‘Business,’ he replies, watching me carefully, his smooth tone stroking my heated skin.
‘You’re single?’ I ask, wanting complete clarification, but for what purpose I don’t know. I’m actually wondering what my subconscious is planning, because I haven’t a clue . . . nor am I concerned, and that should really concern me.
‘I am.’
‘Okay,’ is all I say, still watching him, feeling quietly delighted. Now I want to know how old he is. He seems mature and his clothes have been of the highest quality every time I’ve seen him, screaming money.
‘Okay,’ he counters, slowly sipping more coffee as I look on. He’s like a giant mass of intensity, enticing me into . . . something. ‘I enjoyed my coffee,’ he says, placing his cup down and swivelling it, before slowly rising from the couch. My gaze follows him up until I feel small under his potent, piercing blues, looking down at me.
‘You’re leaving?’ I blurt, shocked. What was all this about? What was his point?
He shifts uncomfortably and puts his hand out to me. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’
‘We already met,’ I point out. ‘You nearly kissed me but walked away.’
His hand drops a little at my sharp words before he gathers himself and raises it again. ‘And then you walked away from me.’
So it’s a game? He’s unhappy because I was the one who walked away, so now he’s returning the favour, having the final say? His hand comes closer and I recoil, too scared to touch him.
‘Do you think there will be sparks?’ he asks quietly.
My eyes widen. I know there will be sparks because I’ve felt them already. His mocking injects some bravery into me and my petite hand lifts to meet his. And there they are again. Sparks. Not electricity firing off all over the bistro, causing us both to gasp or jump back in shock, but there’s something there, and instead of firing outward, it’s shooting inward, ricocheting all over my body, making my heart beat faster and my lips part. I don’t want to let go, but he flexes his palm, prompting me to release him.
Then he turns and strides out, without another word or look to suggest that he felt something too. Did he? What was that? Who is he? My palms rise to my cheeks and I rub furiously, trying to scrub some sensibility into me. I’m way too intrigued by him, and no amount of sightseeing or quilting with my grandmother is going to distract me from where my thoughts are wandering to, not after that brief but enlightening conversation. I’m getting into unknown territory – dangerous territory. After my years of avoiding all men, even the decent ones, I’m finding myself encouraging one who looks like he should definitely be left alone.
There’s a pull, though – a very powerful pull.
I’ve been away with the fairies all week. Every time the bistro door swings open, I look for him. But he’s never there. A dozen men over the last four days have asked me my name, my number, or they’ve told me what stunning eyes I have. And each one I’ve wished could be Miller.
I’ve been busy churning out perfect coffee after perfect coffee, and I even waitressed at another posh function for Del on Tuesday, hoping he’d be there. He wasn’t.
I’ve always tried to keep my life simple, but now I’m craving a complication – a tall, dark-haired, mysterious complication.
It’s Saturday, and Gregory has humoured me, tagging along for a walk through the Royal Parks. He knows there is something on my mind. He kicks a pile of leaves as we traipse down the middle of Green Park, towards Buckingham Palace. He wants to ask, and I know he won’t hold out for much longer. He’s made all of the conversation, while I’ve returned one-word answers. I’m not going to get away with it for much longer. I’m clearly absent in mind, and I could probably muster up the energy to feign my normal self, but I don’t think I want to. I think I want Gregory to press me so I can share Miller with him.
‘I’ve met someone.’ The words fall from my mouth, breaking the comfortable silence between us. He looks shocked, which is okay because I’m quite shocked, too.
‘Who?’ he asks, pulling me to a stop.
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug, lowering my bum to the grass and picking at some of the blades. ‘He turned up at the bistro a few times and also at a gala ball where I waitressed.’
Gregory joins me, his handsome face morphing into a big grin. ‘Olivia Taylor has been affected by a man?’
‘Yes, Olivia Taylor has most definitely been affected by a man.’ It feels like such a relief to share my burden. ‘I can’t stop thinking about him,’ I admit.
‘Ah!’ Gregory throws his arms in the air. ‘Is he hot?’
‘Stupidly.’ I smile. ‘He has the most amazing eyes. As blue as the sky.’
‘I want to know everything,’ Gregory declares.
‘There’s nothing more to tell.’
‘Well, what did he say?’
‘He asked if I was involved with anyone.’ I try to sound casual, but I know what’s coming.
His eyes widen as he leans forward. ‘And you said?’
‘No.’
‘It’s happened!’ he sings. ‘Thank the f**king Lord, it’s finally happened!’
‘Gregory!’ I scold him, but I can’t help laughing too. He’s right; it has happened, and it’s happened hard.
‘Oh, Livy.’ He sits up straight, looking all serious. ‘You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this. I need to see him.’
I scoff, pushing my hair over my shoulder. ‘Well, that’s unlikely. He appears quickly and disappears faster.’
‘How old?’ The excitement on Gregory’s face is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I’ve made his day – probably his month, or even his year. He’s tried relentlessly to drag me out to bars, even willing to make them straight bars if it means I’ll tag along. Gregory has been in my life for eight years, just eight, although it could be forever. The ‘it’ boy at school, all of the girls swooned over him and he dated them all, but he had a little secret – a secret that saw him ostracised once it was discovered. The cool kid was g*y. Or eighty per cent g*y, as Gregory has always claimed. Finding him behind the bike sheds, beaten to a pulp by some of the college kids, was the beginning of our friendship.
