Unveiled
Page 39

‘What would you have me do?’ he asks as we enter. I don’t miss him scanning the clear space, like he’s making a mental note of everything’s position in case it’s moved while I’m let loose in his perfect space. It’s silly. He knows exactly where everything is.
‘Lay the table,’ I order, standing back, delighting in the frown that wriggles its way onto his brow. ‘Please.’
‘You want me to lay the table?’
‘Yes.’ I may be able to pull off the perfect breakfast, but there’s not a chance in hell I’ll get the table right.
‘OK.’ He looks at me dubiously and makes his way to the drawer where I know the knives and forks to be. The rolling of every muscle in his back gives me a perfect view while I remain static, but I get the best view when he’s on his way back to the table – his face, those eyes, his thighs, chest, tight waist . . . hard cock.
I shake my head, determined not to be distracted from my plan. I study him pottering around the space, flicking curious eyes at me every now and then while I stand silently to the side and let him work his magic.
‘Perfect,’ he says, gesturing to the table with a sweep of his arm. ‘Now what?’
‘Go back to bed,’ I say, making my way to the fridge.
‘When you’re naked in my kitchen?’ he almost laughs. ‘Wrong.’
‘Miller, please,’ I swivel on my bare feet as I take the fridge door handle, finding him almost scowling at my back. ‘I want to do something for you.’
‘I can think of many things you can do for me, Olivia, and none of them involve you being in my kitchen.’ His back straightens and he casts his eyes around thoughtfully. ‘Or maybe . . .’
‘Go back to bed!’ I’m not submitting on this.
His head drops with his shoulders on a mighty sigh. ‘As you wish,’ he mutters, backing out of the kitchen. ‘But I can’t sleep without you, so I’ll just be lying there thinking of what I’m going to do to you after you feed me.’
‘As you wish,’ I retort on a sickly sweet smile, bowing my head as I do.
Miller fights to prevent his smirk through his affronted state and disappears, leaving me to crack on. First thing I do is take the chocolate and strawberries from the fridge – no natural, fat-free yogurt in sight. Next, I race to break up the cubes, melt the chocolate down, hull the strawberries, and wash them.
Then I turn to face the dressed table, seeing everything in its rightful position . . . or the position that Miller says is correct. I nibble on the inside of my mouth as I consider it all, thinking I’m certain I could get this right if I strip the table down and redress it. Maybe I’ll take a photo. I bob my head on an agreeable, private nod, giving myself a mental clap on the back. But then an even better idea comes to me and I hotfoot it over to the drawers and start opening and closing, being sure not to upset the contents as I work my way down the unit. I freeze the second I clap eyes on Miller’s journal. It’s screaming at me again. ‘Shit,’ I curse, forcing myself to shut the drawer, close it away where it’s supposed to be.
I eventually find what I’m searching for.
Actually, I don’t.
I find something better.
I remove the cap and stare down at the nib of the Sharpie, concluding very fast that this will most certainly work better than a regular ballpoint pen. ‘Right.’ I take a deep breath and pad over to the table, running my eyes over each accurately placed piece. My head cocks as I tap the end of the pen on my bottom lip. The plates. That’s as good a place as any to start.
Placing my fingers in the centre of the porcelain, I hold it in place and proceed to draw around the plate, smiling as I do. ‘Perfect,’ I announce to myself, standing back and eyeing the rest of the table. I’m way too proud of myself, and it’s obvious on my crafty face. I do them all – each and every single thing on the table. It all gets circled with the Sharpie, perfect lines everywhere marking the perfect place for that piece of dinnerware.
‘What the fucking hell!’
I swing around at the sound of the distressed voice, armed with my Sharpie, and in a ridiculously stupid attempt to conceal exhibit A, I hide the Sharpie behind my back, because there are a million other people in Miller’s flat who could have been responsible for the defacing of his table. The look of horror on his face is like a reality check. What the hell have I just done? His eyes are wide and disbelieving as he carries his naked body to the table, his mouth agape as he scans the area. Then he picks up a plate and looks at the circle. Then a glass. Then a fork.
I chew madly on the inside of my cheek, bracing myself for the imminent meltdown. His bare arse hits the chair and his hand delves into his hair. ‘Olivia.’ Disturbed eyes lift to mine. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. ‘You’ve scribbled all over my table.’
I look to the table and lift my thumb to my mouth, transferring my chewing to my thumbnail. This is silly. It’s a table. Anyone would think someone had died. On an exasperated sigh, I throw the Sharpie to the side and approach the table, where Miller is back to lifting items to see if I really have marked everything. I’m not sure whether to confirm it or leave him to continue examining to discover it for himself. ‘I’ve made our lives easier.’
He looks at me like I’ve grown horns. ‘Really?’ He drops a plate and I smile when he pokes it roughly until it’s within the guidelines. ‘Please, elaborate on that.’
‘Well . . .’ I take a seat next to him and think of how I can word it so he’ll appreciate it. Now I’m being silly. This is Miller Hart. My obsessive fruitcake. ‘Now I can lay the table so there’s no risk of your sweet girl screwing up your –’ I purse my lips – ‘particular ways.’
‘Sweet girl?’ He looks at me incredulously. ‘You are far from sweet, Olivia. Right now you’re akin to the fucking devil! Why would . . . what the . . . Oh, Jesus, look at it!’ He waves his arm around aimlessly, then drops his elbows to the table and buries his face in his palms. ‘I can’t look.’
‘Now I can set the table just how you like it.’ I avoid saying need. This is how he needs it. ‘It’s the lesser of two evils.’ Reaching over, I take his hand so his head is no longer supported and he has to look at me. ‘Either I constantly fuck it up, or you just get used to this.’ I indicate the table on a smile. This may be an overreaction, but it’s one time. He’ll grow to accept the outlines. The alternative is a mini seizure each time I set the table. It’s a no-brainer to me.
‘You are the only evil thing around here, Olivia. Just you.’
‘Look at it as art.’
He scoffs at that suggestion and shifts my grip so he now has hold of me. ‘It’s a fucking mess, that’s what it is.’
My body sags in my chair, and I catch him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, all sulky. Over a table? ‘Is it replaceable?’
‘Yes,’ he grumbles. ‘Good fucking job, too. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Well, I’m not replaceable, and I’m not spending a lifetime with you, constantly worrying whether I’ve put a stupid plate in the right place.’
He recoils at my harshness, but come on! I’ve been more than accommodating with his obsessive habits. Yes, he’s eased up on a few, but there’s still work to do, and since Miller refuses to openly admit he suffers severely from obsessive-compulsive disorder, and point-blank refuses to see a therapist, then he’ll just have to get used to my way of helping him. And helping myself at the same time, too.