I keep my mouth shut. I can’t even locate the need to be annoyed that I haven’t managed to get Miller interested in some casual clothes, and after that scene, my determination should be stronger. But I never want to face another confrontation such as that, not just because it was humiliating, but also because of my lingering worry about Miller’s temper. He looked feral, bordering on becoming that frightening creature who takes leave of his senses and doesn’t seem able to control himself.
I’m marched down the street, my heart sinking with each step we take when it becomes apparent that we’re heading for his car. That’s it? Our quality time together consisted of a reality check in a posh clothes store? Disappointed doesn’t cover it.
We arrive at Miller’s Mercedes, where he places me neatly in the passenger seat. I watch silently with careful eyes, not daring to voice my discontent as he steams around the front of the car and throws himself into the driver’s side.
I’m nervous.
He’s pissed off.
I’m silent.
He’s breathing erratically.
The anger seems to be intensifying rather than dulling. I’m struck stupid, not knowing what to say or do. He slams the key into the ignition on a hiss, turns it, and revs the engine so hard I think the car might blow up. Sinking further into my seat, I start toying with my ring.
‘Fuck!’ he roars, smashing his fist into the centre of the steering wheel. The punch alone startles me, making me fly back in my seat, but the horn sounding off drags out my alarm. That nasty fear bolts through my speeding heart, but I keep my eyes on my lap. I can’t look at him. I know what I’ll see and Miller’s rage isn’t a pretty sight.
It seems like for ever before the echo of the horn fades to nothing, leaving a ringing in my ears, and it’s even longer before I find the courage to glimpse at him. His forehead is resting on the steering wheel, his palms gripping the circle of leather, and his back is rising and falling erratically.
‘Miller?’ I say quietly as I lean forward a fraction, cautious, but I soon retreat when his palms lift and smash back down on another shout. He flings his body back into the seat, falls silent for a few, long moments, and then he yanks at the handle of the door, getting out and slamming it behind him. ‘Miller!’ I shout as he paces away from the car. ‘Shit!’ He’s going back to the shop! I blindly feel for the door handle, watching his long legs eat up the pavement, but then I halt my frenzied grappling when he comes to a sudden standstill and his hands fly into his hair. I’m frozen, weighing up the merits of trying to calm him down. I don’t relish the thought. Not at all. My heart continues to clatter in my chest, threatening to break free as I wait for his next move, praying he doesn’t push onward because there isn’t a chance on earth that I can stop him from doing whatever he intends to do.
My whole being relaxes a tad when I see his arms drop, and a little more when I see his head fall back on his shoulders, looking up to the heavens. He’s calming down, letting rationality push through the fuzz of rage. I swallow and follow his steps to a nearby wall, then relax even more on an inward sob when his palms meet the bricks and he braces himself, head dropped and his back rising and falling in a controlled, steady manner. He’s taking deep breaths. My hands relax in my lap and my back against the leather seat as I watch quietly, leaving him undisturbed while he gathers himself. It doesn’t take as long as I anticipated, and the relief that floods my seated form when he begins to straighten out his suit and hair is beyond comprehension. Enough air to fill a thousand balloons leaves my lungs on a thankful exhale. He’s pulled it back, although why he lost it so badly in such a silly situation is beyond me.
After spending a few minutes ensuring he’s presentable, Miller makes his way back to the car, opening the door calmly, sliding into the seat like liquid, calmly, and relaxing back in his seat, very calmly.
I wait cautiously.
He thinks deeply.
Then he turns to me with tortured blues and takes both of my hands, bringing them to his lips and closing his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please.’
A hint of a smile traces the edges of my lips at his plea and at his ability to revert from gentleman to madman to gentleman, all in the space of a few minutes. His temper is a worry that our relationship doesn’t need. ‘Why?’ I ask simply, pulling his eyes open and up. ‘That man wasn’t trying to interfere. He wasn’t driving a wedge between us or threatening our relationship.’
‘I beg to differ,’ Miller counters quietly. My brow wrinkles at his claim, more so when he insists on me joining him on his side of the car by tugging me over. He’s crumpled enough after his little flip-out, even though he’s spent plenty of time ironing himself out again. I’m positioned on his lap, my knees straddling his thighs, and my hands placed on his shoulders before he circles my waist with his palms. Drawing a deep breath, he firms up his grip of my waist and locks eyes with mine. They have lost their wildness and are now serious. ‘He most certainly was driving a wedge between us, Livy.’
I try to hold back my confusion but my face muscles let me down and I’m awash with perplexity before I can retract it. ‘How?’
‘What were you thinking?’