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.
The silence is awfully uncomfortable, and I know exactly why. He’s eating, but I can tell that he’s fighting the urge to leave the table and restore his bedcovers to their normal perfect glory. I want to tell him to just go and do it, especially if it means he’ll relax, which means I’ll relax. I don’t get a chance to, though. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and rests his spoon across his bowl.
‘Excuse me while I use the bathroom.’ He stands and leaves the room, and my eyes follow his path, wanting to follow and see him in action, but I take the opportunity to study all the items on the table, trying to figure out exactly what it is about their positions that keep him calm. I can’t see it.
It’s a good five minutes before he returns to the kitchen, visibly more relaxed. I relax, too, and I’m relieved that I’ve finished my breakfast and drunk my juice, so there is absolutely no need for me to move anything . . . except me, and I’m beginning to register an issue with my positioning and movements, too – like in his bed.
He tucks himself under the table and takes his spoon, loading it with a strawberry and popping it in his mouth. The inevitability of my eyes focusing on his slow chews is something that I can’t help. His mouth hypnotises me as much as his eyes do when they’re glistening at me. And I know they are now, which leaves me in a predicament. Eyes or mouth?
He decides for me when he speaks. I almost don’t hear him as I’m too rapt by those lips. ‘I have a request,’ he declares. The words, when they finally filter into my distracted mind, pull my eyes up to his. I was right. They’re glistening.
‘What kind of request?’ I ask warily.
‘I don’t want you to see other men.’ He watches me thoughtfully, clearly trying to gauge my reaction, but I can’t be giving him much to go on as my face is blank, not having quite worked out what reaction to give. ‘I think it’s a reasonable request in light of your performance last night.’
Now I have a facial expression, and I know it’s a little stunned. ‘You are the reason for my performance last night,’ I retort.
‘That may be so, but I’m uncomfortable with the idea of you exposing yourself like that.’
‘Exposed in general, or exposed to other men?’
‘Both. You didn’t feel the need to expose yourself before you met me, so I can’t see that it would be a difficult request for you to fulfil.’ He takes another mouthful of his fruit, but I’m not compelled to watch him chew this time. No, I’m still stunned and looking into completely unaffected eyes.
He clearly seems to think it’s perfectly reasonable to make these demands. I don’t even know what to make of it. He’s just worshipped me in his bed, said some pretty touching words, and now he’s all businesslike.
‘And the dating nonsense,’ he continues. ‘That won’t be happening again, either.’
I have to stop myself from laughing. ‘Why are you asking this of me?’ I probe. Is this his way of saying he wants us to be exclusive?
His shoulders jump up on a shrug. ‘No man will make you feel like I can, so it’s really in your best interest.’
I’m staggered by his arrogance. He’s right, but I’m not about to fuel his ego. ‘Miller.’ My elbows hit the table and my forehead falls into my palms. ‘Will you please just say exactly what you mean?’ I look up at him, finding slight concern etched on his perfect face.
‘I don’t want anyone else tasting you,’ he says unapologetically. ‘It may seem unreasonable, but that’s what I want and I’d like you to agree.’