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.’