Denied (One Night 2)

Miller joins me, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, and we both just stand there for an age, me pretending to browse, when all I’m thinking is how I’ll get him in there, and Miller twitching nervously beside me.

He clears his throat. ‘I think that’s enough window-shopping for now,’ he declares, taking my neck to lead me away.

I don’t budge, not even when his strong fingers increase their pressure a bit. It’s hard, but I root myself to the spot, making moving me of the utmost difficulty ‘Let’s go in and take a look,’ I suggest.

He stills, halting his attempts to get me shifting. ‘I’m particular about where I shop.’

‘You’re particular about everything, Miller.’

‘Yes, and I’d like to keep it that way.’ He tries to move me again, but I dip from his hold and head hastily for the entrance.

‘Come on,’ I urge.

‘Olivia,’ he calls, his tone laced with warning.

I stop on the shop step and swing around, plastering a huge smile on my face. ‘Nothing fills you with greater pleasure than seeing me so happy,’ I remind him, leaning up against the door frame and casually crossing one leg over the other. ‘And it would make me really happy if you would accompany me into this shop.’

Blue eyes twinkle but narrow, as if he’s trying to conceal his amusement at my smart-arse comment. His lips are twitching, too, which only broadens my happiness into overwhelming elation. This is just perfect because Miller loves it when I’m happy, and I couldn’t be any happier right now. I’m being playful and he’s reciprocating . . . nearly.

‘You’re very hard to resist, Olivia Taylor.’ He shakes his head wistfully, propelling my happiness further as he takes the few remaining strides towards me. I stay on the shop step, looking down at him, unable to wipe the smile from my face. He keeps his hands to himself and reaches up with his lips, bringing them close to mine. ‘It’s almost impossible,’ he whispers, engulfing my face with his soft breath and my nose with his manly scent. My resolve wanes, but I quickly snatch it back and disappear into the shop before I’m swallowed up and led away from the store.

On entering, I’m immediately given the once-over by a stout man, who appears from the back of the store. He looks like he’s just wandered out of an estate in the English countryside. His tweed suit is crisp and neat and, on closer inspection, I notice the knot of his tie is as perfect as Miller’s. Stupidly, I think that Miller will approve of this, which will only enhance his good mood, so I pivot to face him, but deflate fast when I find he’s disappeared from the door and is now looking through the shop window again, his mask slipped back into place. He’s hovering, looking around cautiously . . . dubiously.

‘Can I help you?’

I leave Miller contemplating whether he’s going to venture into the store and return my attention to the store assistant. Yes, he can help me. ‘You do casual wear?’ I ask.

He laughs a pompous laugh before signalling to the back of the store. ‘Why, of course; however, we are far more renowned for our suits and shirts.’

My eyes follow the direction of his pointed finger and find a section to the rear of the store with just a few rails of casual garments. It’s quite sparse, but I’m not risking leaving to try and get Miller to a shop with a wider range. It’ll give him too long to worm out of it. And on that thought, I swivel again to see if he’s braved venturing into the shop. He hasn’t.

On a sigh loud enough for him to hear, even from outside, I turn to find the assistant again. ‘I’ll have a look.’ I go to pass him, but he shifts on an uncomfortable shuffle of his portly body, blocking my path. I frown and throw him a questioning look as he runs disapproving eyes down my floral dress, all the way to my exposed pink toenails.

‘Miss,’ he begins, returning his beady eyes to mine, ‘you’ll find most shops here on Jermyn Street will be of the . . . how should I say?’ He hums in thought, but I don’t know why. He knows what he wants to say, and I know it, too. ‘The higher end of the clothing spectrum.’

My sass runs and hides. I’m not his typical clientele, and he isn’t afraid to voice it. ‘Right,’ I whisper, too many unwanted thoughts running through my mind. Like posh people eating posh food and drinking posh champagne . . . all of which I serve to them from time to time.

He smiles the most insincere smile and starts fiddling with the sleeve of a nearby shirt on a mannequin. ‘Maybe Oxford Street would be more suitable.’

I feel foolish, and this rotten man’s reaction to my enquiry has only confirmed my constant worries, and he hasn’t even seen Miller. That’ll shock him. Me with a finely dressed specimen such as Miller?

‘I believe the young lady would like to be shown the casual department.’ Miller’s voice creeps over my shoulders and makes them seize up. I’ve heard that tone. Only a few times before, but I’ll never forget or mistake it. He’s angry. I note the shop assistant’s widened eyes and stunned expression before I chance a very wary glance at Miller as he joins me in the store. To the man not trying to help me, I know he’ll look perfectly composed, but I can see the brimming fury. He’s not happy and I expect Mr My-Garments-Are-too-Posh-for-You will know about it very soon.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Is the young lady with you?’ I can see the surprise and it eats away all of the reassurance that Miller constantly fills me with. It’s gone. I’ll face this daily if I continue to try and immerse myself in Miller’s world. I know I’ll never leave him – not ever, not a chance – so it should be something that I must either learn to accept or learn to deal with better. I have copious amounts of sass for my uptight, part-time gentleman, but I seem to struggle on some occasions beyond that. Like now.