I admire the selection of breads, preserves and fruit. But I’m not hungry. My stomach is a knot of anxiety, and his formality isn’t easing my trepidation.
‘What would you like?’ he asks, taking up his seat.
‘I’ll just have some melon, please.’
He nods and takes a bowl, spooning some of the fruit in and handing me a fork. ‘Coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’ I take the fork, and then the bowl, setting it down as neatly as I can.
‘Orange juice? It’s freshly squeezed.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
He pours me some juice and tops his coffee up from the glass pot. ‘I forgot to thank you for smashing my lamp,’ he muses, lifting his cup slowly and watching me as he takes a sip.
I feel my face burn up under his accusing stare, my stomach knotting further. ‘I’m sorry.’ I shift on my chair, my eyes dropping to my bowl. ‘It was dark. I couldn’t see.’
‘You’re forgiven.’
My eyes fly up on a small laugh. ‘Why, thank you. You’re forgiven for leaving me in the dark.’
‘You should’ve stayed in bed,’ he retorts, sitting comfortably back on his chair. ‘You made an incredible mess.’
‘I’m sorry. The next time you abandon me in the middle of the night, I’ll have my night-vision goggles at hand.’
His eyebrows jump up in surprise, but I know it’s not because of my sarcasm. ‘“Abandon”?’
I cringe, diverting my eyes away from him. I should think before I speak, especially in the presence of Miller Hart. ‘That came out wrong.’
‘I hope so. I left you sleeping. I didn’t abandon you.’ He continues with his French toast, leaving those words lingering unwanted in the awkward air surrounding us – unwanted by me, anyway. ‘Eat up and I’ll take you home.’
‘Why do you hope so?’ I ask, feeling anger flare. ‘So I don’t tarnish you with the same brush as I do my pathetic mother?’
‘Pathetic?’
‘Yes, spineless. Selfish.’
He blinks his shock, twitching in his chair. ‘We have a deal for twenty-four hours,’ he fires across the table.
My teeth grit as I lean forward. I can see with one hundred per cent clarity that I’m drawing anger from this normally impassive man with my accusation. Yet what’s not clear is whether he’s angry with me or himself. ‘What was yesterday? In the car and last night? An act? You’re pathetic!’
Miller’s eyes darken and a flash of anger crosses his face. ‘Don’t push me, sweet girl. My temper isn’t something you should toy with. We had an arrangement and I was ensuring it was fulfilled.’
My falling heart splinters painfully, remembering a very different man from last night. An accepting man. A loving man. The man sitting opposite me now is confounding. I’ve never seen Miller Hart lose his temper. I’ve seen him get agitated and I’ve heard him curse – mostly when something isn’t Miller-perfect – but the look in his eyes right now tells me I’ve seen nothing. That coupled with his serious warning also tells me I really don’t want to.
I stand abruptly, my body seeming to engage before my brain does, and walk away, letting myself out of his apartment and taking the stairs to the lobby. The doorman nods as I pass through, and when I emerge into the fresh morning air, I let out a heavy sigh. The smell and sound of London doesn’t make me feel any better.
‘I was talking to you.’ Miller’s annoyed tone hits me from behind, but it doesn’t prompt me to find my manners and turn to acknowledge him. ‘Livy, I said that I was talking to you.’
‘And what did you say?’ I ask.
He appears in my line of sight and stands in front of me, regarding me closely. ‘I don’t like repeating myself.’
‘I don’t like your mood swings.’
‘I don’t have mood swings.’
‘Yes, you do. I don’t know where I am with you. One minute you’re sweet and attentive, the next you’re cold and short.’
He’s thinking hard about my words, and it’s a good few moments of staring at each other before he finally utters some himself. ‘We were getting too close to personal.’
I pull in a long breath and hold it, desperately trying to stop myself from shouting at him. I knew this was coming from the second I opened my eyes this morning. But it still hurts like hell. ‘Is this anything to do with your business associate, or is it just me and my sordid history?’
He doesn’t answer, choosing to watch me silently instead.
‘I should never have given you more of me,’ I whisper quietly.
‘Probably not,’ he agrees without hesitation. It cuts too deep, and I force myself to walk away before I lose control of the building emotion. I will not cry on him. I plug my ear buds in, select random on my iPod and have a quiet laugh to myself when Massive Attack’s ‘Unfinished Sympathy’ fills my ears, keeping me company all the way home.
‘You don’t look any better, Livy,’ Del says, giving me the once-over with concerned eyes. ‘Perhaps you should go home.’