‘You need to know something,’ I murmur nervously, refusing to meet his eyes.
‘There’s more?’ he blurts, pulling his reaching hand back, like I might bite him. He’s cautious, wary. It doesn’t boost my confidence. I’ve shocked Miller Hart with my dirty little secrets, more than he’s ever shocked me with his moods – transforming from domineering to passive and from cold-hearted to loving faster than I can keep up with.
‘There’s one more thing,’ I admit, hearing him draw breath, preparing himself for what I might hit him with next. For him, this might be the biggest shock of all.
‘I believe we might be conversing, Livy.’ His tone is clipped and intimidating, the one that makes me take notice, whether I scoff at it or cower. Right now, I’m cowering.
‘You still fascinate me,’ I say, looking up at him. ‘All of your set ways, your faffing with things when they’re already perfect, and the way you have to have things just so.’
He’s frowning at me, and for a split second I think he might deny it. But he doesn’t. ‘Take me as I am, Livy.’
‘That’s what I’m saying.’
‘Elaborate,’ he demands harshly, making me cower further.
‘You take command over me,’ I start nervously, ‘and it should probably frighten me or perhaps have me telling you to piss off, but . . .
‘I believe you might have told me to go to hell last night.’
‘Your fault.’
‘Probably,’ he relents on a grunt and a roll of those blistering blue eyes. ‘Continue.’
I smile inwardly. He’s doing it right now – being brusque and starched, but it’s terribly alluring, even when it’s bloody infuriating. I feel so safe with him. ‘I don’t know whether my heart can survive you,’ I say quietly, watching closely for his reaction, ‘but I want to take you as you are.’ I shouldn’t be surprised when his expression remains completely blank, and I’m not, but those eyes tell me a little something. They’re telling me he knows how I feel already. He’d be pretty stupid not to. ‘I’ve fallen.’
His blue gaze touches my soul. It’s now full of knowing and understanding. ‘Why are you on the other side of the bed, Livy?’ he asks, his voice low and sure.
My eyes travel the distance between our bodies, noting a good metre of mattress between us. Perhaps I did go over the top with my decision to distance myself, but I didn’t want to feel his body stiffen when I uttered those words. I’ve not said it, but Miller is an intelligent man. My cards have been slowly laid, and now they are face up for all to see.
‘I . . . I . . . I didn’t . . .’
‘Why are you on the other side of the bed, Livy?’
Our eyes connect. He’s looking at me sternly, like he really is mad about my distance, but I can still see understanding in them, too. ‘I . . .’
‘I’ve already repeated myself.’ He cuts me off completely. ‘Don’t make me do it again.’
I hesitate too long, going to shift towards him but quickly drawing back, wondering what’s running though that multi-layered mind of his.
‘Overthinking, Livy,’ he warns. ‘Give me my thing.’
I inch forward slowly, but he doesn’t welcome me with open arms or encourage me. He just watches me blackly, following my eyes as they get closer and closer until I’m gently crawling onto his lap and circling his shoulders tentatively with my arms. I feel his palms gently rest on my h*ps and begin a languid caress of my back while he slowly lowers his face into my hair until we’re locked together, completely encasing each other . . . just holding each other. Miller Hart’s thing has fast become my thing, too. Nothing will ever beat the sense of refuge and solace that I get from a simple cuddle delivered by Miller. His touch soaks up all of the anguish and despair.
‘I’m not sure if I can function without you,’ I say softly. ‘I feel like you’ve become a vital part of what keeps me breathing.’ I’m not exaggerating. That dream was chillingly real, and that feeling alone is enough to make me spill. But he’s too quiet. I can feel his heart beating under my chest, and it’s steady, not shocked and erratic, but that’s all I can feel. I’m very rapidly considering what he must be thinking – probably that I’m stupid and naive. I’ve never experienced this before, but these feelings are intense, uncontrollable. I’m not sure I’m equipped for them, and I’m even less confident that Miller is. ‘Please speak,’ I plead quietly, following up my request with a little squeeze. ‘Say something.’
He accepts my squeeze, reciprocating with his own, and then he withdraws from the sanctuary of my neck and takes a deep breath, letting it stream from his lips slowly and calmly. I take a deep breath too, except I hold mine.
Smoothing his palms up my spine, his hand finds my hair and starts combing through with his fingers as he watches. Then he slowly brings his eyes to mine. ‘This beautiful, pure girl has fallen in love with the big bad wolf.’
My eyebrows meet in the middle. ‘You’re not a big bad wolf,’ I argue, not thinking to deny his other conclusion. He’s absolutely right, and I’m not ashamed of it. I am in love with him. ‘And I thought we established that I’m not so sweet.’ I want to feel his hair and his lips, but he looks despondent, almost troubled by the knowledge that someone loves him.
‘We established nothing of the sort. You’re my sweet girl, and we’ll be leaving that line of conversation exactly there.’
‘Okay.’ I succumb immediately and easily, hating his curt delivery but secretly loving the words he’s used. I’m his.
He sighs and kisses me chastely. ‘You must be hungry. Let me make you supper.’ He starts to untangle our bodies and places me on my feet, running his eyes down my body. I’m still wearing his shirt, buttons undone, hanging open, and it’s creased beyond creased. ‘Look at the state of that,’ he muses on a subtle shake of his head. And just like that, he’s switched back to perfect, precise Miller Hart, like I haven’t just confessed my love for him.
