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 clothes 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 na**d 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?’