One Night: Denied (16 page)

‘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.

I turn and hurry across the road to Del’s, constantly looking over my shoulder.

The bistro is the last place on earth I want to be right now. I feel nauseous, and my dread at facing my colleagues is only amplified when three sets of cautious eyes monitor my walk from the door to the kitchen. I feel judged. I
am
being judged. They all think I’m daft, but they haven’t experienced Miller when he’s not armoured up in one of his fine three-piece suits. They have drawn their conclusions on the little information they know, and I’m past the point of feeling the need to justify my relationship with London’s most notorious ex-escort, to Sylvie, Del, Gregory, or anyone for that matter. It’s exhausting enough trying to justify it to Miller, and he’s the only one who really matters. God help me and my ears if any one of these people were to discover Miller’s history. To them, he is simply an uptight arsehole who’s played me. And it’ll stay that way.

‘Morning.’ Sylvie’s tone is lacking its usual chirpiness, her hands redundant on the filter handle of the coffee machine.

‘Hi.’ I flash a small smile. ‘Oh, I have a new phone. I’ll text you the number.’

‘Okay.’ She nods as I pass her, entering the kitchen and immediately getting into my apron.

Paul follows me in and takes up position behind the stove, lifting and tossing a pan full of onions. ‘You have a good evening?’ he asks. I detect genuine interest and look up to find an expression displaying indifference.

‘I did, thank you, Paul. You?’

‘Sure,’ he grunts as he slides two plates across the counter. ‘Tuna Crunches for table seven. Let’s have some service around here.’

I swing into action and grab the plates, bypassing Sylvie and Del on my way out, my boss remaining tight-lipped, my friend’s lips remaining pursed. ‘Tuna Crunches?’ I ask, sliding them onto the table.

‘Ta, darlin’,’ a pot-bellied man sings, all happy, almost dribbling as he pulls both plates towards him while licking his lips. His big mouth wraps straight around one corner and he looks up at me, smiling, soggy bread spilling from his chops. I grimace. ‘Fill this up, will ya?’ He pushes his coffee mug into my hand and my stomach turns when a lump of tuna slips past his lips and splatters on the floor at his feet. I follow his finger as it swoops down and mops it up. Then I watch with horror when he takes the half-chewed food and laps it off his pudgy finger with a tongue lathered in Paul’s secret recipe. I gag, my palm slapping across my mouth as I sprint across the bistro, thinking Miller would have a seizure if he witnessed the display of such caveman manners.

‘You okay?’ Sylvie asks with alarm as I fly towards her.

‘Refill. Table seven.’ I thrust the mug at her and dart past, trying desperately to stop the bile stirring. I clatter past tables, bump into chairs, and smack my shoulder into the wall as I round a corner. ‘Bollocks!’ I curse, way too loud and in front of a table of two old dears who are enjoying tea and cakes in the quieter part of the bistro. I wince and rub my arm, then turn to apologise.

And throw up all over them.

‘Goodness gracious!’ One old lady shoots up from her chair, rather fast for an old-timer. ‘Oh! Doris, your hat!’ She swats her friend’s head with a napkin, trying to brush away the lumps of vomit that I’ve sprayed all over the poor old lady. I swipe up a napkin and hold it over my mouth.

‘Oh, Edna, is it ruined?’ Her friend’s hand goes straight for her head and sinks into the sick-coated fur of her hat. I heave violently again.

‘I fear it might be. Oh what a shame! Don’t touch it!’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I splutter through the napkin, watching the two old biddies fussing over each other. I can feel eyes punching holes into me from everywhere, and a quick glimpse over my shoulder reveals a bistro full of silent observers. Even the filthy-mannered fatty who’s the cause of my vomiting episode is looking at me with disgust. ‘I . . .’ I can’t finish. Sweat has jumped onto my forehead and heat has jumped onto my cheeks. I’m mortified. And I feel terrible – sick, embarrassed and stupid. I let the corridor that leads to the ladies’ room swallow me up, and I flop over the sink, running the tap and splashing my face before rinsing my mouth. Looking up, I’m greeted by the reflection of a pale, meek-looking creature. Me. I feel rotten.

Which reminds me. Once I wash and dry my hands, I take my phone from my pocket and spend five minutes cringing down the line, explaining to my doctor’s receptionist why I need an emergency appointment. ‘Eleven?’ I ask, pulling my phone from my ear to see the time. My shift finishes at five. ‘Have you anything later?’ I try, already running over a plausible excuse for me to escape work for an hour or two. My shoulders sag when she gives me no other option, then points out hastily that I only have a seventy-two-hour window if the morning-after pill is going to work. Damn. ‘I’ll take eleven,’ I say, giving my name before hanging up.

‘Livy?’

Sylvie is peeking around the door. ‘Hey.’ I pop my phone back in my pocket and snatch a paper towel to dab at my wet face. ‘Am I fired?’

She smiles, her pink lips wide, and joins me by the sink. ‘Don’t be silly. Del’s worried about you.’

‘He shouldn’t be.’

‘Well, he is. And so am I.’

‘Neither of you should be worried about me. I’m fine.’ I turn back to the mirror, not prepared to suffer another lecture about my relationship with Miller.

‘Sure you are,’ she laughs, making me frown at her in the mirror. She’s belittling me. ‘I assume things didn’t go so well after he abducted you from the bistro yesterday.’

