right. I couldn’t have. He doesn’t want to get married. My eyes dart all over his face, noting between my shock that there’s a sheen of sweat coating it.
‘You heard me,’ he replies, remaining impossibly still. His only movements are his lips parting slowly to speak. His wide blue eyes aren’t even blinking, just burning holes into my startled face.
‘I . . . it . . . I thought . . .’
‘Don’t make me repeat myself,’ he warns evenly, making me snap my mouth shut in shock. I try to form some coherent words. I can’t. My mind has shut down on me. So I just stare at his impassive face, waiting for anything that could clue me up on what I think I just heard. ‘Olivia . . .’
‘Say it again!’ I blurt, recoiling as a result of my own abruptness but declining from apologising. I’m too dazed. The mild sign of a twitching lip would usually have my own lips twitching in response. Not today, though. Today I’m useless.
Miller takes a deep breath, reaches forward, grabs the sheets at my chest with his fists, and yanks me to him. We’re nose to nose, twinkling bright blues on wide, unsure sapphires. ‘Marry me, sweet girl. Be mine forever.’
My lungs burn under the strain of holding my breath. I didn’t want any noise when he repeated what I thought he said, including breathing. ‘Oooooh,’ I exhale it all on that silly gush of comprehension. ‘I thought you never wanted to marry officially?’ I had got my head around it. His written word and spoken promise are more than enough for me. Like Miller, I don’t need witnesses or religion to validate what we have.
Lush lips straighten. ‘I’ve changed my mind and we’ll speak no more of it.’
My mouth drops open in shock. Just like that? I would ask what’s changed, but I think it’s probably obvious, and I’m not going to question it. I’d told myself Miller was right, and I really did believe it. Maybe because he made sense, or maybe because he seemed so adamant. ‘But why are you in the lift?’ My thoughts spill from my mouth as I sit before him, trying to wrap my mind around what’s happening.
Miller’s slips into thought and takes a risky peek of his surroundings, but he soon centres his attention back on me. ‘I can do anything for you.’ He speaks quietly, surely.
I get it.
If he can do this, then he literally can do anything for me.
‘My life has fallen into place, Olivia Taylor. Now I am who I’m supposed to be. Your lover. Your friend. Your husband.’ He drops his gaze to my tummy and I watch in wonder as his eyes take on a peaceful edge. They’re smiling eyes. ‘Our baby’s father.’
I leave him undisturbed while he stares at my stomach for what seems an eternity. It gives me time to let his declaration settle. Miller Hart isn’t your average man. He’s a man beyond any reasonable ability to describe. I think I have that ability now. Because I know him. Everyone, including me one time, used words they deemed fitting when describing Miller.
Detached. Emotionless. Unloving. And unlovable.
He was never any of those things, although he tried his damn hardest to be. And succeeded quite successfully. He repelled positivity and welcomed detriment. Like his paintings, he tarnished his natural beauty. Miller Hart’s walls were built so high, there was a risk no one would ever breach them. Because that is how he wanted it to be. I didn’t bash those walls down on my own. Brick by brick, he dismantled them with me. He wanted to show me the man he truly wanted to be. For me. There’s nothing in this world that could give me greater pleasure or satisfaction than seeing Miller smile. A simple thing, I know, but not in our world. Every smile he gives me is indicative of true happiness, and despite his signature cool impassiveness, I will never live with the worry of reading him. His eyes are a sea of emotion that I’m certain only I can construe. I’ve completed the Miller Hart induction programme. I’ve aced that damn course. Yet I’m under no illusion that I did it alone. Our worlds collided and exploded. I deciphered him and he deciphered me.
There was him and there was me.
And now there is only us.
‘You can be whoever you want to be,’ I whisper, moving forward, needing to be closer to him.
Inconceivable peace reflects back at me when we’re looking at each other again. ‘I want to be your husband.’ He speaks softly and quietly. ‘Marry me, Olivia Taylor. I beg you.’ His demand steals my breath. ‘Please don’t make me repeat myself, sweet girl.’
‘But—’
‘I’m not finished.’ His finger meets my lips to hush me. ‘I want you to be mine in every way possible, including in the eyes of God.’
‘But you’re not a religious man,’ I remind him stupidly.
‘If he accepts you as mine, then I’ll be whatever he wants me to be. Marry me.’
I crumble with happiness and throw myself into his arms, feeling overwhelmed by the intensity of my feelings for my perfect gentleman.
He catches me. Holds me tightly. Injects an incredible amount of certainty into me.
‘As you wish,’ I whisper.
I feel him smile into my neck and constrict me in his grip. ‘I’m using my intuition here,’ he says quietly, ‘and I’m going to suggest that you mean yes.’
‘Correct,’ I whisper, smiling into his neck.
‘Good. Now get me out of this fucking lift.’
Epilogue
Six years later
It’s off by at least five millimetres.
And it’s bugging the God-loving hell out of me. My damn hands are twitching and my drumming fingers are speeding up by the second.
It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.
