Miller clears his throat and shifts the clothes in his hands. ‘We’ll be on our way,’ he says, sidestepping Bethany, obviously expecting me to follow, but when I feel a pair of inquisitive eyes land on me, I’m unable to convince my legs to move. Here it comes.

‘Oh,’ she breathes, running interested eyes down the full length of me. ‘Looks like someone beat me to him today.’ My mouth drops open and she smiles, clearly unperturbed by my affronted state. ‘I’m sorry, you are?’

I’m going to tell her exactly who I am. Accept it or learn to deal with it better. Those are my options. I have sass, that’s been confirmed, and I need to start using it wisely. This woman, just like the rest of them, makes me feel inferior, yet Miller isn’t showing signs of anger at the potential of this woman driving a wedge between us or making me doubt my worthiness. ‘Hi, I’m Oli—’

‘Sorry, we’re late,’ Miller cuts me off, just when I’ve located my sass and am about to unleash it. ‘Always a pleasure.’ He nods at Bethany, who now looks really interested, and gently pushes into my back rather than take his customary hold of my neck.

‘Oh, it is,’ Bethany purrs. The rigidity that dominates Miller’s entire being is instant. ‘Hope to see you soon.’

I’m pushed away fast, both of us silent, the tension palpable. Always a pleasure. I bristle on the inside and out. We round a corner, arriving at the men’s shoe department, and Miller immediately grabs the first pair in sight and presents them to me. I don’t look. Bethany has undone all of our progress this morning. ‘These?’ He’s desperately trying to divert me. It won’t work. The sass I was about to hit that woman with is now bubbling, a bit of anger mixing in for good measure, and there’s only one other person to release it on.

I bat the shoes away. ‘No.’

He recoils, eyes wide and perfect lips slightly agape. ‘I beg your pardon?’

My eyes narrow into angry slits. ‘Don’t start with the begging,’ I warn. ‘She was a client. Could she be following me?’

‘No.’ He almost laughs.

‘Why didn’t you just let me introduce myself? And why didn’t you put her straight?’

Miller places the shoe carefully back onto the display stand and even tweaks the damn thing into position before stepping into me thoughtfully. My body’s response is irritating and unwanted, but a given. ‘I’ve told you before, I don’t want anyone interfering, so the fewer people who know, the better.’ The pad of his index finger brings my tense chin up to his dark stubbled face. I can see annoyance hovering on the edges of his beauty. ‘When I say there is only us – no me or you – I also mean no them.’

However tempting an existence with only me and Miller is, it’s also impossible. ‘How many are there?’ I ask. I need to know how many of them I have to face. I need a tick sheet, something to mark them all off as I’m confronted with them. How many will predict his next move? How many will follow me?

‘It’s of no importance’ – he slides his palm over my shoulder and starts massaging some calm into me – ‘because now there is only my sweet girl.’ His sincerity creeps into me, chasing my doubts away.

Leave it.

Gathering myself, I find no words in reply, so I grab a boot from a nearby table. ‘These,’ I announce, not giving Miller the chance to refuse and handing it straight to an assistant instead.

She smiles, her back straightening when she captures her first look of Miller. ‘Yes, madam. Size?’ She keeps her greedy eyes on him, unwittingly goading me. I’d love to tell her what size, but I’m devastated to have to turn to Miller to ask.

‘Eleven,’ he says quietly, regarding me closely. I hate the inward gasp of delight that emanates from the sales assistant, and I hate myself for rising to her clear interest.

I step in front of Miller and turn annoyed eyes onto her. ‘An eleven,’ I confirm, nodding at the shoe. ‘And it’s true what they say.’ I’m stunned by my blatant suggestion, and Miller’s shocked cough behind me tells me he is, too. But I don’t care. Today has been far from quality time, and all the interference is beginning to piss me off.

‘Certainly!’ The shop assistant jumps at the decibel level of her own voice, avoiding my eyes and fighting a furious blush. ‘Please, take a seat. I’ll be right back.’ She’s off without delay, no swaying arse or coy look over her shoulder in sight. I grin to myself, getting a satisfied thrill from the discomfort I’ve caused while making a mental promise to maintain this sass.

‘I have a request.’ Miller’s whisper in my ear wipes my smugness clean from my face. I don’t want to confront him, but I’m given little choice when my shoulders are clasped and I’m turned in his hold. I brace myself, knowing what I’ll find. I’m right. He’s expressionless with a familiar hint of disapproval in his eyes.

‘What?’ All satisfaction has been drawn from my body by the condemnation leaking from Miller in droves. I’ve overstepped the mark.

His hands slide into his pockets. ‘What’s true and who says it?’

My lips stretch to the point of ripping. ‘You know what and who.’

‘Elaborate,’ he orders, not returning my delight.

It makes me grin harder. ‘In Harrods?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well’ – I shift and quickly scan our surroundings, seeing too many shoppers in close proximity to speak of such a thing – ‘I’ll tell you later.’ He’s doing this on purpose. He knows.

‘No.’ He moves in, bringing his chest to mine, breathing down on me. ‘I’d like to know now. I feel in the dark.’ If he’s struggling to maintain his seriousness, then he’s not showing it. He’s perfectly composed, even grave.

‘You’re playing.’ I step back, but he’s having none of it and closes the small space that I’ve created.

‘Tell me.’

