Denied

He fidgets and pulls at the T-shirt and kicks his feet out, uncomfortable with the hems of the jeans. ‘You look amazing, Olivia. I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

I restrain my smirk, Miller’s agitation giving me the strength to do so. I need to win him over, not irritate him further, so I move in slowly, watching as he notices me nearing. He stops fiddling and follows my path until I’m looking up at him. ‘I beg to differ,’ I whisper, my eyes running all over his bristly face.

‘Why do you want me in these clothes?’

His question brings our eyes together. I know why, but I can’t articulate my answer so he’ll understand. He won’t get it, and I also run the risk of angering him. ‘Because . . . I . . .’ I stumble all over my words under his crowding frame. ‘I . . .’

‘I’m not wearing these clothes if the reason is simply to make you feel better about us or if you think it’ll change me.’ He slides a palm onto my shoulder and rubs soothing strokes into my tense muscles. ‘I’m not wearing these clothes if you think it’ll stop people interfering . . . looking . . . commenting.’ His other hand rests on my other shoulder, his arms braced, his head dipping to hold our eyes level. ‘It is me who is the unworthy one, Olivia. And you help me. Not the clothes. Why don’t you see that?’

‘I—’

‘I’m not finished,’ he cuts me off, firming up his grip and drilling into me with warning eyes. I’d be stupid to argue. His suit has gone, but this casual attire hasn’t chased away his authority or powerful presence. And I’m glad. I need that. ‘Olivia, take me as I am.’

‘I do.’ Guilt consumes me.

‘Then let me put my suit back on.’ He’s begging me with his absorbing blues, and for the first time ever, I realise that Miller’s suits aren’t just a mask; they are armour, too. He needs them. He feels safe in them. He feels in control in them. His perfect suits are a part of his perfect world and a perfect addition to my perfect Miller. I want him to keep them. I don’t think forcing him to wear jeans will lighten him up in the least bit, and I wonder whether I even want him to lose his uptight demeanour. I understand him. It’s of no consequence to me how he behaves in public, because for me, he’s worshipful. Loving. My finicky fine Miller. It’s me who’s the issue here. My hang-ups. I need to get a grip.

Nodding, I take the hem of his T-shirt and pull it over his head as he lifts his arms willingly. A mass of lean, cut flesh is revealed, drawing more attention from shoppers nearby, even the men, and I hand the crumpled T-shirt to the assistant, keeping my sorry eyes on Miller. ‘It’s not suitable,’ I murmur. Miller smiles at me – a grateful smile that yanks painfully at my selfish, fallen heart.

‘Thank you,’ he says softly, taking me in his arms and pressing me against his na**d chest. My cheek rests into a pec and I sigh, sliding my hands beneath his upper arms and holding him tightly.

‘Don’t ever thank me.’

‘I’ll always be thankful for you, Olivia Taylor.’ He mimics my words and kisses my forehead. ‘Always.’

‘And me you.’

‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. Now, would you like to remove these jeans?’

I let my gaze fall to his thighs, a stupid move because I’ve just been reminded of how incredible Miller looks in denim. ‘No, you go.’ I push him into the changing room, eager to deprive my eyes of the glorious vision, especially since it’s quite apparent that I won’t be seeing it again. ‘I’ll wait here.’

Happy with myself, I take a seat, feeling a million eyes on me. From every direction. But I don’t humour any of the onlookers and instead retrieve my phone from my bag . . . to be greeted with two missed calls and a text message from William. My body sags on an almighty groan. Facing interested stares is suddenly very appealing.

You’re maddening, Olivia. I’m sending a car for you this evening. 7 p.m. I presume you will be at Josephine’s. William.

My neck retracts, as if taking my eyes further from the screen will change what the message says. It doesn’t. Irritation consumes me and my thumb bashes over the touch screen automatically.

I’m busy.

There. He’ll send a car? Like hell he will, and I don’t plan on being there anyway. Which prompts me to send another message.

I won’t be there.

I don’t need the curtains twitching and Nan’s inquisitive nose pushed up against the glass. She’ll fly into meltdown if she sniffs William out. His response is instant.

Don’t push me, Olivia. We need to talk about your shadow.

I gasp, recalling his vow when he walked out of Miller’s apartment yesterday. How does he know? I spin my phone in my hand, thinking this is the ammo he needs to follow through on his threat. I’m not confirming it, despite my overwhelming need to know how he knows, and just as I reach that decision, my phone starts ringing. I tense and automatically stab at the Reject button before I send him a quick text, telling him I’ll call him later, hoping it’ll buy me some time. I phone Nan to tell her that my battery is dying and I’ll call her from Miller’s, earning a rant about pointless mobile telephones. Then I turn my phone off.

‘Olivia?’

I look up and feel all irritation and panic evaporate from my body at the sight of Miller restored to his normal, perfect, suit-adorned self. ‘My phone’s died,’ I tell him, tossing it carelessly into my bag and standing. ‘Lunch?’

‘Yes, let’s eat.’ My neck is grasped and we’re on our way without delay, leaving behind a casual outfit that I love but don’t care for now and a flurry of women reassessing Miller now that he’s changed. They still like what they see, which is a given. ‘Well, that’s half an hour of our lives together that we’ll never get back.’

I hum my agreement, trying not to let my mind wander too much, yet appreciating that no matter how much I pray, William Anderson isn’t going away, especially if he knows about my shadow.

