Promised
Page 82

‘I’m chilly.’
He reaches for the dial and turns it back until the display reads sixteen degrees again. ‘It’s not chilly.’
Looking across the car to him, I begin to work out the issue. ‘But isn’t that the point of having dual temperatures? So both passenger and driver can set their own comfort level?’
‘In this car, they stay the same.’
‘How about if I turn them both up to twenty degrees?’
‘Then I’d be too warm,’ he answers quickly, replacing his hand on the wheel. ‘The temperature is suitable as it is.’
‘Or the matching digits are suitable,’ I say to myself, sitting back in the seat. I can’t imagine how stressful it would be to live in a world where the desire to have everything a particular way is so compulsory, it pretty much takes over your life. I smile to myself. Actually, I can, because not only has my life been turned upside down by this confounding, fraudulent gentleman sitting next to me, his particular ways are having a funny effect on me, too. I’m becoming very aware of how things should be, even if I’m not quite sure how to get them there. But I’ll learn, and then I can help make Miller’s life as stress-free as possible.
The club looks entirely different, all lit by natural daylight, the blues that illuminated it by night absent, leaving frosted glass everywhere I look. Now the space is empty; only the staff scattered here and there stocking the bars or buffing a section of the large expanse of glass. And it’s so much quieter, with only Lana Del Rey humming softly in the background about video games. It’s a million miles away from the hard beats of the club on Saturday night.
A well-built, stocky guy, all suited and booted, is waiting just beyond the dance floor, sitting on a Perspex stool sipping from a bottle of beer. As we approach, he lifts his bald head from the paperwork he’s perusing and signals the barman, who immediately prepares a drink for Miller, placing it on the glass surface of the bar in time for our arrival.
‘Miller.’ The guy stands, holding his hand out.
My neck is released and Miller gives him a firm, manly shake before indicating for me to sit, which I do without delay. ‘Tony, this is Olivia. Livy, Tony.’ He waves his hand between us before wasting no time taking his drink and knocking it back, immediately signalling for another.
‘Nice to meet you, Olivia.’ Tony says my name as a question, clearly wondering which version to use.
‘Livy.’ I take his hand and let him do all the shaking while he regards me thoughtfully.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Miller asks, accepting his second from the barman.
‘No, thank you.’
‘As you wish.’ He gives Tony his full attention.
‘Cassie will be here shortly,’ Tony says, flicking a cautionary look in my direction. It makes me sit up and pay attention.
‘She needn’t have bothered,’ Miller replies, ensuring he keeps his eyes on me. ‘I told her not to.’
Tony laughs. ‘Since when has she listened to anything you say, son?’
Miller returns his steel stare to Tony but ignores his question, leaving me wondering who the hell Cassie is and why she never listens to Miller. Now is quite obviously not the time to ask, but by Tony’s look and Miller’s response, I think I already know who Cassie is. Why is she coming here? She never listens to him? What about? Everything? What’s everything? I mentally yell at myself and in an attempt to rein in my wandering thoughts until it’s an appropriate time to press on it, I take in the cutting-edge decor of the club. It feels cold now, with the absence of crowds and darkness, the light and glass at every turn making me feel like I’m stuck in a gigantic piece of . . . well, ice.
As I watch Miller looking over the papers being held by Tony, I wonder if he would be at all different right now if he was wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. The grey three-piece suit and blue shirt make his eyes look shockingly blue, but hold the usual mask in place whenever he’s suited – which is ninety-nine per cent of the time.
‘My office.’ Miller’s voice pulls my eyes from the blue shirt at his neck to the blue of his intense stare.
‘Sorry?’
‘Make your way down to my office.’ He tugs me gently down from the stool and turns me in the direction that I should be headed. ‘Do you remember where?’
‘I think so.’ I remember being taken towards the front of the club and down some stairs, but I was well on my way to a total drunken stupor.
‘I’ll catch up with you.’
I glance back as I leave Miller at the bar with Tony, both men blatantly waiting for me to be out of earshot before they speak. Miller is impassive and Tony is thoughtful. I take all of the awkward vibes from Tony and conclude that they’re either talking business and it’s not for my ears, or they’re talking about me. A funny feeling, plus Tony’s discomfort, makes me conclude it’s the latter, and when I reach the other side of the club and turn to round the corner, I see Tony waving his hands at Miller, which only confirms my thoughts. I stop and watch through the glass of the stairwell, seeing Tony drop to his arse and put his round face in his palms. It’s a sign of despair. Then Miller shows a rare display of aggravation, flashing that temper I’ve been warned about, throwing his hands up and cursing as he storms off in my direction. I hurry down the stairs quickly, weaving my way through the corridors aimlessly, until I spot the metal keypad that I vaguely remember Miller punching some numbers into.
It’s mere seconds before he rounds the corner, clearly pissed off and running his hand through his waves, pulling back the loose curl that’s fallen onto his forehead. Striding towards me with purpose, the aggravation is still so very obvious, even more so when he punches the code in aggressively and pushes the door open a little too hard, making it hit the plaster behind it.
I jump at the loud crash, and Miller drops his head. ‘Shit,’ he curses quietly, making no attempt to enter his office.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask, keeping my distance. I’m constantly willing emotion from him, but not if it’s going to be like this.
‘I apologise,’ he murmurs, keeping his eyes to the ground, defying his own rule of looking at someone when you’re speaking to them. I don’t remind him, though. The words that have just been exchanged between Miller and his bar manager were about me, I have no doubt. And now he’s mad. ‘Livy?’
I feel my spine stretch out, making me stand up straight. ‘Yes?’
His shoulders rise and fall on a heavy sigh. ‘Give me my thing,’ he says, turning pleading blue eyes onto me. ‘Please.’
My shoulders drop, seeing a side of Miller Hart that I never have. He wants comfort. I reach up over his broad shoulders, lifting on my tiptoes to get my face in his neck.
‘Thank you,’ he mumbles, wrapping his arms around my waist and lifting me from my feet. The force of his hold compresses my ribcage, making it a little tricky to breathe, but I’m not about to stop him. I wrap my legs around his waist as he shuts the door and walks us to his empty desk. He rests his arse on the edge which allows us to maintain our hold, and he shows no sign of letting up. I’m surprised. His suit will be a crumpled mess and he has an interview.
‘I’m creasing you,’ I say quietly.