Unveiled (Page 6)

I laugh, earning me a curious sideways glance from Miller and pursed lips from Miss Flirty. ‘I’m certain your biceps need measuring.’ I reach down and smooth my palm down his thigh to raised brows. ‘Or maybe your inside leg.’

‘Sass,’ he says simply, before turning his naked chest back to the assistant and riffling through the mountain of clothes in her grasp. ‘This will suffice.’ He pulls out a lovely casual blue and white checked shirt, with rolled up sleeves and a pocket on each pec. Carelessly yanking off the tags, he slips it on and walks away, leaving Miss Flirty with wide eyes and me following his path to the till. He slaps the tags down, along with a hundred-dollar note, and walks out, fastening the buttons.

I watch him disappear out of the store, Miss Flirty standing to my side, all dumbstruck but still dribbling. ‘Um, thanks.’ I smile and go after my uptight, ill-mannered part-time gentleman.

‘That was so rude!’ I exclaim when I find him outside, securing the last button.

‘I bought a shirt.’ His arms fall to his sides, obviously flummoxed by my scorn. It worries me that he’s so unaware of his odd ways.

‘It’s the way you bought it,’ I retort, dropping my head back to look to the heavens for help.

‘You mean I told the assistant what I’d like, she found it, I tried it on, and then paid for it?’

My head drops tiredly and I find a familiar impassiveness. ‘Smart-arse.’

‘I’m merely stating the facts.’

Even if I had the energy to argue with him, which I don’t, I wouldn’t win. Old habits die hard.

‘Do you feel better?’ I ask.

‘It’ll do.’ He brushes down the checked shirt and tugs at the hem.

‘Yes, it’ll do,’ I sigh. ‘Where to next?’

His palm finds its favourite place on my neck and he turns me with a slight twist of his hand. ‘The Brilliant Building. Time for your challenge.’

‘It’s the Brill Building,’ I laugh. ‘And it’s this way.’ I divert quickly, causing Miller to lose his hold, and take his hand. ‘Did you know that many famous musicians wrote many hits in the Brill Building? Some of the most famous in American music history.’

‘Fascinating,’ Miller muses, looking fondly down at me.

I smile, reaching up to feel his dark stubbled jaw. ‘Not as fascinating as you.’

After a few hours roaming Manhattan and giving Miller a history lesson on not just the Brill Building but also St Thomas Church, we begin to stroll down to Central Park. We take our time, both of us silent as we amble leisurely down the centre of the tree-lined path, benches flanking both sides and peace engulfing us, leaving the concrete chaos behind. Once we’ve crossed the road that cuts the park in half, dodged all of the runners, and descended the giant concrete stairs to the fountain, my waist is circled with his palms and I’m lifted onto the edge of the giant water feature. ‘There,’ he says, smoothing down my skirt. ‘Give me your hand.’

I do as I’m bid, smiling at his formalness, and let him start leading me around the fountain, Miller still on the ground, his hand lifted to maintain our connection, while I tower above him. I take small paces and watch as he slips his spare hand into the pocket of his jeans. ‘How long do we need to stay here?’ I ask quietly, returning my eyes forward, mainly to ensure I don’t slip off the wall and a little to avoid what I know will be a torn face.

‘I’m not sure, Olivia.’

‘I miss Nan.’

‘I know you do.’ He squeezes my hand, his attempt to reassure me. It won’t work. I know William has taken on the responsibility of seeing to her welfare in my absence, something that is a worry for me because I still have no idea what he’s told my grandmother about his history with my mother and his history with me.

Looking up, I see a little girl skipping towards me on the fountain wall, doing a far better job of looking stable than I am. There’s not enough room for both of us, so I make to slip down but gasp when I’m seized and swung around, allowing her to skip on by, before I’m placed back on the raised edge of the fountain. My palms rest on his shoulders while he spends a few quiet moments straightening out my skirt. ‘Perfect,’ he says under his breath, taking my hand and leading on again. ‘Do you trust me, Olivia?’

His question throws me, not because I doubt my answer, but because he hasn’t asked this since we arrived. He hasn’t spoken about what we’ve left behind in London, and that has been fine by me. Immoral bastards, someone following me, Cassie going all lunatic on Miller, Sophia warning me off, chains, sex for money . . .

I’ve surprised myself how easy it has been to bury that somewhere deep within me since being immersed in the chaos of New York – a chaos I’m finding soothing compared to what I could be torturing myself with. I know Miller has been a little baffled by my lack of pressing, but there is something I can’t seem to cast aside so easily. Something I can’t bring myself to voice, to Miller or even out loud to myself. The only reassurance I needed was that Nan is being taken care of. I’m sensing now is the time that Miller’s quiet acceptance of my silence changes.

‘Yes,’ I answer assertively, but he doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my answer. He remains focused forward, holding my hand gently while I follow the curve of the fountain.

‘And I trust you to share your troubles with me.’ He halts and turns me into him, taking both of my hands and gazing up at me.