Denied (One Night 2)

‘You’re not guiding me around London by my neck.’

‘Why ever not?’ He’s truly flummoxed. ‘I like having you that close. I assumed you like it.’

‘I do,’ I admit. The warmth of his palm spread across my nape is always an appreciated comfort. But not while wandering around London. ‘Hold my hand.’ I can’t imagine that Miller has ever held a woman’s hand casually, and I also can’t picture it. He’s led me by my hand on a few occasions, but it’s always been purposeful – to put me somewhere he wants me to be, never relaxed and lovingly.

He spends way too long thinking about my request before he eventually takes my offering with a little pucker of his brow.

‘Boo!’ I yell with a smirk, making him wince and give a little startled jump before he quickly composes himself and slowly lifts unamused blue eyes to mine. I smile. ‘I don’t bite.’

He’s full to the brim with aggravation, I can tell, but he’s giving me nothing but his cool impassiveness. It doesn’t affect my smiling face, though. I’m properly grinning. ‘Sass,’ he says simply, firming up his grip, refusing to humour me as he takes the lead.

I follow, changing the hold of our joined hands as we wander down the street so our fingers are entwined. I keep the direction of my stare forward, only allowing myself a brief glimpse of Miller. I don’t need to look, but I do, seeing him gazing down at our hands and feeling the flex of his grip as he gets used to his hold. He really hasn’t held a woman’s hand like this before, and while the thought delights me, it also tarnishes the immense comforting feeling that I relish in when he holds me by my nape. Is that how he holds all women? Do they get the rush of warmth bolting through their body when he does that? Do their eyes slowly close and their neck flex a little in absorption and satisfaction? These questions have my hand tightening around his and my head turning to gaze up at him, just to get a good fill of the look on his face, just to see how uncomfortable our connection is making him. He’s stiff as a board, his hand constantly flexing in my grasp, and his expression is almost mystified.

‘You okay?’ I ask quietly as we turn onto Bury Street.

The even beats of his expensive shoes hitting the pavement falter very slightly, but he doesn’t look down at me. ‘Fine and dandy,’ he says, and I laugh, letting my head fall onto his upper arm.

He’s far from fine and dandy. He looks awkward and inconvenienced. Miller, despite being dressed in exquisite finery that blends into London-by-day just fine, is exuding an air of unease. I look around as we continue towards Piccadilly, seeing businessmen everywhere, all suited, some on mobile phones, some carrying briefcases, and all look perfectly comfortable. They look full of purpose, probably because they are. They’re on their way to brunch or a meeting or maybe to the office. And as I return my eyes to Miller, I realise that he’s lacking that purpose right now. He goes from A to B. He doesn’t wander, yet he’s trying his hardest for me. And failing terribly. My mind dips momentarily into the possibility that Miller looks so out of place because I’m attached to his arm, but I toss that thought out just as quickly. I’m here and I’m staying, and not just because Miller says so. The notion of attempting to continue my life without him in it is unthinkable, and my train of thought alone sends a chilliness coursing through my current contentment, making me shiver into his lean body. My spare arm lifts without instruction and my palm wraps around his upper arm, just below my chin.

‘Olivia?’ I leave my head and palm exactly where they are, lifting only my eyes to find him looking down at me with mild concern etched on his face. I force a tiny smile through the anxiety that my wayward thoughts have spiked.

‘I know and love my sweet girl’s look of bliss, and she’s trying to fool me now.’ He stops and turns into me, making releasing him unavoidable and tremendously painful, but I allow myself to be detached. Masses of blond ponytail are collected from my shoulder and released to cascade down my back before his palms encase my cheeks. He bends a little, making sure his face is level with mine; then he reinstates a little of my contentment by blinking so incredibly lazily, I think he might not ever open his eyes again. But he does, and I’m blasted back by the unreserved comfort that’s pouring relentlessly from every fibre of his beautiful being. He knows. ‘Share with me your burden.’

I smile on the inside and try to mentally pull it together. ‘I’m fine,’ I assure him, taking one of his hands from my cheek and kissing his palm gently.

‘Overthinking, Olivia. How many times do we need to go over this?’ He seems cross, although continuing to be super gentle.

‘I’m okay,’ I insist, diverting my eyes from the intensity of his questioning stare, letting them fall down the length of his body to his posh brogues. My mind captures every fine thread of his attire and the outstanding quality of his shoes. And then I think of something and look across the street. ‘Come with me,’ I say, taking his hand and tugging him into the road.

He follows obediently, with not a murmur of protest, to the end of Bury Street and a little way down Jermyn Street until we’re standing outside a men’s clothes store – a boutique-style one, all stuffy and proper, but I see something I like the look of.

‘What are you doing?’ he questions, looking nervously at the shop window.

‘Window-shopping,’ I answer nonchalantly as I drop his hand and turn to face the window, taking in the solid wooden mannequins dressed in top-quality men’s wear. I can see mainly suits, but they’re not what have my attention.