‘Overthinking, Livy,’ he warns. ‘Give me my thing.’
I inch forward slowly, but he doesn’t welcome me with open arms or encourage me. He just watches me blackly, following my eyes as they get closer and closer until I’m gently crawling onto his lap and circling his shoulders tentatively with my arms. I feel his palms gently rest on my h*ps and begin a languid caress of my back while he slowly lowers his face into my hair until we’re locked together, completely encasing each other . . . just holding each other. Miller Hart’s thing has fast become my thing, too. Nothing will ever beat the sense of refuge and solace that I get from a simple cuddle delivered by Miller. His touch soaks up all of the anguish and despair.
‘I’m not sure if I can function without you,’ I say softly. ‘I feel like you’ve become a vital part of what keeps me breathing.’ I’m not exaggerating. That dream was chillingly real, and that feeling alone is enough to make me spill. But he’s too quiet. I can feel his heart beating under my chest, and it’s steady, not shocked and erratic, but that’s all I can feel. I’m very rapidly considering what he must be thinking – probably that I’m stupid and naive. I’ve never experienced this before, but these feelings are intense, uncontrollable. I’m not sure I’m equipped for them, and I’m even less confident that Miller is. ‘Please speak,’ I plead quietly, following up my request with a little squeeze. ‘Say something.’
He accepts my squeeze, reciprocating with his own, and then he withdraws from the sanctuary of my neck and takes a deep breath, letting it stream from his lips slowly and calmly. I take a deep breath too, except I hold mine.
Smoothing his palms up my spine, his hand finds my hair and starts combing through with his fingers as he watches. Then he slowly brings his eyes to mine. ‘This beautiful, pure girl has fallen in love with the big bad wolf.’
My eyebrows meet in the middle. ‘You’re not a big bad wolf,’ I argue, not thinking to deny his other conclusion. He’s absolutely right, and I’m not ashamed of it. I am in love with him. ‘And I thought we established that I’m not so sweet.’ I want to feel his hair and his lips, but he looks despondent, almost troubled by the knowledge that someone loves him.
‘We established nothing of the sort. You’re my sweet girl, and we’ll be leaving that line of conversation exactly there.’
‘Okay.’ I succumb immediately and easily, hating his curt delivery but secretly loving the words he’s used. I’m his.
He sighs and kisses me chastely. ‘You must be hungry. Let me make you supper.’ He starts to untangle our bodies and places me on my feet, running his eyes down my body. I’m still wearing his shirt, buttons undone, hanging open, and it’s creased beyond creased. ‘Look at the state of that,’ he muses on a subtle shake of his head. And just like that, he’s switched back to perfect, precise Miller Hart, like I haven’t just confessed my love for him.
‘Maybe you should invest in non-iron shirts,’ I say thoughtfully, pulling the two sides together.
‘Cheap material.’ He pushes my hands away and starts buttoning me up, and even straightens the collar before nodding his half-hearted approval and taking my nape.
He’s already wearing a pair of shorts, which means only one thing. While I was having terrible nightmares, my finicky, fine Miller was tidying up.
‘Please, sit,’ he says when we arrive in the kitchen, releasing me from his grasp. ‘What would you like?’
I park my bum on the chair, the coolness on my bottom reminding me that I have no knickers on. ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’
‘Well, I’m having bruschetta. Will you join me?’ He takes numerous containers from the fridge and turns the grill on.
He means tomatoes, I think. ‘Sure,’ I reply, placing my hands in my lap in preparation for him to set the eating area. I should offer to help but I know my consideration won’t be appreciated. Nevertheless, I do anyway. I might surprise myself – and Miller – and get it all right. ‘I’ll lay the table.’ I get up, not missing the tensing of his shoulders as he slowly turns towards me.
‘No, please, let me tend to you.’ He’s using his whole worshipping business as an excuse to prevent me from screwing up his perfection.
‘I’d like to.’ I dismiss his worry and make my way over to the cupboard where I know the dishes to be, while Miller reluctantly starts coating some bread with olive oil. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me about your club?’ I ask, keen to distract him from the potential of his sweet girl screwing up his perfect table. I slide two plates from the cupboard and make my way back to the table, setting them down neatly.
He’s wary, his eyes flicking from the plates to me as he finishes up with the oil. ‘I told you. I don’t like mixing business with pleasure.’