‘You’re welcome,’ I reply, letting my body mould into the sharp edges of his frame and my hand slip up the hem of his T-shirt. This Miller Hart I really adore – laid-back, carefree, and expressive. I’m tucked snugly under his arm, relishing in his tender kisses on my head and soft strokes of my arm. But then he starts to move me, positioning me on my back so I’m spread down the couch with my head on his lap. My hair is stroked away from my face and he gazes down at me for a few moments before he sighs and lets his head drop back. He continues feeling me as he stares up at the ceiling silently while the wistful tones of the track float in the peaceful air around us. Everything is just lovely – the calmness spacing out my serene mind and Miller’s touch lazily skimming my cheek. But then the sound of his phone ringing from the kitchen interrupts our peace.
‘Excuse me.’ He shifts me and exits the room, leaving me feeling bitter and now resentful of the view, so I get up and follow him.
When I enter the kitchen, he’s removing his iPhone from the docking station on the shelf, bringing the lovely song to an abrupt halt. ‘Miller Hart,’ he greets, making his way back out of the kitchen.
I don’t want to follow him when he’s on the phone, he’d definitely think that rude, so I sit at the empty table and twiddle my ring, wishing us back into his studio.
When Miller re-enters the room, he’s still on his phone. He walks with purpose to a stack of drawers and pulls the top one open, removing a leather-bound organiser before flicking through the pages. ‘Short notice, yes, but like I said, it’s not a problem.’ He takes a pen from the drawer and starts writing across the page. ‘Look forward to it.’ He hangs up and quickly flips his organiser shut, placing it back in the drawer. He doesn’t sound like he’s looking forward to it at all.
It’s a few moments before he faces me, but when he does, I see immediately that he’s not happy, even if his face is completely straight. ‘I’ll take you home.’
My back lengthens as I sit up. ‘Now?’ I ask, slighted and annoyed.
‘Yes, I apologise.’ He strides out of the kitchen. ‘Last-minute meeting at the club,’ he mutters, and then he’s gone.
Upset, irritated and wounded, I return to face the perfectly empty table, but then curiosity makes me stand and before I can stop myself, I’m by the drawers, pulling the top one open. The leather-bound organiser is tucked in the bottom right-hand corner, screaming for me to peek, so I study its exact positioning before lifting it out and glancing over my shoulder. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m snooping when I have no right to . . . but I can’t help it. Damn curiosity. And damn Miller Hart for spiking it.
I flick the pages, seeing various notes, but conscious that Miller could rumble me prying at any moment I hastily skip them all until I reach today’s date. And there, in that perfect handwriting, is a note.
Quaglino’s 9:00.
C.
Black suit. Black tie.
I frown and jump all at once, hearing the shutting of a door. Panicked and with a thundering heart, I make a terrible attempt of putting Miller’s organiser back just right. I don’t have time. I dart to the table and sit back down, using every modicum of strength to stop shaking and look normal. C? Cassie?
‘Your clothes are on the bed.’
I turn and find Miller standing in just his boxer shorts, but my mind is too busy racing to appreciate the view. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says as he leaves me again. ‘Chop-chop.’
Something isn’t right. He’s turned back into the masked gentleman, being all formal and clipped, which is an insult after our time together, especially the past few days. He’s shared something very private and special, and now he’s treating me like a business deal again. Or a hooker. I wince at my own thoughts, knocking the flat of my balled fist on my forehead. What’s Quaglino’s, and why has he lied about it? Uncertainty and mistrust plague me as I fail to prevent my mind from wandering.
I find my phone and pray it hasn’t died. I have two bars, and I also have two missed calls . . . from Luke. He’s called me? Whatever for? He didn’t reply to my text, and that was days ago. I don’t have time to think about it. I clear them and load Google, typing in ‘Quaglino’s’ as I make my way back to the kitchen. When my Internet connection finally decides to give me the information I want, I don’t like what I see: a fancy restaurant in Mayfair, with a cocktail bar to boot. I’m even more wary when Miller strides into the room wearing a black suit and a black tie.
‘Livy, I need to go,’ he says shortly, standing in the mirror and messing with his pesky tie. It was perfect already.
I leave him behind, perfecting on perfect, and hurry to his room, throwing on my jeans and Converse. I’m suspicious, and I’ve never been suspicious because I’ve never had anything to be suspicious about. I don’t like it.
‘Ready?’
I look up and bitterly register how spectacular he looks. He always does, but a three-piece black suit for a meeting at the club? ‘Great,’ I mutter.
‘Are you okay?’ He takes his customary hold of my nape and directs me from the room.
‘I’ll come with you,’ I say, confidence oozing in my tone.
‘Olivia, you’ll be bored to tears.’ He’s not in the least bit fazed by my demand.
‘I won’t be bored.’
‘Trust me, you will.’ He leans down and kisses my forehead. ‘I’ll be drained by the time I’m done. I’ll need you to cuddle, so I’ll come and get you and you can stay with me tonight.’
‘I may as well wait here.’
‘No, you can pack some clothes and I’ll take you straight to work in the morning.’
I scowl to myself. ‘What time will you be done?’