I’m all disorientated, the buzz of activity and the twists and turns through the giant store sending me dizzy. I’m just following Miller’s lead, gazing around blankly while he strides on with purpose, clearly knowing exactly where he wants to be. This doesn’t sit well. If I see a suit, I might rip it up.
‘Here we are.’ He stops on the threshold of an area designated for men and drops my grasp, sliding his hands into his pockets. My eyes widen at the array of clothes before me. Heaps of them. Things are jumping out already, my legs eager to take me off in one direction, but then my eyes spot something else I quite fancy and halt me. There’s too much.
And it’s predominantly casual.
His breath hits my ear. ‘I believe this is what you are looking for.’
Happiness and exhilaration sail through me and I turn to look up at him, finding a satisfied glimmer in his brilliant blue eyes. ‘You must be soaring in your second favourite pleasure,’ I tell him, because I’m beside myself with glee. He’s going to let me dress him. He’s like a human clothes-horse, every inch of his physique just perfect and ready for me to grace it with something other than a three-piece suit.
‘Indeed I am,’ he confirms, making me want to squeal in excitement when he scrambles my elation further by smiling.
I hold my breath to stop the screech of joy and grab his hand. Then I practically haul him through the department, my eyes darting everywhere, looking for perfect casual pieces to dress my perfect Miller in.
‘Livy!’ he gasps in alarm as he virtually staggers along behind me. But I don’t stop. ‘Olivia!’ He’s laughing now, and that does snap me out of my dogged march through Harrods, having me flying around to catch a glimpse of it.
I nearly pass out at the sight . . . nearly. My wooziness is an improvement on bursting into tears. ‘Oh shit, Miller,’ I whisper, my hand gliding across the back of my neck and stroking . . . soothing . . . doing what Miller usually does. I’m missing it. I’m like a kid in a candy shop with too many appealing things surrounding me – Miller smiling, Miller laughing, and an abundance of casual wear to dress him in. I’m getting all confused by it, not knowing whether to soak up the pleasure of seeing Miller so animated or drag him into the dressing rooms before he changes his mind.
His face gets closer to mine, his eyes still shimmering and his lips still stretched into a smile. It leaves me with my usual dilemma.
Eyes or mouth.
‘Earth to Olivia.’ He speaks softly, displaying enjoyment at my muddled state. ‘Do you need my thing?’ His delicate touch ghosts my pale cheek, and I nod for fear of wailing on him again. I feel emotional, which is stupid. He’s making me happy, even if a fraction of the reason why we’re here is guilt because of his outburst at the previous store.
Miller holds my eyes with his as he moves in closer until his scent drowns me and his nose is nuzzling my cheek. Then he presses the firmness of his body into me and slowly lifts me from my feet and moves his nuzzle into my neck. I cling on tightly. Very tightly. And so does he.
We remain entwined, lost in each other’s embrace, right in the middle of Harrods, and neither of us is bothered by any potential observers. I suddenly don’t care so much for trying to strip down Miller’s suit-clad fa?ade. I want him to take me home, put me in his bed, and worship me.
‘I said I didn’t want to be long,’ he whispers into my neck, still holding on to me securely.
‘Hmmm.’ I muster the strength from somewhere to release him and find my feet. ‘Thank you.’ I spend a few seconds brushing down the sleeves of his suit while he watches me.
‘Don’t ever thank me, Livy.’
‘I’ll always be grateful for you.’ I finish up with my smoothing hands and step back. He’s brought me back to life, even if that life is questionable and stressful. But I have my fastidious part-time gentleman and his perfect, precise world now.
Superb shoes appear in my downcast vision, prompting my eyes to flip up to his. He’s still smiling, but it’s subsided a little. ‘You have thirty minutes.’
‘Right!’ I snap from my thoughtfulness and immediately stride off towards a wall of shelves with piles and piles of jeans filling them. Miller in jeans just seems . . . weird, but I’m desperate to see the back of those suits, or at least reduce their appearances. And the potential of his perfect arse encased in perfect denim is far too appealing to resist. I scan the tags that describe the fit of each style and finally snatch down a stonewash pair that claim to be a relaxed fit. Which sounds perfect. ‘Here.’ I turn as I shake them out, trying to gauge the size. The legs of these are way too short for Miller’s long, lean limbs. I quickly fold them back up and swap them for a longer leg. ‘There.’ I hold them up against my front, smiling to myself when I have to raise the waist to the base of my chest just to get the hem of the legs off the floor. ‘These should fit.’
‘Would you like to know my size?’ he asks, pulling my stare from the blue denim to the blue of his smiling eyes. They’re nearly a perfect match.