‘It’s not fucking fine,’ I bark to myself, diving forward and poking my laptop to the left. I know the sense of released pressure is unreasonable, really, I do, but I just can’t figure out why I should leave it so horribly out of place when a split second of my time can put it where it should be. I frown to myself and settle back in my chair, feeling a whole lot better. Therapy is clearly working a treat.
A soft rapping pulls my attention away from my perfectly placed laptop and to my office door. That delicious wave of happiness mixed with a ton of other emotions sails through me like lightning, the fireworks beginning to explode beneath my skin at her known closeness.
My sweet girl. She’s here.
I grin and arm myself with my remote control, pressing the button that’ll prompt my screens to appear. They take forever, but I don’t worry about her walking in, even though she knows the code. She’ll wait for me. Like she always does.
The screens kick in and I sigh when she appears on the main centred television, her beautiful petite body dressed in black capri trousers and a crisp white shirt tucked in neatly, her hair cascading all over her shoulders. If I was that way inclined, I’d kick my feet up on my desk, recline in my chair, and just sit here for the rest of the day watching her. But I’m not up for littering my desk with my feet, and no amount of therapy will solve that. So I rest my head against the back of the chair, tapping the remote control on the arm and smiling when my stare drops to her cute feet. Today’s colour: coral, and although it kind of takes the edge off the elegant formal style of her work outfit, it doesn’t matter. Never has, never will. My girl must have fifty pairs, and I know more will be added. By me. I just can’t help it. Every time I see a new colour, I find myself in the store and walking out with another pair, sometimes two, or, on the odd occasion, three. Her face each time I present her with a new hue is beyond the realms of pleasure. In fact, I think I’ve become mildly obsessed by hunting down every colour on the Converse spectrum. I frown to myself. Mildly? OK, so I search Google every now and then, and maybe reserve a day here and there especially for Converse hunting. That doesn’t make me obsessive. Enthusiastic, maybe. Yes, enthusiastic. I’ll go with that, and I don’t care what my therapist says.
On a silly little agreeable nod of my head, I resume my concentration of the screen, brushing at my forehead when a stray hair tickles my skin. I sigh, rapt by the sheer perfection that is my wife, the side of my ind
ex finger rubbing back and forth across my top lip as I think of all the worshipping time I’ve reserved for tonight. And tomorrow night. And the next night. I smile to myself, wondering what planet I must have been on all those years ago. I knew one night would never be enough. And I know for sure that she knew it, too.
I’m waiting for it.
It’s coming.
Any . . . moment . . . now.
‘Here we go.’ I grin to myself, looking on as she gazes up at the camera and drops her weight casually onto her hip. She’s had enough. But I haven’t. So I stay exactly where I am, denying her. ‘In a minute, sweet girl,’ I muse. ‘Give me what I want.’
My cock starts to twitch in my trousers when I see her roll her eyes, and I shift in my chair to alleviate the pressure of it pushing against my fly. She begins to turn away from the camera. I release a puff of built-up air and try to regulate my breathing. It doesn’t work. ‘Oooh Jesus help me.’
She slowly bends, pushing her pert bottom out, and the material of her Ralph Lauren trousers pulls taunt over her cheeks. Then all sorts of frantic activity happens in my trousers when she looks over her shoulder on a diminutive smile. ‘Bloody hell!’ I’m out of my chair and sprinting to the door in a flash, but I skid to a stop before I make it when something very serious escapes my notice in my urgency. I start pulling at my suit, desperately resisting the powerful urge to look at it. I smooth my collar, my tie, my sleeves – all in a vain attempt to avoid it. ‘Bollocks!’ I drop my head back and let it slowly fall to the side, my eyes landing on the wayward remote control before travelling across to my chair, which is positioned randomly, the seat still swivelling a little from the brute force of me flying up.
Leave them, leave them, leave them.
I can’t. My office is the only sacred place I have left.
I hurry over and swipe the control up, putting it its rightful place in the top drawer. ‘Perfect,’ I declare to myself, ready to fix my chair.
Knock, knock, knock.
My head whips up and for some unknown reason, I come over all guilty.
Then I hear her silky voice through the door. ‘I know what you’re doing!’ she sings, laughter only a fraction away from her tone. ‘Don’t forget your chair, baby.’
My eyes clench shut, like I can hide from my crimes. ‘There’s no need for insolence,’ I mutter, loving her and hating her all at once for knowing me so well.
‘With you, Miller Hart, there is. Open the door or I’ll let myself in.’
‘No!’ I yell, pushing my chair aggressively under my desk. ‘You know I like opening the door for you.’
‘Then hurry up. I have studying to do and a job to get to.’
I wander over to the door, pulling my suit into place and raking an annoyed hand through my hair, but when I take the handle, I don’t turn it. Something has just come to me. ‘Tell me you won’t snitch on me,’ I say, physically stopping myself from opening the door before she agrees. She’s like a magnet and with only a piece of wood between our close bodies, I can feel her luring me closer.
‘To your therapist?’ she asks, giggling, making my cock resume twitching in my trousers.
