Denied (One Night 2)

‘Eleven,’ he says quietly, regarding me closely. I hate the inward gasp of delight that emanates from the sales assistant, and I hate myself for rising to her clear interest.

I step in front of Miller and turn annoyed eyes onto her. ‘An eleven,’ I confirm, nodding at the shoe. ‘And it’s true what they say.’ I’m stunned by my blatant suggestion, and Miller’s shocked cough behind me tells me he is, too. But I don’t care. Today has been far from quality time, and all the interference is beginning to piss me off.

‘Certainly!’ The shop assistant jumps at the decibel level of her own voice, avoiding my eyes and fighting a furious blush. ‘Please, take a seat. I’ll be right back.’ She’s off without delay, no swaying arse or coy look over her shoulder in sight. I grin to myself, getting a satisfied thrill from the discomfort I’ve caused while making a mental promise to maintain this sass.

‘I have a request.’ Miller’s whisper in my ear wipes my smugness clean from my face. I don’t want to confront him, but I’m given little choice when my shoulders are clasped and I’m turned in his hold. I brace myself, knowing what I’ll find. I’m right. He’s expressionless with a familiar hint of disapproval in his eyes.

‘What?’ All satisfaction has been drawn from my body by the condemnation leaking from Miller in droves. I’ve overstepped the mark.

His hands slide into his pockets. ‘What’s true and who says it?’

My lips stretch to the point of ripping. ‘You know what and who.’

‘Elaborate,’ he orders, not returning my delight.

It makes me grin harder. ‘In Harrods?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well’ – I shift and quickly scan our surroundings, seeing too many shoppers in close proximity to speak of such a thing – ‘I’ll tell you later.’ He’s doing this on purpose. He knows.

‘No.’ He moves in, bringing his chest to mine, breathing down on me. ‘I’d like to know now. I feel in the dark.’ If he’s struggling to maintain his seriousness, then he’s not showing it. He’s perfectly composed, even grave.

‘You’re playing.’ I step back, but he’s having none of it and closes the small space that I’ve created.

‘Tell me.’

Damn him. I search deep for my sass and piece together an explanation on an embarrassed whisper. ‘Feet and a male’s’ – I cough – ‘manhood.’

‘What about them?’

‘Miller!’ I fidget, feeling my cheeks heat under the pressure.

‘Tell me, Livy.’

‘Fine!’ I snap, reaching up on my tiptoes to push my mouth to his ear. ‘Big feet are said to equal big cocks.’ My face flames as I feel his head nod thoughtfully against me, his hair tickling my cheek.

‘Is that so?’ he asks, maintaining all seriousness. The bastard.

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting,’ he muses, then blows hot breath into my ear. It knocks me even more off-kilter and my stability fails me, sending me on a little stagger forward. I collide with his chest on a gasp. ‘Okay there?’ His tone is loaded with conceit.

‘Fine and dandy,’ I mutter, forcing some strength into my weakness and pulling out of his chest.

‘Fine and dandy,’ he muses quietly, a roving eye watching me struggling to compose myself. ‘Oh look.’ He nods over my shoulder, prompting me to turn. ‘Here are my size elevens.’

I chuckle to myself, earning a poke in the back by Miller and a puzzled look from the sales assistant. ‘Elevens!’ she sings, making my laughter cross the line into uncontrollable body spasms. ‘You okay, miss?’

‘Yes!’ I yell, turning away and picking up the first shoe I can find, anything to distract me from the size elevens. I cough when I look at the size, seeing it stated in big, bold type that the shoe I’ve chosen to distract myself with is, in fact, a size eleven also. I fold over on a titter and shove it back.

‘She’s fine,’ Miller confirms. I’m not looking at him, but I know he’s staring at my back, appearing expressionless to the assistant, but he’ll have that playful twinkle in his eyes. If I could face Miller and the flirty assistant without snorting all over them, then I’d be swivelling fast to catch the wonderful sight. But I can’t stop laughing, my shoulders bouncing violently.

Studying the random shoe carefully, grinning like an idiot, I listen to the crumpling of tissue paper as the assistant removes the boots from the box. ‘Do you need a shoehorn, sir?’ she asks.

‘Doubt it,’ Miller grumbles, probably inspecting the boots and mentally complaining about their lack of leather soles. I pull it together and rotate slowly, finding Miller sitting on a suede seat, wrestling his foot into a boot. Observing quietly, as does the assistant, I think how lovely the boots are, all casual in soft, worn brown leather.

‘Comfy?’ I ask hopefully, bracing myself for his scoff, but he ignores me and stands, looking down at his feet before hastily returning to sitting.

He undoes the laces and places the boot neatly back in the box. I want to scream my excitement when I see him shift it, making the pair as neat as possible amid the tissue paper. He likes them, and I know that for sure because he has an appreciation for his possessions and those boots are now his possession. ‘They’ll do,’ he says to himself, like he doesn’t want to admit it out loud.

My grin is back. He will concede, damn him. ‘Do. You. Like?’