‘You’re wrong,’ I seethe, turning to face her. The smile has dropped and shock has replaced it. She assumes because I’m a little off colour that things had gone all wrong last night. That Miller is responsible. ‘I feel a little under the weather, Sylvie. Don’t presume that Miller is the catalyst for everything.’ I dump the used towel in the bin harshly. ‘Miller and I are fine.’

‘But—’

‘No!’ I cut her off. I’m not standing for it any more. Not from Sylvie, not from Gregory, not from William. No one! ‘A disgusting man just spat his Tuna Crunch all over the floor and scooped it up with a filthy finger. Then he ate it!’

‘Eww!’ Sylvie recoils, her hand going to her midriff and circling slowly, like sickness has just jumped up and bit her on the arse. She should have seen it.

‘Yes, exactly.’ I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear and straighten my shoulders. ‘
That
is why I threw up, and I’m fucking miserable because I’m sick of hearing people griping about me and Miller, and even sicker of receiving sympathetic fucking looks!’

Her eyes widen while I bubble with anger before her, my chest pulsing with laboured breaths. ‘Okay,’ she squeaks.

I nod sharply, determinedly. ‘Good. I have to get back to work.’ I slip past a startled Sylvie and bump into Del in the corridor. ‘I’m fine!’ I snap petulantly.

His head seems to sink into his neck. ‘Clearly. But the two old birds in there aren’t.’

I cringe. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Go home, Livy,’ he sighs.

I admit defeat easily on a slump of my shoulders, grateful for not having to make an excuse to escape for my appointment, and follow through on my boss’s sharp order. I take my drained body down the corridor and into the kitchen, slipping quietly past the two old ladies who I’ve just spewed all over. They’re distracted with fresh cakes and a new steaming pot of tea.

Weaving my way through the tables of customers, my need to escape the confines of the bistro becomes urgent under the repulsed looks of the clientele. I burst out the door and land on the pavement, my head falling back on my shoulders and looking to the heavens. The fresh air hits my lungs, and I close my eyes and expel it on a heavy, frustrated sigh, relieved to be in open air.

‘The signs aren’t good.’ William’s rich tone sucks all of that relief out of me, my head dropping down slowly, my expression tired. ‘I assume you know how to operate the iPhone that I bought for you.’

‘Yes,’ I grate. It’s not even ten o’clock and I’ve put up with far too much already today. Now William, too. He’s leaning up against the Lexus, arms crossed over his chest in authority. He looks formidable. And cross.

‘Then I’m going to assume there’s a perfectly good explanation for you ignoring my message.’

‘I was busy.’ I throw my satchel across my body and square my shoulders.

‘Doing what?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Being blindsided by a handsome man who has seduction down to a fine art? Is that what you mean?’

I bristle, my teeth clenching. ‘I am not answerable to you.’

He laughs lightly, a splash of recognition invading his face. I’m behaving like my mother, and I hate myself for it. But for the first time in for ever, I’m thinking hard about her own battle against the people who obstructed her mission to win William. The man before me included. If this is how she felt, then I’m beginning to relate, and that’s something I never dreamed I’d do. But I’m feeling pretty reckless. Determined. I’ve been there before and I’d probably go there again, if I didn’t now have the support of my someone. Gracie never did, and I can fully comprehend how that impacted her. ‘Tell me how my mother came to love you so much.’

My abrupt question wipes the amusement from William’s face in an instant. He’s fallen into that uncomfortable mode again, shifting and diverting his liquid grey stare from mine. ‘I’ve told you.’

‘No, you haven’t. You’ve told me nothing, only that she was in love with you. You haven’t explained how that came to be. Or how you fell in love with her.’ I’m dying to ask him where his manners are, too, but I refrain, waiting patiently for him to piece together his story instead. I need to know. I need to hear how William and my mother came upon each other. One thing I remember vividly is William saying loud and clear that she put herself in his world for him. But how did they meet?

He coughs, keeping his eyes off me, and opens the rear door of his Lexus. ‘I’ll take you home.’

I huff my displeasure at his evasion and leave him waiting for me to get in his car, making tracks towards the bus stop.

‘Olivia!’ he shouts, and I hear the car door slam harshly. It startles me, making my shoulders hit my earlobes, but I disregard his evident annoyance and pick up my pace. ‘It was instant!’ he yells, pulling me to a rapid halt. The unsure tone of his words and rushed delivery of them is proof of the pain they’re causing him. I slowly turn to assess exactly how much pain I’m dealing with, and when his face comes into my view, I see a sadness that deflects right off William and punches a hole in my gut. ‘She was seventeen years old.’ He laughs a nervous laugh, almost embarrassed. ‘It was wrong of me to look at her the way I did, but when those sapphire eyes turned to me and she smiled, my world exploded into a million shards of sparkling glass. Your mother knocked me on my arse, Olivia. I saw a freedom that I knew I couldn’t have.’

My heart slows, a crevice cracking wide open and exposing a horrid reality. I don’t like what I’m hearing. My brain is failing to locate any words of comfort for William, but it’s jumping all over his admission. ‘Why are you trying to sabotage our love?’ I ask.

It’s a perfectly reasonable question, especially in light of this information. It’s not jealousy or resentment. William could’ve had that freedom, just like Miller can. Except Miller is more determined to get it. Miller isn’t prepared to let me slip through his fingers. Miller will fight for us – even if, maddeningly, he questions his worthiness.