Chapter 8
A commotion yanks me from my dreams and has me pelting down the stairs at a ridiculous rate. I land in the kitchen, still half asleep, naked and with slightly blurred vision. I blink repeatedly to clear my sight, until I’m staring at Miller, who’s standing bare-chested with a box of cornflakes in his hand.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, worried eyes scanning my naked frame.
Reality slams into my waking brain, a reality where it’s not Nan pottering around the kitchen looking happy and at home; it’s Miller looking awkward and out of place. Raging guilt consumes me for being disappointed. ‘You startled me,’ is all I can think to say, and suddenly very alert, I register my naked form and start backing out of the kitchen. I indicate over my shoulder. ‘I’ll just get some clothes on.’
‘OK,’ he agrees, watching me closely as I disappear down the hallway. My sigh is heavy as I take the stairs and my actions subdued as I tug on some knickers and a T-shirt. Once I’ve made it back downstairs, I find the table set for breakfast and Miller looking even more out of place, sitting with his phone to his ear. He indicates for me to take a seat, which I do slowly while he continues with his call. ‘I’ll be in around lunchtime,’ he says, clipped and to the point before hanging up and setting his phone down. He gazes across the table at me, and I note after only a few seconds of studying him that he’s slipping into that emotionless man who repels everyone. We’re back in London. All that’s missing is his suit.
‘Who was that?’ I ask, picking up the pot of tea that’s steaming in the centre of the table and pouring myself a cup.
‘Tony.’ His reply is as curt and short as he was with Tony just now.
Dumping the teapot a little heavy-handed to my right, I make quick work of adding milk and stirring, and then watch in astonishment when Miller leans over the table and takes the pot, placing it exactly back in the centre of the table. Then he tweaks it a little more.
I sigh, taking a sip of my tea and immediately wince at the taste. I swallow hard and put the mug down. ‘How many tea bags did you put in there?’
He frowns and looks at the pot. ‘Two.’
‘Doesn’t taste like it.’ It tastes like warmed milk. I reach over to take the lid off and peek inside. ‘There are none in here.’
‘I took them out.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’d block the spout.’
I smile. ‘Miller, a million teapots in England have tea bags steeping inside. The spouts never get blocked.’
He rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his naked chest. ‘I’m being intuitive here—’
‘Miller Hart?’ I cut in, reining in my smirk. ‘Never.’
His tired look only increases my amusement. I can tell he’s relishing in my playfulness, even if he’s refusing to reciprocate. He continues. ‘And I’m going to suggest that you’re insinuating my tea-making skills are lacking.’
‘Your intuition is correct.’
‘Thought so,’ he mutters, collecting his phone from the table and pressing a few buttons. ‘I was trying to make you feel at home.’
‘I am at home.’ I wince when he shoots an injured look in my direction. I didn’t mean that how it sounded. ‘I—’
Miller puts the phone to his ear. ‘Have my car ready for nine,’ he orders.
‘Miller, I didn’t—’
‘And make sure it’s spotless,’ he continues, flat-out ignoring my attempt to explain.
‘You’ve taken it—’
‘And that means the boot, too.’
I pick up my mug, just so I can slam it down. And I do. Hard. ‘Stop being childish!’
He recoils in his chair and cuts the call. ‘I beg your pardon.’
I laugh a little. ‘Don’t start with the begging, Miller. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
His forearms meet the table and he leans in. ‘Why won’t you stay with me?’
I look into his pleading eyes and sigh. ‘Because I need to be here,’ I reply, seeing no understanding developing, so I go on in the hopes of making him comprehend. ‘I need to have things ready for when she comes home. I need to be here to take care of her.’
‘Then she can come and live with us,’ he counters immediately. He’s serious and I’m shocked. He’s prepared to expose himself to the potential of another person, besides me, screwing up his perfect home? Nan will send Miller into obsessive meltdown. She might be ill, but I’m under no illusion that she won’t seize control of Miller’s household. It would be anarchy. Miller would never cope.
‘Trust me,’ I laugh. ‘You really don’t mean that.’
‘I do,’ he retorts, wiping my smile from my face. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘What?’ I’d love him to confirm my thoughts, because if he does that, we’re halfway to an admission.
‘You know what.’ His eyes are warning me. ‘I’d feel more at ease if you’re at my place. It’s safer.’
It takes every ounce of my remaining patience not to show my exasperation. I should have expected this. I refuse to be chaperoned and guarded. Meeting and falling in love with Miller Hart might have given me freedom, awakened me, and ignited a desire to live and feel, but I’m also aware that there could now be an element of constraint attached to my newfound freedom. I’m not going to let that happen. ‘I’m staying,’ I assert with utter finality, making Miller’s whole body go lax in his chair.