Promised
Page 79
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‘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.
‘Bingo.’ I smile, taking the bottle from the wicker container and opening the left cupboard to pick two glasses. They all sparkle when the artificial light from the room hits the cut glass, and I admire the shards of light ricocheting between them for a few moments, before collecting two and making my way back. ‘Chianti and two glasses,’ I declare, holding up my finds, but quickly halting when I see my effort to lay a perfect table has been a complete waste of time. He’s just tweaking the freshly laundered napkins into accurate triangles to the left side of each place setting as he looks up.
I’m frowning at him, but he’s frowning at me, too. I have no idea why. He studies the bottle, then the glasses, and in total exasperation, strides over and takes it all from my hands. I’m completely dismayed as I watch him take it all back to the cabinet, putting the bottle back in the basket and the glasses back in the cupboard. I saw the label. It said ‘Chianti’, and I may not be a connoisseur of wine, but they were definitely wine glasses.
My frown only deepens when he takes two other glasses from the very same cupboard, and then takes the basket containing the wine and starts back across the room. ‘Are you going to sit?’ he asks, ushering me to the table when he reaches me.
I answer him by lowering my bum to the chair and watching as he sets the glasses down to the right side above the knives. Then he puts the basket containing the wine between us. Not happy with the items’ final resting places, he shifts them all before taking the wine and pouring a few inches into my glass.
‘What did I do?’ I ask, still frowning.
‘Chianti is traditionally kept in a fiasco.’ He pours himself a few inches, too. ‘And the glasses you picked are for white wine.’
Looking at the glasses, now a fraction full of red wine, I frown even more. ‘Does it matter?’
He looks at me all shocked, and on a little gape of his luscious mouth. ‘Yes, of course it matters. Red wine glasses are wider because the increased exposure to air helps the deeper and more multifaceted flavours of red wine to develop fully.’ He takes a sip and rolls it around his mouth for a few seconds. I half expect him to spit it out, but he doesn’t. He swallows and continues. ‘The greater surface area allows higher air exposure and the wider bowl of a red wine glass allows more wine to be exposed at any one time.’
I’m speechless and feeling rather uncultured and intimidated. ‘I knew that,’ I grumble, picking up my own glass. ‘You’re such a smart arse.’
He’s fighting a smile, I know it. I wish he’d just loosen up with the sophistication and uptight manners that being at a dinner table especially brings, and flash me that heart-stopping smile. ‘I’m a smart arse because I appreciate beautiful things?’ He raises his perfect eyebrows as he raises his perfect glass containing the perfect wine, taking a perfectly slow and suggestive sip with those perfect lips.
‘Appreciate or obsess about?’ I put the word out there because if there’s one thing about Miller Hart that I’m absolutely certain of, it’s that he’s obsessive, and he’s obsessive about most things in his life. And I hope that one of those things is me.
‘I’m more inclined to appreciate.’
‘I’m more inclined to obsess.’
He cocks his head, amused. ‘Are you talking in code, sweet girl?’
‘Are you good at cracking codes?’
‘The master,’ he utters low, licking his lips, making me squirm on my chair. ‘I’ve cracked you.’ He tips his glass toward me. ‘I’ve also conquered you.’
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.
‘Bingo.’ I smile, taking the bottle from the wicker container and opening the left cupboard to pick two glasses. They all sparkle when the artificial light from the room hits the cut glass, and I admire the shards of light ricocheting between them for a few moments, before collecting two and making my way back. ‘Chianti and two glasses,’ I declare, holding up my finds, but quickly halting when I see my effort to lay a perfect table has been a complete waste of time. He’s just tweaking the freshly laundered napkins into accurate triangles to the left side of each place setting as he looks up.
I’m frowning at him, but he’s frowning at me, too. I have no idea why. He studies the bottle, then the glasses, and in total exasperation, strides over and takes it all from my hands. I’m completely dismayed as I watch him take it all back to the cabinet, putting the bottle back in the basket and the glasses back in the cupboard. I saw the label. It said ‘Chianti’, and I may not be a connoisseur of wine, but they were definitely wine glasses.
My frown only deepens when he takes two other glasses from the very same cupboard, and then takes the basket containing the wine and starts back across the room. ‘Are you going to sit?’ he asks, ushering me to the table when he reaches me.
I answer him by lowering my bum to the chair and watching as he sets the glasses down to the right side above the knives. Then he puts the basket containing the wine between us. Not happy with the items’ final resting places, he shifts them all before taking the wine and pouring a few inches into my glass.
‘What did I do?’ I ask, still frowning.
‘Chianti is traditionally kept in a fiasco.’ He pours himself a few inches, too. ‘And the glasses you picked are for white wine.’
Looking at the glasses, now a fraction full of red wine, I frown even more. ‘Does it matter?’
He looks at me all shocked, and on a little gape of his luscious mouth. ‘Yes, of course it matters. Red wine glasses are wider because the increased exposure to air helps the deeper and more multifaceted flavours of red wine to develop fully.’ He takes a sip and rolls it around his mouth for a few seconds. I half expect him to spit it out, but he doesn’t. He swallows and continues. ‘The greater surface area allows higher air exposure and the wider bowl of a red wine glass allows more wine to be exposed at any one time.’
I’m speechless and feeling rather uncultured and intimidated. ‘I knew that,’ I grumble, picking up my own glass. ‘You’re such a smart arse.’
He’s fighting a smile, I know it. I wish he’d just loosen up with the sophistication and uptight manners that being at a dinner table especially brings, and flash me that heart-stopping smile. ‘I’m a smart arse because I appreciate beautiful things?’ He raises his perfect eyebrows as he raises his perfect glass containing the perfect wine, taking a perfectly slow and suggestive sip with those perfect lips.
‘Appreciate or obsess about?’ I put the word out there because if there’s one thing about Miller Hart that I’m absolutely certain of, it’s that he’s obsessive, and he’s obsessive about most things in his life. And I hope that one of those things is me.
‘I’m more inclined to appreciate.’
‘I’m more inclined to obsess.’
He cocks his head, amused. ‘Are you talking in code, sweet girl?’
‘Are you good at cracking codes?’
‘The master,’ he utters low, licking his lips, making me squirm on my chair. ‘I’ve cracked you.’ He tips his glass toward me. ‘I’ve also conquered you.’
