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‘Miller, what are you doing?’ I return my eyes to his crouched form, seeing an expressionless face but sympathy in his eyes.

‘I’m doing what a man does when he sees the woman he adores in pieces.’

Adores? Not fascinated? Even now, when I’m struggling to locate any sense, that simple word thrills me. ‘I don’t like her.’

‘Neither do I sometimes.’

‘Just sometimes?’

‘She’s misunderstood.’

‘I don’t think I’m misunderstanding her. She doesn’t like me.’

‘That’s because I like you. Very much so.’

Fascinated. Adores. Like. ‘Does she want you?’

‘She wants to make things difficult.’

‘Why?’

He sighs, low and drawn out, and clamps his palms on either side of my cheeks, getting nose to nose with me. ‘She can’t see past what she knows.’

She can’t see past sex and glamour? I shake my head, a little confused but more frustrated. So she expects Miller to follow the same theory? ‘I want to run away,’ I whisper, my legs twitching already, eager to carry me from the stark truth of Miller and his history. Everything everywhere is a constant reminder. I’m not sure if I can get past it. ‘With you,’ I clarify when a wave of trepidation floats across his face. ‘Will any of these people let us be?’

‘Sweet girl, I’m prepared to annihilate anything that blocks my path to freedom.’ He leans in and kisses my forehead – an act so tender but bursting with reassurance. Or supposed to be. Uncertainty was pouring from his eyes before his lids closed and concealed it. ‘I beg you, don’t let the demeaning words of others interfere.’

‘It’s hard.’ I let him press his lips over every part of my face until he’s pulling away. He’s got the uncertainty under control. Now his blues are beseeching. He thinks I’ll allow these people – Cassie and whoever else there is, because I know there will be more – to scare me away. They won’t. Nothing will. ‘I love you.’

He smiles and pulls me to my feet. ‘I accept your love.’

‘You’re just saying that.’

‘Will I ever win this argument?’ he asks, his hairline pulling back from the sudden height of his eyebrows.

I consider his question for a moment. ‘No,’ I state, short and exact, because he can’t. I’ll never really know if he truly accepts it. His words will never convince me.

‘Get showered and changed.’ He clasps my shoulders and turns me away from him. ‘We’ll be late.’

A cheeky tap of my bottom sends me on my way, but the uncertainty that I found in Miller’s eyes seems to have rooted itself deep within me. If he can’t ease my trepidation, then no one can.

Chapter Fourteen

We’re a few streets away from the bistro, caught up in a traffic jam. I can feel him studying me, so I cast a sideways glance on a tiny smirk. He leans over and kisses me sweetly. ‘Your hair’s a little wild.’

I frown while he makes a haphazard job of tucking it behind my ears. Then I smile. ‘I didn’t have any conditioner.’ Reaching forward, I smooth my hand through Miller’s perfect dark waves. ‘I should have asked to borrow yours.’

He freezes mid-arranging of my hair and flicks amused eyes to mine. My smile widens. ‘You’re perfect.’ He untucks my hair. ‘This is perfect. Never cut it off.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ll jump out here. You can slip up that side street and avoid the traffic.’

‘No, I’m in no rush.’ He brushes me off and proceeds to join the other horn-happy drivers, smacking his palm into the centre of the wheel.

‘That’ll get you nowhere,’ I laugh. ‘And, anyway, I am in a rush. I can’t be late.’ I peck his lips and jump out of his Mercedes.

‘Olivia!’ he shouts after me.

I turn and bend to get him in my line of sight. ‘It’s a couple of streets away. I’ll be there in two minutes.’ I smile at his scowling face and shut the door, hurrying to the pavement.

I lose myself amid the sea of people, all scurrying to their places of work. It’s familiar to me, comforting, but the strange sensation I’m feeling as I scamper like an ant with my fellow Londoners isn’t. I reach up to my shoulder and brush away a tingle, shivering when it immediately jumps back onto my skin. Something tells me to look behind me so I do, but I only note a mass of bobbing bodies following the flow of foot traffic. My Converse speed up without any prompt from my brain, and I start overtaking people, uneasy but with no explanation. As I round a corner, I look back again, a familiar chill resonating through me, the hairs on my nape rising.

‘Oh!’

‘Watch where you’re going!’

I stagger, taking the man’s briefcase with me, the expensive leather getting tangled between my clumsy legs. ‘I’m sorry!’ I yelp, catching the side of the brick wall to steady myself.

‘You’ve scuffed my case, you stupid woman!’ He snatches up his property and brushes it down, grumbling and huffing his aggravation.

‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, straightening myself out, bracing myself for a further verbal bashing.

‘Fucking imbecile,’ he grunts, stomping off into the crowd, leaving me being sidestepped by more impatient pedestrians.

My eyes dart everywhere, scanning faces coming towards me and the backs marching away from me, my internal alarm screaming. Reaching up, I run my palm over my nape, smoothing down the hairs. I feel a stupid sense of relief when they remain flush with my skin once I remove my hand. But my stomach is turning, anxiety gripping me. I’m circling on the spot, unease lingering deep and fretfulness plaguing me.