He releases me. My hair is pushed over my shoulders and arranged just so as he scans my face. ‘Don’t leave me without you for too long.’
I smile and gently break away from him, taking myself to the shower while mentally preparing for another onslaught of interference from my best friend.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gregory is leaning up against the wall in the hallway when I leave Miller’s apartment, scrolling through his phone. ‘Hey,’ I say, pulling the door closed behind me.
He looks up and pushes away from the wall on a strained smile. ‘Hey, baby girl.’
Those words alone make me want to sob. ‘What’s happened to us?’ I ask.
Gregory looks to Miller’s shiny black door and back to me. ‘The coffee-hater happened.’
‘He’s more than a coffee-hater,’ I argue quietly. ‘And it was only my first coffee that he hated, so we can’t technically call him that any more.’
‘Cocksucker.’
‘That one’s reserved for Ben. Seen him lately?’
His broad shoulders go rigid. It’s guilt. ‘We’re not here because of my f**ked-up love life.’
I nearly fall over as a result of his cheek. ‘My love life isn’t f**ked up!’
‘Get a grip!’ He’s up in my face with two easy strides. ‘That in there’ – he points to Miller’s front door – ‘is f**ked up and he’s rubbing off on you!’
My hackles rise, my face twisting with infuriation. ‘I’m not listening to this.’ I pivot on my Converse, set to abandon our ‘talk’ in favour of some solace from my f**ked-up, OCD-suffering, demon-holding, possessive, damaged, drug-using, ex-notorious-male-escort/part-time gentleman. Okay, so he is kind of f**ked up, but he’s my f**ked-up, finicky Miller. And I love him.
‘Olivia, wait!’ He grabs the top of my arm a little harshly, but quickly drops it when I yelp. ‘Shit!’ he curses.
I swing around, rubbing at my arm on a scowl. ‘Take it easy!’
He looks truly nervous. ‘I’m sorry, I just didn’t want you to go.’
‘Then tell me so.’
He casts his brown eyes to my arm. ‘I hope I haven’t marked you; I quite like my spine where it is and in one piece.’
I press my lips together to prevent my grin at his sardonic joke. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Thank f**king God.’ He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down sheepishly. ‘Can we start again?’
Relief floors me. ‘Please.’
‘Great.’ He looks up to me, remorse rife in his brown eyes. ‘Can we walk and talk? I’m not all that comfortable bad-mouthing your coffee-hater when he’s in such close proximity.’
On a roll of my eyes, I link arms with him and lead him to the stairwell. ‘C’mon.’
‘Is the lift broken?’
I skid to a halt, frowning to myself. I haven’t even realised that I’m picking up on Miller’s obsessive habits. ‘No.’
Gregory’s frown matches mine as we stroll over to the lift and board as soon as it arrives. His face looks dreadful, but I’m not sure it would be wise to acknowledge it or ask how he is, given that we’re both smiling now, so I plump for something entirely different. ‘How’s work?’
‘Same old,’ he mutters unenthusiastically, killing that line of conversation dead in its tracks.
I think hard again. ‘Mum and Dad okay?’
‘All right.’
‘How are things with Ben?’
‘Fragile.’
‘Has he come out?’
‘No.’
I roll my eyes. ‘What the hell did we talk about before I met Miller?’
He shrugs as the doors open, and I lead on, desperately searching my empty mind for anything to talk about, other than Miller and the inevitable interference that’s on the horizon. I come up with zilch.
Nodding politely at the doorman and ignoring the reflection of Gregory’s reluctant figure behind me, I push through the doors and emerge into the bright, fresh London air. I would have thought the vast open space engulfing me would instil a sense of freedom, but it doesn’t. Nowhere near. I feel suffocated under the impending interrogation from Gregory, desperate to run back to Miller and take my freedom from being smothered in his apartment. In his thing. In him.
I turn on a sigh, finding Gregory shifting awkwardly behind me, obviously stumped for what to say or do. He insisted on a talk. He must have things to say, and even though I don’t particularly want to hear them, I wish he’d just get it over and done with so I can tell him that he’s wasting his energy . . . again.
‘Are we going for coffee or not?’ I ask, indicating down the street.
‘Sure,’ he mumbles grumpily, like he’s aware that he’s about to waste his breath. He joins me and we begin to stroll down the street. There’s at least three feet separating us and unrest is filling that gap. It’s never been like this between us, and as there’s no conversation happening, it gives me too much silent reflecting time to wonder how it came to this. Our silly little fumble in my bedroom that time was a cause for concern, but with the animosity and battling between Miller and Gregory, that’s fallen by the wayside, which is undoubtedly a good thing.
We cross a road, quite easily, given the early hour, and continue at a leisurely pace, Gregory drawing continuous breaths of air to speak but never actually saying anything, and me looking eagerly for the sign that’ll tell me we’re nearing the coffee house. The discomfiture squeezing us is becoming unbearable.