Damn him. I search deep for my sass and piece together an explanation on an embarrassed whisper. ‘Feet and a male’s’ – I cough – ‘manhood.’

‘What about them?’

‘Miller!’ I fidget, feeling my cheeks heat under the pressure.

‘Tell me, Livy.’

‘Fine!’ I snap, reaching up on my tiptoes to push my mouth to his ear. ‘Big feet are said to equal big cocks.’ My face flames as I feel his head nod thoughtfully against me, his hair tickling my cheek.

‘Is that so?’ he asks, maintaining all seriousness. The bastard.

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting,’ he muses, then blows hot breath into my ear. It knocks me even more off-kilter and my stability fails me, sending me on a little stagger forward. I collide with his chest on a gasp. ‘Okay there?’ His tone is loaded with conceit.

‘Fine and dandy,’ I mutter, forcing some strength into my weakness and pulling out of his chest.

‘Fine and dandy,’ he muses quietly, a roving eye watching me struggling to compose myself. ‘Oh look.’ He nods over my shoulder, prompting me to turn. ‘Here are my size elevens.’

I chuckle to myself, earning a poke in the back by Miller and a puzzled look from the sales assistant. ‘Elevens!’ she sings, making my laughter cross the line into uncontrollable body spasms. ‘You okay, miss?’

‘Yes!’ I yell, turning away and picking up the first shoe I can find, anything to distract me from the size elevens. I cough when I look at the size, seeing it stated in big, bold type that the shoe I’ve chosen to distract myself with is, in fact, a size eleven also. I fold over on a titter and shove it back.

‘She’s fine,’ Miller confirms. I’m not looking at him, but I know he’s staring at my back, appearing expressionless to the assistant, but he’ll have that playful twinkle in his eyes. If I could face Miller and the flirty assistant without snorting all over them, then I’d be swivelling fast to catch the wonderful sight. But I can’t stop laughing, my shoulders bouncing violently.

Studying the random shoe carefully, grinning like an idiot, I listen to the crumpling of tissue paper as the assistant removes the boots from the box. ‘Do you need a shoehorn, sir?’ she asks.

‘Doubt it,’ Miller grumbles, probably inspecting the boots and mentally complaining about their lack of leather soles. I pull it together and rotate slowly, finding Miller sitting on a suede seat, wrestling his foot into a boot. Observing quietly, as does the assistant, I think how lovely the boots are, all casual in soft, worn brown leather.

‘Comfy?’ I ask hopefully, bracing myself for his scoff, but he ignores me and stands, looking down at his feet before hastily returning to sitting.

He undoes the laces and places the boot neatly back in the box. I want to scream my excitement when I see him shift it, making the pair as neat as possible amid the tissue paper. He likes them, and I know that for sure because he has an appreciation for his possessions and those boots are now his possession. ‘They’ll do,’ he says to himself, like he doesn’t want to admit it out loud.

My grin is back. He will concede, damn him. ‘Do. You. Like?’

Tying his laces with the utmost care, he turns his face up and studies me. ‘Yes.’ He draws the word out with raised brows, daring me to make a big deal of it.

I can’t hide my happiness. I know it, Miller knows it, and when I grab the box, then turn and thrust it into the assistant’s hand with a huge smile, she knows it, too. ‘We’ll take them, thank you.’

‘Wonderful, I’ll place them behind the counter.’ She’s off with the box, leaving Miller and me alone.

I scoop up the jeans and T-shirt. ‘Let’s try these on.’ His sigh of tiredness won’t make me give in. Nothing will. I’ll get him kitted out in a casual outfit if it kills me. ‘This way.’ I march off in the direction of the changing rooms, knowing Miller is following because my skin is alight with the signs of his close proximity.

I turn and hand him the clothes, then watch as he takes them without a word of complaint and disappears into the changing room. I take a seat to watch the hustle and bustle of Harrods, spotting every walk of life: the tourists; the people here to treat themselves, like Nan and her fifteen-quid pineapple; and the people who clearly shop here on a regular basis, like Miller and his bespoke suits. The mix is eclectic and so is the stock. There’s something for everyone; no one leaves empty-handed, even if it’s a simple tin of Harrods biscuits that they’ll give as a special gift or save for Christmas. I smile, then whip my head around when I hear a familiar cough.

My smile widens into silly territory at the sight of his expression, stressed and challenged – then falls away when I cop a load of what’s below his neck. He’s standing barefoot in the doorway, jeans hanging low, a perfect fit, and his T-shirt clinging in all of the right places. I bite my lip to stop my mouth from falling open. Fucking hell, he looks too sexy. His hair is all ruffled from where he’s pulled the T-shirt over his head, a flushed look on his cheeks from the stress of it, which is laughable. There’s no buttons to neatly fasten or hem to tuck in, no belt to secure or tie to knot, no collar to arrange, making it a stress-free task.

Supposedly.

He looks stressed to breaking point. ‘You look amazing,’ I say quietly, taking a quick glimpse over my shoulder, finding what I knew I would: women at every turn staring, mouths agape at the otherworldly man before them. Closing my eyes on a calming suck of air, I leave the sight of the dozens of observers and confront my spectacular part-time gentleman. Miller adorned in the finest of fine suits is a sight to behold, but strip him bare of all of the exquisite cloth and throw him in some worn jeans and a plain T-shirt, then we’re bordering unreal.