Promised
Page 70

I should’ve kept my mouth shut. My bedmaking efforts will never come up to scratch. Shifting to the edge of his bed, I stand and stare blankly at the mess of sheets, wondering where to start. The pillows. I should start with the pillows. Grabbing one of the four plump rectangles, I arrange it neatly, then set another by its side before placing the remaining two on top of each, running my palms over the surfaces to smooth the cotton. Happy with the result, I take two corners of the quilt and fling my arms skyward, flapping the sheet into a perfect square that floats gently down to the bed. I’m pleased with myself, it looks tidy, but I know it’s not tidy enough, so I set on a journey around the bed, pulling at corners and ironing out the crinkles with my palms. Then I open the lid of the giant chest and begin placing the cushions, trying my hardest to remember the exact positioning from when I was last here. When I’m satisfied with my display, I slide the silk throw across the centre and tweak the edges into place.
I smile triumphantly and stand back, admiring my handiwork. He can’t possibly turn his nose up at that. It looks spectacular.
‘Happy with yourself?’
I swing my na**d body around and find Miller, arms folded, leaning up against the door frame of the bathroom. ‘I think I’ve done a good job.’
He casts his eyes over the bed and pushes himself away from the frame, walking over slowly and thinking hard. He doesn’t think it’s a good job at all. He wants to start all over again, and the juvenile side of me is willing him to do just that, just so I have ammo to poke fun at him.
‘You’re dying to pull it all off and start again, aren’t you?’ I ask, mirroring his folded arms and close studying of his bed.
He shrugs nonchalantly, blatantly feigning acceptance. ‘It’ll do.’
I smile. ‘It’s perfect.’
He sighs and walks off, leaving me to admire his bed. ‘Livy, that is far from perfect.’ He disappears into his wardrobe and I follow behind, discovering Miller pulling some black boxers up his thighs.
It’s hard to form words when confronted with such a sight. ‘Why the need to have everything just so?’ I ask, watching as his fluid movements falter at my question.
He doesn’t look at me, only continues arranging the waistband of his boxers around his hips. ‘I appreciate my possessions.’ His answer is reluctant and curt and clearly not going to be elaborated on. ‘Breakfast?’
‘I have no clothes,’ I remind him.
He takes a leisurely jaunt down my nakedness with sparkling eyes. ‘You’re fine as you are.’
‘I’m naked.’
His face is completely impassive. ‘Yes; as I said, fine.’ He proceeds to pull on some black shorts and a grey T-shirt, and something in this moment makes me wonder if Miller Hart has ever stepped out in anything less than a three-piece suit.
‘I’d feel more comfortable if I had some cover,’ I argue quietly, annoyed with myself for sounding so unsure and timid.
He straightens his T-shirt and regards me closely, making me shift and feel even more uncomfortable, now that he’s clothed. ‘As you wish,’ he grumbles, and I waste no time seeking out something to throw on.
Flicking through the rails of shirts, I lose a bit of patience at the constant stream of dress shirts and pull down a blue one by the sleeve in exasperation.
‘Livy, what are you doing?’ He chokes the words out as I feed my arms through the sleeves.
‘Covering myself,’ I reply, my actions slowing as I register the look of pure horror on his face.
He seems to release a calming breath, and then he’s on his way over to me and quickly removing the shirt from my body. ‘Not in a five-hundred-pound shirt.’
I’m na**d again and watching as he rehangs the shirt and starts brushing down the front, huffing his annoyance when the minuscule crease that I’ve created doesn’t disappear. I can’t laugh. He’s too aggravated, and it’s quite alarming.
After a good few moments of Miller faffing with the shirt and me watching on in shock, he yanks it down, screws it up and tosses it in a wash basket. ‘Needs washing,’ he mutters, stomping over to a drawer and pulling it open. He lifts out a pile of black T-shirts and sets the stack on the cabinet in the centre of the room before taking each shirt individually and starting another pile to the side. When he reaches the last, he shakes it out and hands it to me, then goes about lowering the newly rotated pile of T-shirts back into the drawer.
As I watch him, completely fascinated, I steel myself to acknowledge something that’s been pretty obvious for quite some time. He’s not just tidy. Miller Hart suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
‘Are you going to put it on?’ he asks, still clearly annoyed.
I don’t say anything; I’m not sure what to, so I pull it over my head and down my body, thinking he lives his life to military precision, and I might have thrown him a curveball with my presence, although he keeps putting me here, so I shouldn’t be too concerned about it.
‘Are you okay?’ I enquire nervously, wishing he’d put me back in his bed and resume worshipping me.
‘Fine and dandy,’ he mutters, very un-fine and un-dandy -like. ‘I’ll make us breakfast.’
My hand is clasped abruptly and I’m pulled through the bedroom with purpose. It doesn’t pass my notice that Miller makes a terrible job of pretending to ignore the bed, his jaw ticking a little as he glances out of the corner of his eye to the neat covers and pillows – neat by my standards, anyway.
‘Please, sit,’ he instructs when we reach his kitchen, leaving me to lower my na**d bum to the cool surface of the chair. ‘What would you like?’
‘I’ll have what you’re having,’ I say, thinking I should make this as easy as possible for him.
‘I’m having fruit and natural yogurt. Would you like that?’ He opens the fridge and lifts out a stack of plastic containers, all containing various chopped fruits.
‘Please,’ I answer on a sigh, praying we’re not heading down that familiar road of shortness and detachment. It feels like it.
‘As you wish.’ His tone is clipped as he sets about taking bowls down from the cupboard, spoons from the drawer, and yogurt from the fridge.
I’m silent as I watch him. Each object he puts in front of me is nudged to get it just so. Orange juice is squeezed, coffee brewed, and he’s sitting opposite me in no time. I’m not touching a thing. I dare not. It’s all been placed with utter precision, and I won’t risk lowering his mood further by moving anything.
‘Help yourself.’ He nods at my bowl. I gauge the position of the fruit bowl, so I can reposition it exactly right, and start spooning some fruit into my bowl. Then I replace it carefully. I’ve not even picked up my spoon before he’s leaning over the table and nudging the fruit dish to the left. My fascination with Miller Hart just keeps growing, and while these little traits are quite irritating, they’re really quite endearing, too. It’s becoming quite clear that it is me who’s sending this gentleman into a tailspin – me and my inability to satisfy his compulsion to keep things just the way he likes them. But I’m not going to take it personally. I don’t think there’s anyone on the planet who could get this right.