Chapter 2
I’m standing on the pavement outside our hotel, gazing up to the sky. It’s part of my daily routine. Every morning I wander down, leaving Miller fussing with something back upstairs, and take up position at the roadside, my head fallen back, staring in wonder up to the heavens. People sidestep me, taxis and shiny black SUVs zoom past, and the chaos of New York City saturates my hearing. I’m held captivated under the spell of the towering glass and metal guarding the city. Just . . . incredible.
There are not many things that can yank me from my raptured state, but his touch is one of those things. And his breath at my ear.
‘Boom,’ he murmurs, turning me in his arms. ‘They don’t grow overnight, you know.’
I glimpse up again. ‘I just don’t understand how they stay upright.’ My jaw is clasped and pulled back down. His eyes are soft and amused.
‘Maybe you should seek to sate this fascination.’
My neck retracts. ‘What do you mean?’
His palm slides to my nape and he starts guiding me towards Sixth Avenue. ‘Perhaps you should look into studying structural engineering.’
Dipping out of his hold, I place my hand in his. And he lets me, carrying out the usual flex of his fingers until he has a comfy grip. ‘I prefer the history behind the building, not how it was built.’ I glance up at him, then let my eyes fall down the length of his tall physique, smiling as I do. He has jeans on. Lovely, relaxed fitting jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Wearing suits while we’re here would be ridiculously inappropriate and I wasn’t afraid to tell him so. He didn’t argue about it either, allowing me to drag him around Saks for the whole first day we were here. He has no need for a suit in New York; there’s no one he needs to fool with his routine as an aloof gentleman. Despite this, though, Miller Hart still doesn’t do wandering very well. Or mixing, for that matter.
‘So, do you remember your challenge for today?’ he asks as we pause at a DON’T WALK signal. His eyebrows are raised as I smile up at him.
‘Yes, and I’m all prepared.’ I lost myself in the New York Public Library for hours yesterday while Miller took care of some business calls. I didn’t want to leave. I’d tortured myself a little by Googling ‘Gracie Taylor’. But it was like she didn’t even exist. After a few more tries of coming up with nothing, I lost myself in dozens of books, but not all historical architecture books. I took a brief peek at one about OCD, and I found out a few things, like the connection with anger. Miller certainly has a temper.
‘And what building did you choose?’
‘The Brill Building.’
He frowns down at me. ‘The Brill Building?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not the Empire State or Rockefeller?’
I smile. ‘Everyone knows the histories of those.’ I also thought everyone knew the histories of most of the buildings in London, but I was mistaken. Miller knew nothing about the Café Royal or the story behind it. Perhaps I’ve immersed myself a bit too much in the opulence of London. I know everything and I’m not sure if that makes me sad, obsessed, or a damn good tour guide.
‘They do?’
I’m delighted by his doubt. ‘The Brill Building is more obscure, but I’ve heard of it and I think you’ll love to hear what I’ve learned.’ The lights change and we begin to cross. ‘It has a very interesting history in music.’
‘It does?’
‘Yes.’ I gaze up at him and he smiles fondly. He might seem alarmed by my pointless historical knowledge of architecture, but I know he relishes in my enthusiasm. ‘Have you remembered your challenge?’ I pull him to a halt before he can take us across another road.
My lovely, obsessive man regards me closely. And I grin. He remembers. ‘Something about fast food.’
‘Hot dogs.’
‘That’s right,’ he confirms, full of trepidation. ‘You want me to eat a hot dog.’
‘I do,’ I confirm, hysterical on the inside. Every day we have been in New York, we’ve each set a challenge for the other to fulfil. Miller’s challenges for me have all been somewhat interesting, from preparing a lecture on a local building to bathing without touching him, even if he touched me. That was torturous and I failed miserably. Not that he was much bothered, but it lost me a point. My challenges for him have been a little bit childish but perfectly appropriate for Miller, like sitting on the grass in Central Park, eating in a restaurant without precisely aligning his wineglass, and now eating a hotdog. My challenges are all very easy . . . supposedly. He fought through some and failed others, like resisting shifting his wineglass. The score? Eight to Olivia, seven to Miller.