‘You must be mistaken.’ I raise my chin and work hard on keeping my voice even. ‘The Miller Hart I know has an appreciation for his possessions.’
‘Don’t!’ He takes my arm, but I yank it free.
‘You wanted to continue with your secret life of f**king woman after woman, and you wanted me to make myself readily available for you to f**k when you got home.’ I mentally correct myself. He called it destressing, but he can call it what he likes. The principle is still the same.
He freezes me in place with adamant eyes. ‘I’ve never f**ked you, Livy. I’ve only ever worshipped you.’ He steps forward. ‘I only ever made love to you.’
I draw a long, calming breath. ‘You didn’t make love to me in that hotel room.’
His eyes clench shut briefly, and when they reopen, I see anguish pouring from them. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’
‘You were doing what Miller Hart does best,’ I spit, hating the venom in my tone and the mild shock that passes across his heart-stopping face as a result of my statement. Many women may think that that’s what London’s most notorious male escort does best, but I know different. And deep down, so does Miller.
He watches me for a moment, unspoken words swimming in his gaze. It’s right now that understanding slams through me. ‘You think I’m a hypocrite, don’t you?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head mildly . . . unconvincingly. ‘I accept what you did when you ran away and gave yourself . . .’ He pulls up. He can’t finish. ‘I accept why you did it. I hate it. It makes me hate Anderson even more. But I accept it. I accept you.’
Shame eats away at me, and I momentarily lose my fortitude. He accepts me. And reading between the lines, I think he wants me to accept him. Take me as I am, Olivia.
I shouldn’t. I can’t.
When an eternity passes and I’ve mentally sprinted through every reason to walk away, I hold his gaze and reel off my own version of his words. ‘I don’t want other women to taste you.’
His body goes lax on an exhale of defeated breath. ‘It’s not as easy as just quitting.’
Those words are like a bullet to my head, and with nothing left to say, I turn and walk away, leaving my perfect Miller Hart, still looking perfect in the pouring rain.
Chapter Three
The week is passing painfully slowly. I’ve seen my shifts through at the bistro and avoided Gregory, and I’ve not returned to the gym. I want to, but I can’t risk seeing Miller. Every time I seem to edge forward a little, he seems to sense it and materialises from nowhere – mainly in my dreams, a few times in reality – to put me back at square one.
Nan appears at the lounge doorway and takes a few moments to dust the nearby bookshelf before swiping the remote control from my hand. ‘Hey, I was watching that!’ I wasn’t watching it at all, and even if I had been utterly engrossed and interested in the documentary on fruit bats, Nan wouldn’t give a stuff.
‘Hush your mouth and help me decide.’ She throws the remote onto the couch next to me and runs into the hallway, returning quickly with two dresses on hangers. ‘I can’t choose,’ she says, holding one up to the front of her body. It’s blue with bright yellow flowers scattered all over it. ‘This one’ – she swaps it for a green dress – ‘or this one?’
I sit up a little and flick my eyes between the two. ‘I like both.’
Her navy eyes roll. ‘Fat lot of help you are.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Dinner-dance with George on Friday.’
I smile. ‘Are you going to rock the ballroom?’
‘Pfft!’ She shakes her head and performs a little jig, making my smile widen. ‘Olivia, your grandmother rocks just about anything she does.’
‘True,’ I admit, scanning the dresses again. ‘The blue one.’
The smile that graces her face replaces some of the lingering coldness that has resided for days, sending a brief shot of warmth to my heart. ‘I think so, too.’ She throws the green one aside and holds the favourite up against her. ‘It’s perfect for dancing.’
‘Is it a competition?’
‘Not officially.’
‘You mean it’s just a dance?’
‘Oh, Olivia, it’s never just a dance.’ She twirls and flicks her grey bob, for what it’s worth. ‘Just call me Ginger.’
I chuckle. ‘And is George your Fred?’
She sighs, exasperated. ‘God bless him, he tries, but the man has two left feet.’
‘Give him a break. The poor bloke is in his late seventies!’
‘I’m no spring chicken, but I can still bump and grind with the best of ’em.’
My brow wrinkles. ‘Bump and what?’
Her legs bend until she’s squatting a little, and then she starts thrusting her old h*ps forward. ‘Bump,’ she says, before changing direction and swivelling her h*ps around, ‘and grind.’
‘Nan!’ I laugh, watching as she alternates between thrusting and swivelling. She looks crafty as she increases her pace, leaving me in a helpless fit of giggles on the couch, holding my aching stomach. ‘Stop it!’
‘I might audition for Beyoncé’s next music video. Think I’ll rock it?’ She winks and takes a seat next to me, wrapping me in her arms. I get my laughter under control and sigh into her bosom, embracing her tight clinch. ‘Nothing gives me greater pleasure than seeing those beautiful eyes sparkle when you laugh, my darling girl.’
My amusement subsides and appreciation takes over – appreciation for this wonderful old woman who I’m so lucky to call my grandmother. She’s worked tirelessly to fill the gaping hole that my mother left and has succeeded to a certain extent. And now she’s adopting the same tactic for the absence of another person in my life. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.