‘We do this your way,’ he reminds me, striding over and holding one arm out. ‘I like you looking after me.’
I huff a sardonic puff of laughter and remove the waistcoat from the hanger, then proceed to help him into it. His chest is quickly close to mine again and my hands are being lifted to the buttons. I can do nothing more than as I’m bid, fastening up each button, then collecting his socks and tan brogues when I’m done. I kneel and rest my bum on my calves to get him into his socks and shoes, tying the laces before making sure the hems of his trouser legs are straight. And last is his jacket. It completes him. He looks spectacular, and his hair is now damp and the dark waves super wavy.
He looks divine.
Gorgeous.
Devastating.
‘You’re ready,’ I breathe, stepping back and pulling my towel in. ‘Oh!’ I quickly turn and scoop up his Tom Ford, not resisting a sniff from the bottle before I douse Miller at the neck. He lifts his chin for me again, his eyes boring into me as I spritz him. ‘Now you’re perfect.’
‘Thank you,’ he murmurs.
I replace the bottle, avoiding meeting his stare. ‘You don’t need to thank me.’
‘You’re right,’ he replies softly. ‘I need to thank whatever angel sent you to me.’
‘No one sent me to you, Miller.’ I face unimaginable beauty, my eyes squinting to prevent the image from burning my irises. ‘You found me.’
‘Give me my thing.’
‘I’ll crease you.’ I don’t know why I’m searching for excuses when I’m so desperate for him to hold me. Or maybe I do know.
I won’t be able to let go.
‘I’ve asked once.’ He steps forward gently but threateningly. ‘Don’t make me ask again, Olivia.’
My lips straighten and I shake my head. ‘I can’t bear the thought of releasing you. I won’t be able to.’
He winces and his blue eyes glaze over. ‘Please, I beg you.’
‘And I’m begging you not to force me.’ I stand firm, knowing I’m doing the right thing. ‘I love you. Just go.’
I’ve never been so challenged in my whole life. Maintaining my front is crippling me, and seeing Miller so unsure of what to do isn’t helping. His expensive shoes are rooted to the carpet, his eyes burning into mine, as if he’s trying to read past my forced hard exterior. This man can see into my soul. He knows what I’m doing and I’m screaming in my head for him to let me do it. My way. This has to be done my way.
The relief that attacks me when he slowly turns has my hand darting out to steady myself on the unit. He walks away slowly, the hurt building with each step he takes. I’m missing him already and he’s not even left the room yet. The urge to scream for him to stop nearly gets the better of me, and my feet are shifting beneath me, willing me to chase him down.
Be strong, Olivia!
Tears pinch the backs of my eyes and my heart slowly beats its way up to my throat. I’m in agony.
He stops at the door.
I hold my breath.
And I hear him draw his. ‘Never stop loving me, Olivia Taylor.’
He disappears.
My strength drains from my body and I crumple to the ground, but I don’t cry. Not until I hear the front door close. Then it all comes pouring from me like a waterfall. My back finds the unit, my knees meet my chest, and my head meets my knees, my arms wrapping around me, making myself as small as possible.
I cry.
For what seems like forever.
Tonight really is going to be the longest night of my life.
Chapter 23
An hour later, I’m on Miller’s squidgy couch after trying his bed, the lounge, the kitchen. The detailed cornice circling the ceiling is imprinted on my mind and I’ve relived every moment since I’ve met Miller. Everything. I’m smiling to myself each time I’ve pictured any one of Miller’s spellbinding traits, but then I’m cursing aloud when the image of Gracie Taylor intrudes on my attempts to distract myself. She doesn’t have a place in my thoughts or my life, so just the mere fact that she’s taking up any scrap of my thinking space is infuriating me. I haven’t the time or the energy to wallow in the added turmoil she could spike. She’s undeserving of any heartache I could allow myself to feel. She’s selfish. I hate her, except now I have a clear image – a face etched on my mind to hate.
I toss my body over on the couch, so I’m now staring out across the London skyline, and I’m wondering if my mind is purposely sending me down this line of thought. Am I subconsciously distracting myself from thinking about what’s happening right now? Is this anger better than the wretchedness I’m certain to feel if I allow my brain to focus on what Miller is doing right now?