Denied - Page 44/64

He clasps my cheeks and his nose meets mine. ‘For a sweet girl, sometimes your sweetness is questionable. Give me my thing.’

‘You’ll be all creased.’

‘I’ve asked once.’

I smile and waste no time embracing Miller’s momentary spontaneity and his body. Soaking up the weight of him, I inhale the fresh air that’s diluted by his scent. My eyes close and I bliss out completely, finally relishing in the quality time that I’ve been promised. He’s warm and soothing and all mine, and as I start to zone out, the hustle and bustle of Hyde Park fading into a distant hum, thoughts start tickling the edges of my contented mind – tickling for a nanosecond, before something so stupidly obvious wraps around my entire brain, leaving no room for contentment and making my relaxed body solidify beneath Miller. He senses it, because probing eyes are gazing up at me in a heartbeat.

‘Share with me,’ he says simply, smoothing my hair from my face.

I shake my head in his hold, hoping to shake away my uninvited thoughts.

And fail.

Miller’s face is close, but all I can see is a grubby, lost little boy. You can’t tell me that the child in the photograph ate like a king, and I know for sure there were no expensive threads adorning his young body, more rags instead.

‘Olivia?’ I detect concern in his tone. ‘Please, share your burden with me.’ There’s no evading him, even less so when he pushes himself up to his knees and pulls me to mine. We’re mirroring each other, our hands clasped and resting in his lap while he rubs gentle circles across my skin with his thumbs. ‘Olivia?’

I make a point of holding his eyes when I speak, searching for any mild reaction to my question. ‘Please tell me why everything needs to be so perfect.’

There’s nothing. No frown, no expression or telling signs in his eyes. He’s perfectly composed. ‘We’ve had this discussion before, and I’m certain we agreed that we’d exhausted that subject.’

‘No, you told me that the subject was exhausted.’ It wasn’t exhausted at all, and now my horrible thought process is stamping all over my conclusions. He’s ashamed of his upbringing. He wants to eradicate it all from his memory. He wants to hide it.

‘For good reason.’ He drops my hands and looks away from me, searching for something to do other than face me and my pressing questions. He settles on messing with his suit jacket, smoothing the already immaculately folded garment.

‘And what is that reason?’ My heart breaks when he glances at me out of the corner of his eye, caution on his handsome face. ‘Miller, what is that reason?’ I inch towards him slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, and rest my hand on his forearm. He looks down, frozen in position, clearly in a muddle. I’m patient. I’ve drawn my conclusion, yet I’m unable to share it with him. He’ll know I’ve snooped, and I want him to volunteer this information about his history. Share it with me.

It’s merely seconds, but it feels like an eternity, before he shakes himself back to life and stands, leaving my hand falling to the blanket and my eyes looking up at him. He takes his jacket and slips it on, buttoning it fast before pulling at the sleeves. ‘Because it was exhausted,’ he says, insulting my intelligence with his pathetic brush-off. ‘I need to go to Ice.’

‘Right,’ I sigh, and start to collect the remnants of our brief picnic, piling the rubbish into a carrier bag. ‘Actually, no.’ I toss the bag aside and stand, getting up close and personal with Miller’s tall frame. I must look tiny and fragile next to him, but my resolve is huge. He’s constantly demanding I share my burdens, yet he’s happy to shoulder his own. ‘I’m not coming to Ice,’ I say, drilling holes into him, knowing he won’t go without me. Not after this morning. He wants to keep me close, which is fine by me, but not at Ice.

‘I beg to differ,’ he snorts, but his tone is lacking its usual confidence and in an attempt to show he means business, he takes my neck and tries to turn me.

‘Miller, I said no!’ I shrug him off, anger and frustration afflicting me, and hit him with burning eyes of determination. ‘I’m not coming.’ I sit down again, kick my flip-flops off and collapse to my back, swapping the blue of Miller’s eyes for the blue of the sky. ‘I’m going to enjoy some quiet time in the park. You can go to Ice alone.’ I’ll kick and scream if he tries to manhandle me.

I take my arms behind my head and keep my eyes on the sky, sensing him fidgeting over me. He doesn’t know what to do. He loves my sass, supposedly. Bet he doesn’t now. I settle in for the show, getting comfy, determined not to budge, and find my thoughts drifting back to what had my sass rearing its ugly head in the first place. Miller and his perfect world. My conclusion is simple, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. He had a poor upbringing, with shabby rags for clothes, and now he’s obsessive about wearing the finest threads he can buy.

How he came to have the money to buy the millions of suits of armour he possesses is irrelevant. Kind of. Not at all. My conclusion has only led to more questions – questions I dare not ask, not for fear of upsetting him, but for fear of what the answer might be. How did he come to be in ‘this world’? That house was a children’s home. Miller has spoken of no parents and confirmed there is only him. He’s an orphan. My fussy, fine, perfect Miller has been alone for ever. My heart’s breaking for him.

I’m so lost in my sobering thoughts I jump a little when a warm hardness is suddenly pressing into my side. My head falls to the side to find his eyes. He’s snuggled right in and after laying a gentle kiss on my cheek, he rests his head on my shoulder and slides his arm over my stomach.

‘I want to be with you,’ he whispers. His actions and his words have my arms relinquishing cushion duties for my head and wrapping around him where I can. ‘Every minute of every day, I want to be with you.’