‘It’s a good thing we’re no longer limited to one night.’

I gasp and twist my neck in his palm to see him. He’s staring blankly forward, not a hint of irony on his face. ‘I want more hours,’ I murmur, seeing blues full of recognition flick down to me.

He dips and kisses my nose chastely before straightening and leading on. ‘My sweet girl, you have a whole lifetime.’

Happiness bombards me and I slip my arm around his waist, hugging his side, feeling his forearm rest against the top of my spine so that he can maintain his hold while accommodating my demand for closeness. The chaos of Harrods is no longer registering. Nothing is, except memories of a one-night proposition and all of the events that have led us here. My fallen heart bursts with happiness.

Chapter Twenty-One

I flap the fleece blanket and let it settle on the grass, visiting each corner to get it as straight as possible in the hopes of reducing any obsessive need that Miller may have to fix it. ‘Sit.’ I point on my command.

‘Whatever was wrong with a restaurant?’ he asks, placing two M&S carrier bags on the grass.

‘You can’t picnic in a restaurant.’ I watch him lower himself awkwardly to the ground, pulling the tails of his suit jacket from beneath his arse when he sits on them. ‘Take your jacket off.’

Blue eyes hit me, awash with shock. ‘Why?’

‘You’ll be more comfortable.’ I drop to my knees and start pushing his jacket from his shoulders, encouraging him to pull his arms out. He doesn’t complain or object, but he does watch worriedly while I fold it in half and lay it as neatly as possible at one end of the blanket. ‘Better,’ I conclude, grabbing the carrier bags. I ignore the slight twitching that Miller’s body has developed. It requires no acknowledgment, because within a minute he’ll be rearranging his jacket to fit his compulsive need, whether I acknowledge the issue or not. I could iron it into position and it would still be wrong. ‘Would you like prawn or chicken?’ I hold up two containers of salad, just catching him quickly yanking his eyes from his jacket.

He tries his damn hardest to look unbothered and unaffected, flicking an indifferent look at me and then signalling between the bowls with a casual flick of a hand. ‘I really don’t mind.’

‘I like chicken.’

‘Then I’ll have prawn.’

I can see the muscles of his eyes pulling his blues in their sockets towards his jacket as I hand him the prawn salad. ‘There’s a fork in the lid.’ I pop the lid of my salad and settle on my haunches, watching as he inspects the container.

‘It’s plastic?’

‘Yes, it’s plastic!’ I laugh, placing my bowl on the blanket and taking Miller’s. I remove the lid, snap the fork into one, and plunge it in the array of salad and prawn. ‘Enjoy.’

He takes the bowl and has a little poke before taking a tentative mouthful and chewing slowly. He’s like a science project. The need to study him in action is overwhelming. I follow his lead and take my own salad and fork, popping a forkful in my mouth. It’s all done absent-mindedly, my desire to continue my engrossed examination of Miller too much to resist. I bet Miller Hart has never sat on his arse in Hyde Park. I bet he’s never eaten a salad from a plastic container, and I bet he’s never entertained the idea of disposable cutlery. It’s all very fascinating – always has been, probably always will be.

‘I hope you’re not overthinking.’

I’m pulled so fast from my musing by Miller’s declaration that I drop a lump of chicken into my lap. ‘Shit!’ I curse, scooping it up.

‘See,’ Miller says, his tone full of smugness. ‘That wouldn’t happen in a restaurant and you’d have a napkin.’ He pops a forkful of lettuce in his mouth and chews smugly.

I glare at him, unamused, and reach for the bag, pulling out a handful of disposable napkins. With precision and on a sarcastic hum, I wipe up the mayo smearing my floral dress. ‘Problem solved.’ I screw up the paper and toss it to the side.

‘And a waiter would be available to clear our litter.’

‘Miller,’ I sigh. ‘Everyone should picnic in Hyde Park.’

‘Why?’

‘Just because!’ I point my fork at him. ‘Stop looking for issues.’

He snorts and rids his hands of his salad bowl, then moves stealthily towards his jacket. ‘I’m not looking. They are quite apparent without the need to search for them.’ He collects his jacket and refolds it before placing it gently down. ‘Seasoning?’

‘Huh?’

‘Seasoning.’ He takes his place again, and his salad. ‘What if I required some extra seasoning on this’ – he glances down at the bowl doubtfully – ‘meal.’

I drop my bowl and collapse to my back in exasperation. The sky is blue and clear and I’d usually be captured by it, but the pleasant view is being hampered by a mind crammed with frustration. A picnic. That’s all.

‘What’s wrong, sweet girl?’ His face appears, hovering above me.

‘You!’ I accuse. ‘Quality time, that’s what you said, and this could be it if you’d stop being such a snob and enjoy the scenery, food and company.’

‘I love the company.’ He drops his mouth to mine and blindsides me with his worshipping, soft lips. ‘I’m merely pointing out the drawbacks of picnicking, the biggest drawback being unable to worship you.’

‘You couldn’t do that in a restaurant.’

‘I beg to differ.’ He cocks a suggestive eyebrow at me.

‘For being such a “gentleman”, sometimes your sexual etiquette is questionable.’ I wince at my careless words, but Miller doesn’t acknowledge them, choosing to nudge my thighs apart and cradle himself between them. I’m stunned. He’ll be a crumpled mess.