One Night: Denied

Book 2: The One Night Trilogy

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

The passion that burned between Livy and M in One Night: Promised may end up destroying them both in this new novel of overwhelming desire and shocking discoveries . . .

He’s amazingly wealthy, sinfully gorgeous, and can bring her to heights of pleasure she’s never before known. For Livy, there’s no turning back. She’s determined to be the light in M’s dark world. Yet this new life comes with a steep price…

M knows that the power he possesses hasn’t come without sacrifices-but he won’t let Livy be one of them. Though he wants nothing more than to have her in every way, his first duty is to protect her at all costs … from his sins, his enemies, and especially himself.

But as their insatiable affair intensifies, the two attract the attention of an obsessive—and dangerous—third party. Discovering new revelations about M that rock her to the core, Livy will have to decide whether he’s ruined beyond repair. And he must face his fear that in order to save her, he may have to lose her after all . . .

Look for the stunning conclusion in One Night: Unveiled

Release date: November 11, 2014

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 448

Sample

My destiny has been steered by someone else. All of my effort, my cautious approach, and the protective shields I worked hard to put in place were obliterated the day I met Miller Hart. It fast became obvious that I’d reached a point in my life where it was paramount I maintained my sensible life strategies, kept my calm façade, and stayed vigilant. Because that man was unquestionably going to test me. And he did. He still is. Trusting a man, confiding in a man, and giving myself to a man was the ultimate. I did it all, and now I wholeheartedly wish I hadn’t. Being frightened that he would leave me because of my history was wasted concern. That should have been the least of my fears.

Miller Hart is a high-class male prostitute. He said “escort,” but you can’t pretty it up by selecting a less taboo word.

Miller Hart sells his body.

Miller Hart lives a life of debasement.

Miller Hart is the male equivalent of my mother. I’m in love with a man I can’t have. He made me feel alive when I’d spent too long just existing, but he took away that invigorating feeling, replacing it with desolation. My spirit is more lifeless now than it ever was before my encounters with that man.

The humiliation of being proved wrong is being drowned out by the hurt. I can feel nothing but crippling hurt. It’s been the longest two weeks imaginable, and I have the rest of my life to soldier through. The thought is enough to make me want to close my eyes and never open them again.

That night at the hotel plays over and over in my mind—the feel of the straps Miller put on my wrists, the cold impassiveness of his face as he expertly made me come, the look of raw anguish when he realized the pain he’d caused. Of course I had to flee.

I just didn’t realize I’d be running right into an even bigger problem. William. I know it’s only a matter of time before he finds me again. I saw the surprise on his face when he registered me, and I saw the recognition when he spotted Miller. William Anderson and Miller Hart know each other, and William will want to know how I know Miller and, God forbid, what I was doing at that hotel. Not only have I spent two weeks in hell, but I’ve also spent two weeks looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to appear.

*     *     *

After dragging myself to the shower and pulling on anything I can lay my hands on, I plod down the stairs, finding Nan on her knees loading the washing machine. I slip silently onto a chair at the table, but Nan seems to have a radar on me these days and every movement, breath, and tear is detected, no matter if she’s in the room with me or not. She’s caring but confused, sympathetic but encouraging. Trying to make me see the positive side of my encounters with Miller Hart has become her life goal, but I can see nothing but imminent misery and feel nothing but lingering pain. There can never be anyone else. No man will ever spark those feelings, make me feel protected, loved, and safe.

It’s ironic, really. All my life I’ve despised that my mother abandoned me for a life of men, pleasure, and gifts. And then Miller Hart turns out to be a male escort. He sells his body, takes money to bring women pleasure. For him, every time he took me in his thing, held me so tenderly in his arms, it was to erase the taint of an encounter with another woman. Of all the men in the world who could’ve captured me so completely, why him?

“Would you like to come to Monday club with me?” Nan asks casually while I try to choke down some cornflakes.

“No, I’ll stay home.” I plunge my spoon into my bowl and take another mouthful. “Did you win at bingo last night?”

Huffing a few times, she slams the door of the washing machine, then proceeds to load the tray with laundry detergent. “Did I heck! Waste of bloody time.”

“Why do you bother, then?” I ask, stirring my breakfast slowly.

“Because I rock that bingo hall.” She winks, smiling a little, and I mentally plead for her not to hit me with another pep talk. My plea goes ignored. “I spent years mourning your grandfather’s death, Olivia.” Her words stun me a little, the mention of my grandfather the last thing I expected. My stirring slows. “I lost my lifetime partner and I cried oceans.” She’s trying to put things into perspective, and it’s in this moment I wonder if she thinks I’m pathetic for being so blue over a man I’ve known so briefly. “I didn’t think I would ever feel human again.”

“I remember,” I say quietly. And I remember how I came close to multiplying Nan’s grief. She wasn’t even over my mother’s disappearance before she was cruelly faced with the premature death of her beloved Jim.