‘Yes. Promise you won’t make a big deal of it.’
‘I promise,’ she agrees easily. ‘Now let me taste you.’
I swing the door open and brace myself for her attack, laughing when her body crashes to mine before I’ve had the opportunity to absorb her in the flesh. My thing is brief before she’s kissing her way across my stubbled face and plunges her tongue into my mouth. ‘It might slip out accidently,’ she mumbles past my lips, nibbling and biting.
I cotton on to her way of thinking fast. I smile. ‘What will it cost me for your silence?’
‘A whole night of worshipping,’ she states with confidence and without delay.
‘You really don’t have a choice in the matter.’ I secure my arm around her tiny waist and carry her to my couch, sitting down and arranging her on my lap, all the while maintaining her wonderful hello kiss.
‘I don’t want one, so yes, this is a pointless discussion. I agree.’
‘Smart girl.’ I sound arrogant. I don’t care. ‘Thank you for stopping by, sweet girl.’
She rips her busy lips away, and I growl lowly, but soon forget my grievance when I’m presented with her flawless face and gorgeous hair. My fingers are instantly delving into the strands and twiddling. ‘You thank me every day like it’s my choice,’ she whispers.
I feel my eyebrows lift. ‘I never make you do anything that I know you don’t want to do,’ I remind her, relishing in that sassy scowl when it’s tossed in my direction. ‘Do I?’
‘Noooo,’ she says, drawing the word out on a long exasperated exhale. ‘But this one of your obsessive habits kind of interferes with my working day. I might see to it that your therapist tackles it next.’
I scoff. ‘She even tries, then I’ll no longer utilise her services.’ I can’t deny it. I have gained some more obsessive little ways, but I’ve dealt with many, too, so I shouldn’t be penalised. I should be rewarded.
She doesn’t hit me with her sass this time, though I can see she’s dying to. But even my perfect wife has figured out that no amount of her so-called therapy will see me wiping any obsessive habit that relates to her from my life. And anyway, I know she enjoys most of them. I don’t know why she tries to pretend she doesn’t, that I’m hampering her life.
Her lack of retort leaves silence and me time to absorb her, which I do with the greatest of pleasure. I really haven’t laid my eyes on anything so perfect in all of my life. I correct myself on a smile when the most adorable little boy settles at the front of my mind.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks on a little cock of her beautiful head.
‘I’m thinking you and my little man put perfection to shame.’
Sparkling sapphires send me cross-eyed. ‘Speaking of your little man . . .’
My contentment disintegrates quickly. ‘What’s he done now?’ My mind races with a million scenarios, praying he hasn’t shown any tell-tale signs of obsessive behaviour.
‘He stole Missy’s socks.’
My relief is profound. This again? I try to hide my amusement. I really do. ‘Why?’ I know why.
Olivia looks at me like I’m stupid. ‘Because they were odd.’ She isn’t amused. Not at all.
‘I empathise.’
She slaps my shoulder on a scornful look, and I give her a hurt face, rubbing at her target. ‘It’s not funny.’
I sag beneath her. How many times do we need to go over this? ‘I’ve told them. Tell all the kids to wear matching socks. Simple.’ Christ almighty, how hard can it be?
‘Miller, he stands at the entrance and makes the other children show him their socks.’
I nod, pouting. ‘Very thorough.’
‘Or very annoying when he pinches them if they’re odd. Are you going to explain to the parents why their children keep going home from school with no socks on their feet?’
‘Yes. And I’ll tell them how to remedy the problem.’ I watch her sigh, exasperated. I don’t know why. She overthinks stuff, as always, and I’m not having the parents of my boy’s school friends making her think there’s something wrong with our son. ‘I’ll deal with it,’ I assure her, glancing at my fingers that are tangled in her locks. I frown, flicking my eyes to Livy’s. ‘There’s something different about you.’ I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before.
Worry kicks in when guilt floods her sapphires and she removes herself from my lap, spending an exceptional amount of time straightening herself out. I push myself up from the couch, my eyes narrowing. ‘I know my sweet girl inside out, and right now she’s as guilty as sin.’
Her sass rears its ugly head and daggers fire from angry eyes with such force, I’m nearly nailed to the wall behind me. ‘I had an inch off!’
I gasp. I knew it! ‘You cut your hair!’
‘I had split ends!’ she argues. ‘It was beginning to lo
ok tatty!’
‘No, it wasn’t!’ I fire back in disgust, pursing my lips. ‘Why would you do that to me?’
‘I didn’t do it to you. I did it to me!’
‘Oh,’ I laugh, outraged. ‘Like that, is it?’ I march off to the bathroom, knowing she’s in hot pursuit.
‘Don’t you dare, Miller!’
‘I made you a promise. I keep my promises.’ I open the cupboard and pull out the clippers, shoving the plug viciously into the socket. She cut her hair!
‘An inch, that’s all! It’s still skimming my arse!’
‘My possession!’ I bark, taking the clippers to my head with every intention to see my promise through.
‘Fine,’ she says calmly, throwing me off course. ‘Shave your
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