‘You didn’t say that about the rude f**ker in the posh AMG.’ She knows she shouldn’t be mentioning him, but she has a point and every right to make it. ‘I’m just saying, that’s all.’
I shake my head in complete exasperation and push past her, heading into the kitchen to grab my jacket and satchel. All of these emotions – the annoyance, the irritation, the heavy heart and the uncertainty, are all a result of one thing . . .
A man.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ I call, letting Sylvie lock up on her own.
My peaceful stroll toward the bus stop is short-lived when I hear Gregory calling me. Most uncharitably I sigh, pivoting slowly and not even bothering to plaster an insincere smile on my tired face.
He’s in his gardening clothes, looking all grubby with blades of grass in his messed-up hair. As soon as he reaches me, his arm drapes over my shoulder and he pulls me into his side. ‘Going home?’
‘Yeah. What are you doing?’
‘I’ve come to give you a lift.’ He sounds genuine, but I know different.
‘Come to take me home or come to squeeze me for information?’ I retort drily, earning myself a flick of his hip into my waist.
‘How are you feeling?’
I think carefully about what word to use in an attempt to prevent further interrogation. He knows enough and has filled Nan in, too. I won’t be enlightening him on the twenty-four-hour proposition, either, which I’m now in two minds over. I said no and I feel like crap, so perhaps I should just dive right in and feel like crap, anyway. But at least I’ll have an experience to remember while I’m feeling like crap – something to relive.
‘Good,’ I answer eventually, letting Gregory lead the way to his van.
‘If he’s said he’s emotionally unavailable, Livy, it can’t be a good sign. You’ve made the right decision not to see him again.’
‘I know,’ I agree. ‘So why can’t I stop thinking about him?’
‘Because we always fall for the wrong men.’ He leans in and kisses my forehead. ‘The ones who will mess us around and stamp all over our heart. I’ve been there, done that, and I’m glad you’ve held back before falling too far. I’m proud of you. You deserve better.’
I smile, remembering many times when I’ve held Gregory’s hand after he’s fallen victim to a man’s charm, except Miller isn’t charming – not in the least bit. It’s difficult to nail exactly what it is about him, except for his spectacular looks, but that feeling . . . oh God that feeling. And what Gregory has just said is perfectly accurate. There’s a lack of a mother in my life because of her poor decisions when it came to men. That alone should have me running in the other direction from him, but instead I’m being drawn in. His lips are still soft on mine, my flesh is still warm from his touch and I’ve lain in bed every night replaying that kiss. Nothing will ever measure up to those feelings.
I let us in the house and head with Gregory to the back kitchen. I can hear Nan and George chatting and the sounds of a wooden spoon colliding with the side of a huge metal pot – a stewpot. It’s stew and dumplings tonight. I screw my face up and contemplate escaping to the local chippy. I can’t stand my grandmother’s stew, but it’s George’s favourite and George is here for supper, so it looks like I’m having stew.
‘Gregory!’ Nan dives on my g*y friend and smothers his face with her marshmallow lips. ‘You must stay for supper.’ She points to a chair before moving on to me, assaulting me with her squidgy lips too, and then placing me on a chair next to George. ‘I do love it when we’re all here,’ she declares happily. ‘Stew?’
Everyone raises their hands, including me even though I don’t want stew.
‘Sit down, Gregory,’ Nan orders.
Gregory wisely sits, looking at me and George with pursed lips when he sees us both smirking at his wary move. ‘You say no to her,’ he whispers.
‘Pardon?’ Nan swings round, and we all straighten our faces and backs, like good little children.
‘Nothing,’ we chant in unison, earning each one of us a few seconds of narrowed eyes from my dear grandmother.
‘Hmm.’ She places the stewpot on the table. ‘Tuck in.’
George virtually dives into the pot, while I just pick at some bread, breaking off tiny bits and chewing quietly while everyone chats happily.
Miller flashes into my mind, making me blink my eyes shut. I smell him, making me hold my breath. I feel his heated touch, making me shift in my chair. I’m having a mental row with myself as I try to bat away images of him, memories of him and the sound of his smooth voice.
I’m failing on every level. Falling for this man could be a disaster. Everything suggests it will be, and that should be good enough, but it’s not. I feel weak and vulnerable, and I hate it. Nor do I like the thought of not seeing him again.