I can’t argue with him; he has, so I reach over and take some bruschetta. ‘This looks delicious.’
‘I concur,’ he says, taking a piece for himself. I sink my teeth in on a satisfied hum, quickly noting that I’m being looked at in disapproval again. My chewing slows, wondering what I’ve done now. I soon find out. He picks up his knife and fork and makes a stupidly slow display of slicing his way through the bread before slowly taking the piece from the fork and setting his cutlery down neatly. He starts to chew as he watches me heating with embarrassment. I need to take some lessons in refinement.
‘Do I annoy you?’ I ask, setting down my bruschetta and following his lead.
‘Annoy me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Far from it, Livy. Except when you’re being a little reckless.’ He hits me with a disapproving look, which I choose to sidestep. ‘You fascinate me.’
‘With my common ways?’ I ask quietly.
‘You’re not common.’
‘No, you’re right. You’re a snob . . .’ I pause briefly as he coughs his surprise. ‘Sometimes,’ I add. My beautiful man in disguise is generally a gentleman, except when he’s being an arrogant twat.
‘I don’t think well-mannered classifies as snobbery.’
‘You’re more than well-mannered, Miller.’ I sigh, resisting the urge to put my elbows on the table. ‘I quite like it, though.’
‘Like I’ve said before, Livy. Take me as I am.’
‘I have.’
‘As I have you.’
I recoil on the inside, a little injured by his remark. He means that he’s accepted my shameful history and lack of manners, that’s what he means – I’ve accepted him for being a part-time gentleman with a fascinating compulsion to have everything in his life perfect, while he’s accepted me for being a careless tart who doesn’t know her white wine glass from her red. He’s right, though, and I’m glad he’s accepted me, but he doesn’t need to remind me of my shortcomings.
‘Overthinking, Livy,’ he says quietly, snapping me from my mental deliberation.
‘I’m sorry. I just don’t understand . . .
‘You’re being silly.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘Stop it!’ he shouts, shifting his recently placed wine glass at the same time. ‘Just accept that it’s happening, like I said it would.’ I retreat in my chair cautiously, keeping quiet. ‘I’ve already told you that I don’t necessarily understand, but it’s happening and there is nothing neither I nor you can, or should, do about it.’ He swipes his glass up, making his action of a second ago completely pointless, and takes a violent swig – not a sip, he doesn’t savour the taste; he swigs it.
He’s really mad.
‘Shit,’ he spits, slamming his glass down and grabbing his head. ‘Livy, I . . .’ He sighs and pushes himself out of his chair, holding his hands out to me. ‘Please, come here.’
I sigh too, getting up from the table on a frustrated shake of my head and making my way around to him, quickly climbing onto his lap and letting him apologise with his thing.
‘I apologise,’ he whispers, kissing my hair. ‘It upsets me when you talk like that, like you’re not worthy. I’m the unworthy one.’
‘Not true,’ I say, pulling back so I can get his lovely face in my sight. And it really is lovely, his signature shadow holding fort and his light-blue eyes glistening. Reaching up, I take a wave of his hair and twist it gently between my fingers.
‘We’ll agree to disagree.’ He drops his mouth to mine and reinforces his apology with a lazy dance of his tongue with mine. The world is right again, but the flashes of that temper he’s warned me of are becoming a concern. He always looks momentarily feral, and I can see with clarity his battle to rein it in.
After apologising thoroughly, he turns me around on his lap and feeds me some bruschetta, and then takes some for himself. We eat in a comfortable silence, but I’m a bit bemused that Miller’s table manners accept me on his lap, but it won’t accept the bottle of wine slightly off position.
It’s all calm and lovely until the sound of his iPhone breaks our peaceful supper, ringing persistently from somewhere behind me. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, lifting me from his lap and pacing over to a set of shelves by the fridge. I definitely see a look of irritation when he glances at the screen before answering. ‘Miller Hart.’ He walks from the kitchen, leaving me to settle back on my chair. ‘It’s no problem,’ he assures whoever’s on the other end of the line, his bare back disappearing from view.
I take the opportunity while he’s away from the table to study the set-up, again trying to work out if there’s a theory to his madness. I reach over and pick up the platter in a silly test to see if there is an outline which marks its place. Of course there isn’t, but it doesn’t stop me from picking up my plate to check under there too. Nothing. Smiling, I reach the swift conclusion that there are outlines for everything, but only Miller can see them. Then I take my red wine glass and stick my nose in the top before sipping cautiously.
My attention is pulled to Miller when he re-enters the kitchen and pops his phone back where it belongs in the docking station. ‘That was the manager of Ice.’
‘The manager?’
‘Yes, Tony. He takes care of things in my absence.’
‘Oh.’
‘I have an interview tomorrow. He was just confirming times.’