Promised

‘I’ll leave if you want me to. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.’ He makes no move to drop the things from his hands and remove his jacket. ‘Your grandmother is quite a woman.’

‘She is,’ I answer quietly. ‘And you always make me feel uncomfortable.’

‘Come home with me and I’ll put some shorts on.’

My eyes widen at the thought of Miller bare-chested and barefoot. ‘That didn’t make me comfortable,’ I point out. He knows that.

‘What I did to you following the removal of my clothes did, though.’ That lock of hair slips down on cue, as if backing up his words, making them more suggestive.

I shift on the spot. ‘That won’t happen again.’

‘Don’t say things you don’t mean, Livy,’ he counters softly.

My eyes fly to his, and he moves in, the flowers that he’s holding touching the front of my tea dress. ‘You’re using my own grandmother against me,’ I breathe.

‘You leave me no choice.’ He dips and rests his lips over mine, sending a delicious warmth to my core to match the heat of his mouth on mine.

‘You’re not playing fair.’

‘I’ve never claimed to play by the rules, Livy. And anyway, all of my rules were obliterated the second I laid my hands on you.’

‘What rules?’

‘I’ve forgotten.’ He takes my mouth gently, pushing the flowers further into my chest, the cellophane encasing them crinkling loudly, but I’m too consumed to care whether the noise attracts the attention of my nosy nan. My senses are saturated, my blood is heated, and I’m reminded of the incredible feelings that Miller Hart draws from me. ‘Feel me,’ he moans against my mouth.

Without thought, my hand slowly moves down between our bodies, bypassing the flowers and Harrods bag, until I’m brushing my knuckles over the long, hard length of him. His deep groan emboldens me, my hand turning to feel, stroke and squeeze over the top of his trousers.

‘You do that,’ he growls. ‘And for as long as you do this to me, you’re obliged to remedy it.’

‘It wouldn’t happen if you didn’t see me,’ I gasp, biting at his lip, not bothered by his arrogant declaration.

‘Livy, I only have to think of you and I’m solid. Seeing you makes me ache. You’re coming home with me tonight, and I’m not taking no for an answer.’ His lips press harder to mine.

‘That woman was with you again.’

‘How many times do we have to go over this?’

‘Do you often go clothes shopping with female business associates?’ I ask around his unrelenting lips.

He pulls away, panting, his hair in disarray. Those blue eyes will be the death of me. ‘Why can’t you trust me on this?’

‘You’re too secretive,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t want you to have this hold over me.’

He leans in and kisses my forehead tenderly, lovingly. His words don’t match his actions. It’s so confusing to me. ‘It’s not a hold if you accept it, sweet girl.’

I’d be inconceivably stupid to trust this man. It’s not so much the woman; my conscience seems quite happy to overlook her. It’s my destiny. My heart. I’m falling too hard and too fast.

He steps away, glancing down at his groin area before adjusting himself. ‘I have to face a sweet old lady with this, and it’s entirely your fault.’ He lifts almost mischievous eyes to mine, throwing me off course again. It’s another expression from Miller Hart that’s alien to me. ‘Ready?’ he asks, sliding his palm around my neck and turning me towards the kitchen.

No, I don’t think I am ready, but I say yes anyway, knowing what I’m going to find in the kitchen. And I’m right on the money. Nan is smiling smugly and George’s eyes have just popped out of his head at the sight of Miller guiding me. I gesture to my nan’s long-suffering male companion. ‘Miller, this is George, my nan’s friend.’

‘Pleasure.’ Miller offloads the flowers and bag, rather than letting go of me, and accepts George’s hand, giving it a firm, manly shake. ‘That’s a rather dashing shirt you have on there, George.’ Miller nods at George’s striped chest genuinely.

‘You know, I think so, too,’ George agrees, stroking down his front.

I don’t know why I didn’t notice this before. George is in his Sunday best, usually reserved for bingo or church. Nan really is a conniving old bat. I cast my eyes over to her, noticing her floating, floral, button-up dress, also usually reserved for Sunday best. Looking down at myself, I note that I am far from practically dressed in my creased tea dress and hot-pink Converse, and suddenly uncomfortable with that, I pipe up.

‘I’m just going to use the bathroom.’ I’m not going anywhere until Miller releases me from his grasp, but he doesn’t seem in much of a hurry to do so.

Instead, he picks up the bouquet, a mass of yellow roses, and hands them to Nan, followed by the Harrods bag. ‘Just a few things to say thank you for your hospitality.’

‘Oohh!’ Nan shoves her nose into the bouquet, then her face into the bag. ‘Oh my, caviar! Oh, George, look!’ She drops the roses on the table and presents George with the tiniest jar. ‘Seventy pounds for that little thing,’ she whispers, but I don’t know why because we’re standing mere feet away and can hear her perfectly. I’m horrified. The plum is a distant memory and so is her decorum.

‘Seventy quid?’ George chokes. ‘For fish eggs? Well, slap me sideways!’