blues fly up in surprise. ‘An interview?’
‘Yes, for the new bar he’s opened.’
‘Miller owns a bar? Goodness me!’ She snaps her diary shut. ‘You mean to say he’ll be in the paper?’
‘Yes.’ I swing my satchel across my body. ‘He’s picking me up from work so I won’t be here for tea.’
‘How exciting! How about Saturday for dinner? I can rearrange my diary.’
It staggers me how my grandmother’s social life is more active than mine . . . or it was until recently. ‘I’ll ask him,’ I pacify her, opening the front door.
‘Call him now.’
I turn on a frown. ‘I’ll be seeing him later.’
‘No, no.’ She points to my satchel. ‘I need to know now. I’ll have to go shopping and call the community centre to rearrange the tea and cakes meeting. I can’t just fall into line with you and Miller.’
I inwardly laugh. ‘Let’s have dinner next week, then,’ I suggest, solving the problem immediately.
Her old, thin lips purse. ‘Make the call!’ she insists, prompting me to immediately dive into my bag for my phone. I can’t deny her the excitement, not now Miller and I seem to be on the same page.
‘Okay,’ I soothe, dialling Miller under her watchful eyes.
He answers in an instant. ‘Miller Hart,’ he says, all formal and businesslike.
I frown down the line. ‘Do you have my number stored?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why are you answering like you don’t know who it is?’
‘Habit.’
I shake my head and glance up to see Nan frowning, too. ‘Are you available Saturday evening?’ I ask, feeling incredibly awkward under my grandmother’s observation. It’s times like now, when he’s reserved and clipped, that he defies the tender man who I’m faced with when he’s out of those suits and has me to himself.
‘Are you asking me on a date?’ I can hear a hint of amusement in his tone.
‘No, my nan is. She’d like you to come for dinner again.’ I feel like such a juvenile.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring my buns.’
I can’t help the burst of laughter that slips out, making Nan look offended. ‘Nan will be pleased.’
