It’s expressive, but even more shocking, it’s an awful mess. I feel like I’m in a bit of a trance, an Alice in Wonderland kind of moment, and in a really silly fit of curiosity, I begin assessing everything more closely to try and establish whether there is some sort of method to his arrangement of things in here. It doesn’t look like it; it all looks very random and haphazard, but to be sure, I walk over to the table and pick up a pot of brushes, turning it casually in my hand. Then I put it down aimlessly before turning to see his reaction.

He isn’t twitching, he isn’t looking at the pot of brushes like it could bite, and he hasn’t come over to move it. He’s just considering me with interest, and after absorbing his gaze for a few moments, I break out in a smile. My shock has transformed into happiness because what I’m seeing in this room is a different man. This almost humanises him. Before me, he expressed himself and de-stressed by painting, and it doesn’t matter that he has to be super-duper precise in every other element of his life, because in here, he’s chaotic.

‘I love it,’ I say, taking another slow gaze around the room, not even the beauty of Miller keeping me from it. ‘I just love it.’

‘I knew you would.’

It’s suddenly dark again, except for the glow of London by night pouring in from the window, and he walks slowly over and takes my hand, leading me to the old worn couch in front of the window. He sits and encourages me down beside him.

‘I fall asleep here most nights,’ he says wistfully, pulling me a little closer. ‘It’s hypnotic, don’t you think?’

‘Incredible,’ I agree, but I’m more in awe of what’s behind me. ‘Have you always painted?’

‘On and off.’

‘Just landscapes and architecture?’

‘Mainly.’

‘You’re very gifted,’ I say quietly, tucking my feet under my bum. ‘You should exhibit them.’

He laughs a little, and I’m soon looking up at him, annoyed that he always chooses to do this when I can’t see him. He’s not laughing any more, but he’s smiling at me. It’s good enough. ‘Livy, it’s just a hobby. I have the club and plenty of stress. Turning a hobby into something more makes it stressful.’

I frown, not seeing his logic at all, at the same time hoping his theory doesn’t apply to me. I’m a hobby. ‘I was paying you a compliment.’ I raise my eyebrows cheekily, making him smile more, eyes sparkling and all.

‘So you were. I apologise.’ He kisses me tenderly and tucks me back under his arm. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I reply, letting my body mould into the sharp edges of his frame and my hand slip up the hem of his T-shirt. This Miller Hart I really adore – laid-back, carefree, and expressive. I’m tucked snugly under his arm, relishing in his tender kisses on my head and soft strokes of my arm. But then he starts to move me, positioning me on my back so I’m spread down the couch with my head on his lap. My hair is stroked away from my face and he gazes down at me for a few moments before he sighs and lets his head drop back. He continues feeling me as he stares up at the ceiling silently while the wistful tones of the track float in the peaceful air around us. Everything is just lovely – the calmness spacing out my serene mind and Miller’s touch lazily skimming my cheek. But then the sound of his phone ringing from the kitchen interrupts our peace.

‘Excuse me.’ He shifts me and exits the room, leaving me feeling bitter and now resentful of the view, so I get up and follow him.

When I enter the kitchen, he’s removing his iPhone from the docking station on the shelf, bringing the lovely song to an abrupt halt. ‘Miller Hart,’ he greets, making his way back out of the kitchen.

I don’t want to follow him when he’s on the phone, he’d definitely think that rude, so I sit at the empty table and twiddle my ring, wishing us back into his studio.

When Miller re-enters the room, he’s still on his phone. He walks with purpose to a stack of drawers and pulls the top one open, removing a leather-bound organiser before flicking through the pages. ‘Short notice, yes, but like I said, it’s not a problem.’ He takes a pen from the drawer and starts writing across the page. ‘Look forward to it.’ He hangs up and quickly flips his organiser shut, placing it back in the drawer. He doesn’t sound like he’s looking forward to it at all.

It’s a few moments before he faces me, but when he does, I see immediately that he’s not happy, even if his face is completely straight. ‘I’ll take you home.’

My back lengthens as I sit up. ‘Now?’ I ask, slighted and annoyed.

‘Yes, I apologise.’ He strides out of the kitchen. ‘Last-minute meeting at the club,’ he mutters, and then he’s gone.

Upset, irritated and wounded, I return to face the perfectly empty table, but then curiosity makes me stand and before I can stop myself, I’m by the drawers, pulling the top one open. The leather-bound organiser is tucked in the bottom right-hand corner, screaming for me to peek, so I study its exact positioning before lifting it out and glancing over my shoulder. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m snooping when I have no right to . . . but I can’t help it. Damn curiosity. And damn Miller Hart for spiking it.

I flick the pages, seeing various notes, but conscious that Miller could rumble me prying at any moment I hastily skip them all until I reach today’s date. And there, in that perfect handwriting, is a note.

Quaglino’s 9:00.

C.

Black suit. Black tie.

I frown and jump all at once, hearing the shutting of a door. Panicked and with a thundering heart, I make a terrible attempt of putting Miller’s organiser back just right. I don’t have time. I dart to the table and sit back down, using every modicum of strength to stop shaking and look normal. C? Cassie?

‘Your clothes are on the bed.’

I turn and find Miller standing in just his boxer shorts, but my mind is too busy racing to appreciate the view. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he says as he leaves me again. ‘Chop-chop.’

Something isn’t right. He’s turned back into the masked gentleman, being all formal and clipped, which is an insult after our time together, especially the past few days. He’s shared something very private and special, and now he’s treating me like a business deal again. Or a hooker. I wince at my own thoughts, knocking the flat of my balled fist on my forehead. What’s Quaglino’s, and why has he lied about it? Uncertainty and mistrust plague me as I fail to prevent my mind from wandering.

I find my phone and pray it hasn’t died. I have two bars, and I also have two missed calls . . . from Luke. He’s called me? Whatever for? He didn’t reply to my text, and that was days ago. I don’t have time to think about it. I clear them and load Google, typing in ‘Quaglino’s’ as I make my way back to the kitchen. When my Internet connection finally decides to give me the information I want, I don’t like what I see: a fancy restaurant in Mayfair, with a cocktail bar to boot. I’m even more wary when Miller strides into the room wearing a black suit and a black tie.

‘Livy, I need to go,’ he says shortly, standing in the mirror and messing with his pesky tie. It was perfect already.