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‘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.

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.