‘No,’ I answer quickly and decidedly staunchly before I’m hauled deeper into those riveting blue eyes. He doesn’t want to wander, but I do. I’m bubbling everywhere, my desire tangible in the open air around us, but I want to take pleasure from Miller in another way. ‘What about your paintings?’
‘What about them?’
‘You must appreciate the beauty of the things you paint or you wouldn’t bother painting them.’ I disregard the fact that they could be even more beautiful if they were clearer.
He shrugs nonchalantly, again looking around us. It’s really irritating me now. ‘I see something I admire, I take a picture and I paint it.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes.’ He doesn’t give me his eyes.
‘Don’t you think it would be far more rewarding if you painted it in the flesh?’
‘I don’t see why.’
On a tired exhale of breath, I toss my bag over my shoulder. I still don’t fully get him, despite constantly telling myself that I do. I’m kidding myself. ‘Ready?’
He answers by taking my nape and pushing onward, but I halt and wriggle free of his hold. Then I hit him with a contemptuous look as he stares down at me, puzzlement obvious on his lovely face. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You’re not guiding me around London by my neck.’
‘Why ever not?’ He’s truly flummoxed. ‘I like having you that close. I assumed you like it.’
‘I do,’ I admit. The warmth of his palm spread across my nape is always an appreciated comfort. But not while wandering around London. ‘Hold my hand.’ I can’t imagine that Miller has ever held a woman’s hand casually, and I also can’t picture it. He’s led me by my hand on a few occasions, but it’s always been purposeful – to put me somewhere he wants me to be, never relaxed and lovingly.
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.