Promised

‘Will you join me for breakfast?’ he asks, undoing his tie and starting again.

‘Sure,’ I answer quietly, hating the awkwardness closing him off from me. I’m surprised to have woken up to daylight. When I dozed off last night, I was certain that I’d only be given a few hours’ recovery time before Miller woke me up to recommence worshipping me . . . or, more to the point, I was hoping he’d wake me up. I’m disappointed, and I’m trying not to make it obvious.

I don’t know why I glance around the room for my clothes because I know they won’t be anywhere in sight. ‘Where are my clothes?’

‘Take a shower. I’ll prepare breakfast.’ He strolls over to his wardrobe and appears moments later, buttoning up his waistcoat. ‘I need to leave in thirty minutes. Your clothes are in the bottom drawer.’

I shift uncomfortably, wondering what’s changed. He’s more closed off than ever before. Has he spent all night thinking, validating exactly what I’ve told him? ‘Okay,’ I confirm, not able to think of anything else to say. He’s barely even looking at me. I feel cheap and worthless, something that I’ve fought to avoid for years.

Not saying another word, he gets his suit jacket from the wardrobe and leaves me in his bedroom, feeling slighted and confused. I desperately want to escape the uneasiness, but I really don’t want to, too. I want to stay and loosen him up again, make him see me, not the illegitimate child of a hooker, but it doesn’t sound like I have much choice. He needs to leave in thirty minutes, and I need to shower before I join him for breakfast, which is limiting my time further.

Jumping up na**d from the bed, I rush into the bathroom to shower. I use his body wash, working it in firmly, like some way to keep him with me. Reluctantly rinsing off, I step out of the shower and pull one of the crisp, perfectly folded towels from the shelf and dry myself in record time before throwing my clothes on.

I traipse through his apartment, finding him in front of the mirror in the hallway, messing with his tie again. ‘Your tie is fine.’

‘No, it’s skew-whiff,’ he grumbles, yanking it free from his neck. ‘Fuck it!’

I watch as he stalks past me into the kitchen. I follow, a little bemused, and I shouldn’t be shocked when I find him standing in front of an ironing board, but I am. He lays the tie neatly, then with the utmost concentration he glides the iron across the blue silk before flicking the switch on the socket and draping the tie around his neck. He sets about putting away the board and iron, then returns to the mirror and starts the meticulous task of fastening his tie again, all as if I’m not even here.

‘Better,’ he affirms, pulling his collar down and looking over to me.

‘Your tie is wonky.’

He frowns and turns back to the mirror, giving it a little jiggle. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘Yes, it’s perfect, Miller,’ I mutter, making my way into the kitchen.

I admire the selection of breads, preserves and fruit. But I’m not hungry. My stomach is a knot of anxiety, and his formality isn’t easing my trepidation.

‘What would you like?’ he asks, taking up his seat.

‘I’ll just have some melon, please.’

He nods and takes a bowl, spooning some of the fruit in and handing me a fork. ‘Coffee?’

‘No, thank you.’ I take the fork, and then the bowl, setting it down as neatly as I can.

‘Orange juice? It’s freshly squeezed.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

He pours me some juice and tops his coffee up from the glass pot. ‘I forgot to thank you for smashing my lamp,’ he muses, lifting his cup slowly and watching me as he takes a sip.

I feel my face burn up under his accusing stare, my stomach knotting further. ‘I’m sorry.’ I shift on my chair, my eyes dropping to my bowl. ‘It was dark. I couldn’t see.’

‘You’re forgiven.’

My eyes fly up on a small laugh. ‘Why, thank you. You’re forgiven for leaving me in the dark.’

‘You should’ve stayed in bed,’ he retorts, sitting comfortably back on his chair. ‘You made an incredible mess.’

‘I’m sorry. The next time you abandon me in the middle of the night, I’ll have my night-vision goggles at hand.’

His eyebrows jump up in surprise, but I know it’s not because of my sarcasm. ‘“Abandon”?’

I cringe, diverting my eyes away from him. I should think before I speak, especially in the presence of Miller Hart. ‘That came out wrong.’

‘I hope so. I left you sleeping. I didn’t abandon you.’ He continues with his French toast, leaving those words lingering unwanted in the awkward air surrounding us – unwanted by me, anyway. ‘Eat up and I’ll take you home.’

‘Why do you hope so?’ I ask, feeling anger flare. ‘So I don’t tarnish you with the same brush as I do my pathetic mother?’

‘Pathetic?’

‘Yes, spineless. Selfish.’

He blinks his shock, twitching in his chair. ‘We have a deal for twenty-four hours,’ he fires across the table.

My teeth grit as I lean forward. I can see with one hundred per cent clarity that I’m drawing anger from this normally impassive man with my accusation. Yet what’s not clear is whether he’s angry with me or himself. ‘What was yesterday? In the car and last night? An act? You’re pathetic!’

Miller’s eyes darken and a flash of anger crosses his face. ‘Don’t push me, sweet girl. My temper isn’t something you should toy with. We had an arrangement and I was ensuring it was fulfilled.’