‘Habit.’
I shake my head and glance up to see Nan frowning, too. ‘Are you available Saturday evening?’ I ask, feeling incredibly awkward under my grandmother’s observation. It’s times like now, when he’s reserved and clipped, that he defies the tender man who I’m faced with when he’s out of those suits and has me to himself.
‘Are you asking me on a date?’ I can hear a hint of amusement in his tone.
‘No, my nan is. She’d like you to come for dinner again.’ I feel like such a juvenile.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring my buns.’
I can’t help the burst of laughter that slips out, making Nan look offended. ‘Nan will be pleased.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’ he asks cockily. ‘See you after work, sweet girl.’
I disconnect the call and leave Nan in the hallway as I practically skip down the path from the house.
‘Well?’ she calls, as she follows me out.
‘You have a date!’
‘What was so funny?’
‘Miller’s bringing his buns!’ I shout back.
‘But I was going to make my pineapple upside-down cake!’
I laugh to myself, all the way to work.
‘I might need you on Sunday night, Livy,’ Del says towards the end of my shift. ‘Do you think you could help me out? Big event. I need as many hands as I can get.’
‘Sure.’
‘Sylvie?’ he asks, nodding at her as she works her way out of the bistro with the mop.
She pivots on her biker books and smiles sickeningly sweetly. ‘No,’ she says simply.
Our boss leaves grumbling something about ‘help these days,’ while Paul laughs and I try not to.
‘So,’ Sylvie begins, after Paul has also said his goodbyes. ‘I’m hoping your good mood is because Friday night with Mr Wide Eyes went exceptionally well.’
I cringe. ‘He was nice.’
‘Is that it?’ she asks incredulously.
‘Yes.’
‘Fucking hell, Livy. If you’re going to nab a decent bloke, then you need to be a little more enthusiastic.’ She’s glaring at me, and I’m doing everything to avoid it. ‘So what’s made you so chirpy?’
‘I think you already know.’ I’m not looking at her but I know she has just tried to disguise an eye roll and an exhale of worried breath. ‘Miller’s picking me up,’ I tell her, glancing down the road. ‘He’ll be here in a minute.’
‘Right,’ she says, short and clipped. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘Sylvie.’ I stop and turn, placing a hand gently on her arm. ‘Your concern is appreciated, but please don’t try to stop me from seeing him.’
‘It’s just . . .’
‘A nice girl like me?’
She smiles mildly. ‘You’re too nice. That’s my worry.’
‘This is right, Sylvie. I can’t walk away. If you had led the life I have, you might see this for what it is.’
I can see her face drift into thought, trying to surmise what I mean. ‘What is “this”?’
‘A chance for me to feel alive,’ I admit. ‘He’s a chance for me to live and feel.’
She nods slowly and leans in to kiss my cheek, then wraps me in her arms. ‘I’m here,’ she says simply. ‘I hope he’s everything you want and need.’
‘I know he is.’ I take a deep breath and break free from Sylvie’s hold. ‘Here he is.’ I leave Sylvie and make my way over to the black Mercedes, sliding in and giving her a quick wave. She returns it as she slowly backs away.
‘Good evening, Olivia Taylor.’
‘Good evening, Miller Hart,’ I counter, pulling my belt on, smiling when I hear Crystal Waters ‘Gypsy Woman’. ‘Have you had a nice day?’
He pulls into the traffic swiftly. ‘I’ve had a very busy day. And you?’
‘Busy.’
‘Are you hungry?’ He looks over to me, face straight, no expression.
‘A little,’ I reply, feeling a little chilly in the air-conditioned car. Looking at the digital display on the dashboard, I note masses of switches and dials. There are two temperature displays and a dial next to each, both reading sixteen degrees. ‘Why are there two temperature gauges?’
‘One for the passenger side, one for the driver’s side.’ He keeps his eyes on the road.
‘So you can set two different temperatures?’
‘Yes.’
‘So my side can be twenty degrees, and your side can be sixteen degrees?’
‘Yes.’
I reach forward, thinking it’s such a ridiculously stupid piece of gadgetry, and turn my dial up, making my side of the car twenty degrees.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, starting to twitch in his seat.
‘I’m chilly.’
He reaches for the dial and turns it back until the display reads sixteen degrees again. ‘It’s not chilly.’
Looking across the car to him, I begin to work out the issue. ‘But isn’t that the point of having dual temperatures? So both passenger and driver can set their own comfort level?’
‘In this car, they stay the same.’
‘How about if I turn them both up to twenty degrees?’