‘Maybe you should invest in non-iron shirts,’ I say thoughtfully, pulling the two sides together.
‘Cheap material.’ He pushes my hands away and starts buttoning me up, and even straightens the collar before nodding his half-hearted approval and taking my nape.
He’s already wearing a pair of shorts, which means only one thing. While I was having terrible nightmares, my finicky, fine Miller was tidying up.
‘Please, sit,’ he says when we arrive in the kitchen, releasing me from his grasp. ‘What would you like?’
I park my bum on the chair, the coolness on my bottom reminding me that I have no knickers on. ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’
‘Well, I’m having bruschetta. Will you join me?’ He takes numerous containers from the fridge and turns the grill on.
He means tomatoes, I think. ‘Sure,’ I reply, placing my hands in my lap in preparation for him to set the eating area. I should offer to help but I know my consideration won’t be appreciated. Nevertheless, I do anyway. I might surprise myself – and Miller – and get it all right. ‘I’ll lay the table.’ I get up, not missing the tensing of his shoulders as he slowly turns towards me.
‘No, please, let me tend to you.’ He’s using his whole worshipping business as an excuse to prevent me from screwing up his perfection.
‘I’d like to.’ I dismiss his worry and make my way over to the cupboard where I know the dishes to be, while Miller reluctantly starts coating some bread with olive oil. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me about your club?’ I ask, keen to distract him from the potential of his sweet girl screwing up his perfect table. I slide two plates from the cupboard and make my way back to the table, setting them down neatly.
He’s wary, his eyes flicking from the plates to me as he finishes up with the oil. ‘I told you. I don’t like mixing business with pleasure.’
‘So you’ll never talk about work with me?’ I ask, heading for the stack of drawers.
‘No. It’s draining.’ He slides the tray full of bread under the grill and sets about tidying up the mess that isn’t there. ‘When I’m with you, I want to concentrate on only you.’
I falter as I collect two pairs of knives and forks. ‘I can live with that,’ I say on a small smile.
‘Who said you have a choice?’
My smile widens as I face him. ‘I don’t want a choice.’
‘Then this is a pointless conversation, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Agreed.’
‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.’ he says seriously, pulling the lightly toasted bread from under the grill. ‘Would you like wine with your supper?’
Again, I’m faltering, certain I’ve not heard him right. After everything I’ve told him? ‘I’ll have water.’ I pad back to the island.
‘With bruschetta?’ He sounds disgusted. ‘No, you have chianti with bruschetta. There’s a bottle on the drinks cabinet and the glasses are in the left-hand cupboard.’ He nods towards the lounge while neatly spooning the prepared tomato mixture onto the toast and setting it on a white platter.
After placing the knives and forks as accurately as possible, I make my way to the drinks cabinet, finding dozens of wine bottles, all displayed in tidy rows, labels facing outward. Not daring to touch them, I bend slightly to start reading the labels, getting through every single bottle and finding nothing named chianti. I straighten and frown, running my eyes over all of the bottles gracing the surface of the cabinet, noting them grouped according to the alcoholic drink contained in each one. It’s then I see a basket containing a dumpy bottle and as I close in, I see the label says ‘Chianti’. It’s also open.
‘Bingo.’ I smile, taking the bottle from the wicker container and opening the left cupboard to pick two glasses. They all sparkle when the artificial light from the room hits the cut glass, and I admire the shards of light ricocheting between them for a few moments, before collecting two and making my way back. ‘Chianti and two glasses,’ I declare, holding up my finds, but quickly halting when I see my effort to lay a perfect table has been a complete waste of time. He’s just tweaking the freshly laundered napkins into accurate triangles to the left side of each place setting as he looks up.
I’m frowning at him, but he’s frowning at me, too. I have no idea why. He studies the bottle, then the glasses, and in total exasperation, strides over and takes it all from my hands. I’m completely dismayed as I watch him take it all back to the cabinet, putting the bottle back in the basket and the glasses back in the cupboard. I saw the label. It said ‘Chianti’, and I may not be a connoisseur of wine, but they were definitely wine glasses.
My frown only deepens when he takes two other glasses from the very same cupboard, and then takes the basket containing the wine and starts back across the room. ‘Are you going to sit?’ he asks, ushering me to the table when he reaches me.
I answer him by lowering my bum to the chair and watching as he sets the glasses down to the right side above the knives. Then he puts the basket containing the wine between us. Not happy with the items’ final resting places, he shifts them all before taking the wine and pouring a few inches into my glass.
‘What did I do?’ I ask, still frowning.
‘Chianti is traditionally kept in a fiasco.’ He pours himself a few inches, too. ‘And the glasses you picked are for white wine.’
Looking at the glasses, now a fraction full of red wine, I frown even more. ‘Does it matter?’
He looks at me all shocked, and on a little gape of his luscious mouth. ‘Yes, of course it matters. Red wine glasses are wider because the increased exposure to air helps the deeper and more multifaceted flavours of red wine to develop fully.’ He takes a sip and rolls it around his mouth for a few seconds. I half expect him to spit it out, but he doesn’t. He swallows and continues. ‘The greater surface area allows higher air exposure and the wider bowl of a red wine glass allows more wine to be exposed at any one time.’