Denied
Page 40
‘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.
‘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.