‘I’m guessing late-twenties, but he seems older. You know, very mature. He always wears very expensive-looking suits.’
‘Perfect.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘Name?’
‘M,’ I say quietly.
‘“M”?’ Gregory’s face screws up into a disapproving frown. ‘Who is he? James Bond’s boss?’
A burst of laughter flies from my mouth, and I giggle to myself while my friend looks on, waiting for confirmation that my muse has a name beyond one letter of the alphabet. ‘He signed with an M.’
‘Signed?’ His confusion deepens, as does his scowl. I’m not sure if I should divulge this part.
‘He didn’t like my coffee and chose to let me know by writing it on a napkin. He signed it M, but I’ve since found out that his name is Miller.’
‘Oooohhh, sexy! But the cheek!’ He’s shocked, displaying a similar reaction to what I did, but then his face straightens and he narrows his eyes on me. ‘And how did that make you feel?’
‘Inadequate.’ I say the word without thought, and I don’t stop there. ‘Stupid, angry, irritated.’
Gregory’s smiling now. ‘He drew a reaction?’ he asks. ‘You got a little mad?’
‘Yes!’ I breathe, completely exasperated. ‘I was really pissed off.’
‘Oh my God! I already love him.’ He stands and puts his hand out to pull me up. ‘I bet he’s completely taken by you, like most men on God’s green earth.’
Accepting his offer, I let him pull me to my feet. ‘They’re not.’ I sigh, reflecting on the brief words that we exchanged; on one line in particular: I’m quite fascinated by you, as well.
Does fascinated equal attracted?
‘Trust me, they are.’
I’m suddenly eager to spit it all out and see what Gregory makes of it. ‘I was a millimetre away from his lips.’
Gregory inhales sharply. ‘What do you mean?’ His back straightens, and he narrows his eyes on me. ‘Did you bottle it?’
‘No, I was the one pushing it.’ I’m not even ashamed. ‘He said he couldn’t and left me in the ladies’ feeling like a desperate idiot.’
‘Were you mad?’
‘Furious.’
‘Yes!’ His hands slap together, and I’m yanked into his embrace. ‘This is good. Tell me more.’
I spill the whole thing – the dropped champagne, Miller’s ‘business associate’, the way he approached me afterwards just to warn me off.
When I’m done, Gregory hums thoughtfully. It’s not the reaction I was expecting or that I wanted. ‘He’s a player. Not the right man for you, Livy. Forget about him.’
I’m shocked, and the quick removal of my body from his, coupled with the reproachful look on my face, tells him so. ‘Forget? Are you mad? The way he looks at me, Gregory – it makes me want to be looked at like that forever.’ I pause briefly. ‘By him.’
‘Oh dear, baby girl.’
I sigh. ‘I know.’
‘Distraction,’ he declares, looking down at my orange Converse. ‘What colour shall we buy today?’
My eyes light up. ‘I’ve seen some in sky-blue down on Carnaby Street.’
‘Sky-blue, eh?’ His arm slips around my shoulder and we start towards the Tube station. ‘Fancy that.’
Chapter 4
Sylvie and I are the last to leave the bistro. While Sylvie locks up, I cart the rubbish into the alley and dump it in the wheelie bin.
‘I’m going to have a long soak in the bath,’ Sylvie says, linking arms with me as we start wandering down the road. ‘With candles.’
‘You’re not going out tonight?’ I ask.
‘Nope. Mondays are shite, but Wednesday nights are bombing. You should come.’ Her brown eyes twinkle suggestively, but dull straight down when she clocks me shaking my head. ‘Why not?’
‘I don’t drink.’ We cross the road, dodging the evening rush-hour traffic, getting honked at for not using the pedestrian crossing.
‘Oh, f**k you!’ Sylvie shouts, drawing a million looks in our direction.
‘Sylvie!’ I yank her from the road, mortified.
She laughs and flips the driver a finger. ‘Why don’t you drink?’
‘I don’t trust myself.’ The words just fall from my lips, shocking me and clearly shocking Sylvie, because startled brown eyes swing to me . . . then she grins.
‘I think I might like drunken Livy.’
I scoff in disagreement. ‘That’s me.’ I point to the bus stop as I step into the road, ready to cross again.
‘See you tomorrow.’ She leans in to kiss my cheek, and we both jump when we’re honked at again. I ignore the impatient idiot, but Sylvie doesn’t.
‘For f**k’s sake! What is wrong with these people?’ she shouts. ‘We’re not even in the way of your fancy AMG, you Mercedes-driving ponce!’ She steps towards the car just as the passenger window starts to slip down. I feel road rage brewing. She leans in. ‘Learn to f**king dr—’ She halts her rant, her back straightening as she pulls away from the black Mercedes.
Curious, I lean down to find out what’s shut her up, my heart skipping too many beats when I register the driver.
‘Livy.’ Sylvie’s voice is barely heard over the rush of traffic and blurting of horns. She steps away from the roadside. ‘I think he may have been honking at you.’