My smile is sad, because having reached my assumption, I know that Miller hasn’t had a someone before. ‘Us,’ I confirm, squeezing some comfort into him. ‘I love your bones, Miller Hart.’

‘And I’m deeply fascinated by you, Olivia Taylor.’

I squeeze him harder. We lie on the fleece blanket for ever, Miller humming and painting pictures across my midriff with the tip of his finger, me just feeling him, listening to him, smelling him, and giving him his thing. It is quality time, and it’s the most blissful quality time imaginable.

‘This has been nice,’ he muses, pushing up onto his elbow, resting his perfectly stubbled chin in his palm. He continues to trace faint lines across my tummy, observing his tender motions thoughtfully. I’m happy to watch him. It’s unbelievably pleasurable, total heaven. We’re captured in our own private moment, surrounded by the ramblings of Hyde Park and the distant chaos of London by day. Yet totally alone. ‘Are you chilly?’ He looks up at me, then skates his gaze down my little floral dress. The evening is drawing in and a light breeze is whipping up. I look up to the sky and note a few grey clouds slowly drifting over.

‘I’m okay, but it looks like rain is on its way.’

Miller follows my eyes to the sky and sighs. ‘And London casts its black shadow,’ he muses to himself, so quietly I almost don’t hear him. But I did hear him, and I know there’s a deeper meaning to that statement. I draw breath to speak but think better of it, and he pushes himself to his feet before I can ask, anyway. ‘Give me your hand.’

I take his offering and let him pull me effortlessly to my feet. He’s creased as hell, but apparently not too bothered by it. ‘Can we do this again sometime?’ I ask as I gather up our half-finished salads and place them in a bag.

Miller sets about folding the blanket into a tidy bundle. ‘Of course,’ he agrees gladly, with no trace of unwillingness. He really has enjoyed himself, and that warms my contented heart further. ‘I really must stop by the club.’ My delicate shoulders sag and Miller spots it. ‘I’ll be quick,’ he assures me, moving in and dipping to brush our lips lightly. ‘I promise.’

Refusing to let anything more spoil our quality time, I link arms with him and let him walk us across the grass until we hit the pathway. ‘Can I stay with you tonight?’ I’m feeling guilty for my regular absence from home, but I know Nan’s not in the least bit bothered by it, and I’ll call her as soon as we’re back at Miller’s.

‘Livy, you stay with me whenever you choose. You don’t have to ask.’

‘I shouldn’t leave Nan alone.’

He laughs lightly, pulling my eyes up his chest to his face. ‘Your grandmother would put the most ferocious guard dog to shame.’

I return his amusement and rest my head on his arm as we amble along. ‘I concur.’

A strong arm wraps around my shoulder and hugs me to his side. ‘If you’d prefer me to take you home, then I will.’

‘But I want to stay with you.’

‘And I’d love to have you in my bed.’

‘I’ll call Nan as soon as we’re back at your place,’ I affirm, making a point to remember to ask her if she minds, even though I know for sure that she doesn’t.

‘Okay,’ he agrees on a little laugh.

‘Oh, there’s a bin.’ I rustle the bags in my hand and head over to the bin, but my stride falters when I spot a sorrowful-looking man slumped on the bench nearby. He looks tatty, dirty and vacant – one of the many homeless people who frequent the streets of London. My pace to the litter bin slows as I watch him twitching, and I conclude very quickly that drugs or alcohol are probably the cause. Human nature stokes the compassion within me, and when he raises empty eyes to mine, I stop walking completely. I stare at the man, who’s probably barely a man – late teens, perhaps, but life on the streets has taken its toll. His skin is sallow, his lips dry.

‘Spare any change, miss?’ he croaks at me, yanking tighter at my heartstrings. It’s not uncommon to be asked such a question, and I usually find it reasonably easy to walk on by, especially since Nan reminds me every time that by lining their pockets with money, you’re also probably funding their drug or drink habit. But this dishevelled young man with scruffy, ripped clothes and disintegrating sneakers is reminding me of something, and I can’t seem to push my legs on.

After spending far too long staring at him, his open palm extends towards me, snapping me from my miserable thoughts and the flashbacks of a lost-looking child. ‘Miss?’ he repeats.

‘I’m sorry.’ I shake my head and continue, but as I lift the bag to drop it into the bin, a warm palm wraps around my wrist and holds it firm.

‘Wait.’ Miller’s low timbre strokes my skin and pulls my eyes to his. Without another word, he claims the bag and takes the two half-eaten salads out, then places the carrier in the rubbish bin before turning and striding over to the homeless man. I watch in astonished silence as Miller reaches him and drops to his haunches, handing the two bowls over, followed by the fleece blanket. Tentative hands accept Miller’s offering and a heavy head nods its thanks. Tears pinch at the back of my eyes and very nearly fall when my perfect part-time gentleman lays a palm on the man’s knee and rubs a reassuring circle into the dirty leg of his jeans. Miller’s actions are delicate, caring and knowing. They are the actions of someone who understands. He’s telling me his story slowly, but with no words. They are not needed. His actions speak volumes, and I’m shocked by them, but most of all saddened.

That lost little boy was still lost.

Until I found him.

I watch closely as Miller rises to his full height and slips his hands into the pockets of his expensive suit trousers, then slowly turns to face me. He just stands there, regarding me carefully as I draw another gut-wrenching conclusion. An orphan? Homeless? I bite painfully on my lip, anything to prevent the threatening sorrow from gushing from my eyes at the sight of my beautifully broken man.