One Night: Promised(122)

Smoothing his palms up my spine, his hand finds my hair and starts combing through with his fingers as he watches. Then he slowly brings his eyes to mine. ‘This beautiful, pure girl has fallen in love with the big bad wolf.’

My eyebrows meet in the middle. ‘You’re not a big bad wolf,’ I argue, not thinking to deny his other conclusion. He’s absolutely right, and I’m not ashamed of it. I am in love with him. ‘And I thought we established that I’m not so sweet.’ I want to feel his hair and his lips, but he looks despondent, almost troubled by the knowledge that someone loves him.

‘We established nothing of the sort. You’re my sweet girl, and we’ll be leaving that line of conversation exactly there.’

‘Okay.’ I succumb immediately and easily, hating his curt delivery but secretly loving the words he’s used. I’m his.

He sighs and kisses me chastely. ‘You must be hungry. Let me make you supper.’ He starts to untangle our bodies and places me on my feet, running his eyes down my body. I’m still wearing his shirt, buttons undone, hanging open, and it’s creased beyond creased. ‘Look at the state of that,’ he muses on a subtle shake of his head. And just like that, he’s switched back to perfect, precise Miller Hart, like I haven’t just confessed my love for him.

‘Maybe you should invest in non-iron shirts,’ I say thoughtfully, pulling the two sides together.

‘Cheap material.’ He pushes my hands away and starts buttoning me up, and even straightens the collar before nodding his half-hearted approval and taking my nape.

He’s already wearing a pair of shorts, which means only one thing. While I was having terrible nightmares, my finicky, fine Miller was tidying up.

‘Please, sit,’ he says when we arrive in the kitchen, releasing me from his grasp. ‘What would you like?’

I park my bum on the chair, the coolness on my bottom reminding me that I have no knickers on. ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’

‘Well, I’m having bruschetta. Will you join me?’ He takes numerous containers from the fridge and turns the grill on.

He means tomatoes, I think. ‘Sure,’ I reply, placing my hands in my lap in preparation for him to set the eating area. I should offer to help but I know my consideration won’t be appreciated. Nevertheless, I do anyway. I might surprise myself – and Miller – and get it all right. ‘I’ll lay the table.’ I get up, not missing the tensing of his shoulders as he slowly turns towards me.

‘No, please, let me tend to you.’ He’s using his whole worshipping business as an excuse to prevent me from screwing up his perfection.

‘I’d like to.’ I dismiss his worry and make my way over to the cupboard where I know the dishes to be, while Miller reluctantly starts coating some bread with olive oil. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me about your club?’ I ask, keen to distract him from the potential of his sweet girl screwing up his perfect table. I slide two plates from the cupboard and make my way back to the table, setting them down neatly.

He’s wary, his eyes flicking from the plates to me as he finishes up with the oil. ‘I told you. I don’t like mixing business with pleasure.’

‘So you’ll never talk about work with me?’ I ask, heading for the stack of drawers.

‘No. It’s draining.’ He slides the tray full of bread under the grill and sets about tidying up the mess that isn’t there. ‘When I’m with you, I want to concentrate on only you.’

I falter as I collect two pairs of knives and forks. ‘I can live with that,’ I say on a small smile.

‘Who said you have a choice?’

My smile widens as I face him. ‘I don’t want a choice.’

‘Then this is a pointless conversation, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Agreed.’

‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.’ he says seriously, pulling the lightly toasted bread from under the grill. ‘Would you like wine with your supper?’

Again, I’m faltering, certain I’ve not heard him right. After everything I’ve told him? ‘I’ll have water.’ I pad back to the island.

‘With bruschetta?’ He sounds disgusted. ‘No, you have chianti with bruschetta. There’s a bottle on the drinks cabinet and the glasses are in the left-hand cupboard.’ He nods towards the lounge while neatly spooning the prepared tomato mixture onto the toast and setting it on a white platter.

After placing the knives and forks as accurately as possible, I make my way to the drinks cabinet, finding dozens of wine bottles, all displayed in tidy rows, labels facing outward. Not daring to touch them, I bend slightly to start reading the labels, getting through every single bottle and finding nothing named chianti. I straighten and frown, running my eyes over all of the bottles gracing the surface of the cabinet, noting them grouped according to the alcoholic drink contained in each one. It’s then I see a basket containing a dumpy bottle and as I close in, I see the label says ‘Chianti’. It’s also open.