The photographer shifts uncomfortably in his seat and Diana Low reddens with embarrassment. I’m guessing she doesn’t get knocked back very often, and I’m wondering whether Miller should be so hostile when she’s going to be writing a piece on him and his new club. His words don’t have the same effect on me, though, because I do know him.
‘Photo!’ Diana shrieks, jumping up from her chair and placing her drink down again, obviously forgetting my previous request in her fluster.
I quickly scoop it up before Miller starts twitching and stand to the side so the photographer can get what he needs. I watch as Miller stands and starts brushing down the creases in his suit, huffing and puffing to himself as he does. That’s my fault, distracting him from dragging out the ironing board so he can perfect his appearance, even though he really doesn’t need to. He always looks perfect.
He casts an accusing gaze in my direction and mouths, ‘Your fault.’
I break out in a big smile, shrugging and mouthing ‘sorry’ back.
‘Don’t be,’ he says aloud, ‘I’m not.’ He winks, nearly knocking me from my feet, before repositioning himself in his big chair, unfastening the button of his jacket and nodding to the photographer. ‘Ready when you are.’
‘Great.’ He prepares his camera and takes a few steps back. ‘We’ll leave the TV screens in place. I was thinking a few more things on your desk, though.’
‘Like what?’ Miller asks, horror beginning to surface at the potential of someone messing with his clear surface.
‘Some paperwork,’ he replies, taking Diana’s pad and positioning it to the left of Miller. ‘Perfect.’
It’s not perfect at all. Even I can see it’s wonky, the edge of the paper not parallel to the edge of the desk, and Miller’s swift rearrangement of the pad confirms it. ‘Get on with it, then,’ he grunts, trying to relax back in his chair and failing. He’s fidgety.
It seems like the photographer spends forever aiming and clicking at my poor Miller, who looks ready to explode with stress. He’s directed from one position to another, the guy rounds his desk and gets a shot of the TV monitors with Miller casually observing the screens, and then he asks him to sit on the edge of the desk, all casual with his ankles and arms crossed. It’s killing him, and the final straw comes when he’s asked to smile.
He looks over at me in disbelief, like how dare they ask such a thing. ‘We’re done,’ he snaps irritably, buttoning up his jacket and collecting the pad that’s been poisoning the perfection of his desk for too long. ‘Thank you for your time.’ He shoves the pad at Diana Low and strides over to the door, swinging it open and gesturing for them to leave.
Neither the journalist nor the photographer hangs around, both moving quickly across Miller’s office to the door. ‘Thank you.’ Diana stops short of the door and gazes up at Miller. ‘Hope to see you around.’
I’m stunned and wondering if this is normal behaviour. She’s incorrigible. ‘Goodbye,’ Miller retorts with utter finality, sending the brash journalist on her way, just as another woman strides into his office.
Miller’s business associate.
Cassie.
She appears to be in a fluster and out of breath, but it diminishes the second she claps eyes on Diana Low within touching distance of Miller. Cassie’s eyes narrow on the brash journalist. ‘I said he wasn’t available for interviews.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Diana isn’t perturbed by the hostility pouring from Cassie’s designer-adorned figure. ‘But you were clearly mistaken because a few further calls revealed that he was.’ She turns back to Miller and smiles seductively. ‘Bye for now.’ Her hand raises and waves before she turns a snide look on Cassie as she sashays out of Miller’s office, and once she has disappeared, I know Cassie’s cattish mood is about to be turned on me.
She swings around and for the first time seems to register my presence. ‘What’s she doing here?’ she spits, looking to Miller for an answer. I recoil in shock, as does Miller.
‘Keep your nose out,’ Miller says calmly, taking her arm and leading her to the door.
‘I care about you,’ she argues, not putting up much of a fight, her words confirming my suspicions.
‘Don’t waste your energy, Cassie.’ He pushes her out gently and the door to his office slams shut, sending me a few centimetres back on a frightened jump. He said to trust him and I should have. He really has sent her on her way. He swings to face me, looking grumpy and harassed. ‘I’m stressed out,’ he proclaims on a bark, stating the obvious and sending me on another little jump across the carpet.
‘Would you like me to get you another drink?’ I ask, for the first time thinking that perhaps Miller drinks too much. Or has that just been since he met me?
‘I don’t need a drink, Livy.’ His tone has taken on a throaty edge, and his eyes have landed on me with a bang. ‘I think you know what I need.’
My blood reheats under his primal stare, my whole sexual being becoming aware and responsive. God help me when he touches me. ‘De-stressing,’ I whisper, looking up through my lashes as he stalks slowly towards me.
‘You’re like therapy to me.’ He reaches me and swoops down, kissing me with purpose and meaning, moaning and mumbling into my mouth as his tongue works mine fluidly. My mind immediately scrambles. ‘I love kissing you.’
We’re in his office. I don’t want to be in his office. I want to be in his bed. ‘Take me home.’