“But it did happen.” She nods reassuringly. “It doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’ll see that life can go on.” She’s up the hallway now, while I’m considering her words, feeling a little guilty for mourning something I barely had and even guiltier that she’s comparing it to the loss of her husband in an attempt to make me feel better.

I slip deep into thought, running over encounter after encounter, kiss after kiss, word after word. My washed-out mind seems hell-bent on torturing me, but it’s my own stupid fault. I asked for it. Hopelessness has taken on a new meaning.

The chime of my mobile makes me jump back in my chair, bringing me out of my daydream, where all of the misery is real again. I don’t particularly want contact with anyone, least of all the man responsible for my heartache, so when I see his name appear, I quickly drop my spoon into my bowl and stare blankly at the screen. My heart is sprinting. I’ve clammed up with panic, and I’m far back in my chair, putting as much distance between me and the phone as possible. I can’t move farther away because every useless muscle in my body is on shutdown. Nothing is working, except my damn memory, and it’s torturing me some more, making me speed through every moment that I’ve spent with Miller Hart. My eyes begin to pool with tears of despair. It’s not wise to open this message. Of course it’s not wise to open this message. I’m not being very wise at the moment, though. Haven’t been since I met Miller Hart.

I swipe up my phone and open the text.

How are you? Miller Hart x

I frown at the screen and reread the message, wondering if he thinks that I may have forgotten him already. Miller Hart? How am I? How does he think I am? Dancing on the ceiling because I got myself a few rounds of Miller Hart, London’s most notorious male escort, for free? No, not for free. Far from free. My time and experiences with that man are going to cost me dearly. I’ve not even begun to come to terms with what’s happened. My mind is a knot of questions, all jumbled up, but I need to unravel it all and get it in order before I try to make any sense of this. Just the fact that the only man I’ve ever shared my whole self with is suddenly gone is hard enough to deal with. Trying to fathom why and how is a chore my emotions refuse to bear on top of my loss.

How am I? “A fucking mess!” I yell at my phone, stabbing at the Delete button repeatedly until my thumb gets sore. In an act of pure anger, I throw my phone across the kitchen, not even wincing at the crash as it smashes to smithereens against the tiled wall. I’m heaving violently in my chair, barely hearing the rushed clumping of footsteps down the stairs over my angry gasps.

“What on earth?” Nan’s shocked tone creeps over my shoulders, but I don’t turn to see the stunned look that’ll most certainly be plaguing her old face. “Olivia?”

I stand abruptly, sending my chair flying back, the screeching of wood on wood echoing around our old kitchen. “I’m going out.” I don’t look at my grandmother as I escape, making my way quickly down the hall and viciously snatching my jacket and satchel from the coat stand.

“Olivia!”

Her footsteps are pounding after me as I swing the front door open and nearly take George off his feet. “Morn—Oh!” He watches me barrel past, and I just catch a glimpse of his jolly face drifting into shock before I break into a sprint down the pathway.

*     *     *

I know I look out of place as I stand near the gym entrance, clearly hesitant and a little overwhelmed. All the machines look like spaceships, hundreds of buttons or levers on each one, and I haven’t the first idea how to operate them. My one-hour induction last week did a great job of distracting me, but the information and instructions fell straight from my memory the second I left the exclusive fitness center. I scan the area, fiddling with my ring, seeing masses of men and women pounding the treadmills, going hell for leather on the bikes, and pumping weights on huge lifting devices. They all look like they know exactly what they’re doing.

In an attempt to blend in, I make my way over to the water machine and gulp down a cup of ice water. I’m wasting time being hesitant when I could be releasing some stress and anger. I spot a punching bag hanging in the far corner with no one within thirty feet of it, so I decide to give it a try. There are no buttons or levers on that.

Wandering over, I help myself to the boxing gloves hanging on the wall nearby. I shove my hands in, trying to look like a pro, like I come here every morning and start my day with an hour of sweating. After securing the Velcro, I give the bag a little poke. I’m surprised at how heavy it is. My feeble hit has barely moved it. I draw back my arm and poke harder, frowning when all I get is a little sway of the giant bag. Deciding it must be full of rocks, I inject some power into my weak arm and throw some effort into my next hit. I grunt, too, and the bag shifts significantly this time, moving away from me and seeming to pause in midair before it’s on its way back toward me. Fast. I panic and quickly pull back my fist, then extend my arm to prevent being knocked to the ground. Shock waves fly up my arm when my glove connects with the bag, but it’s moving away from me again. I smile and spread my legs a little, bracing myself for its return, then smack it hard again, sending it sailing away from me.

My arm is aching already and I suddenly realize I have two gloved hands, so I pummel it with my left this time, smiling wider, the impact of the bag on my fists feeling good. I break out in a sweat, my feet start to shift, and my arms begin to pick up a rhythm. My shouts of satisfaction spur me on, and the bag morphs into more than a bag. I’m beating the shit out of it and loving every moment.

I don’t know how long I’m there, but when I finally let up and take a moment to think, I’m drenched, my knuckles are sore, and my breathing is erratic. I catch the bag and let it settle, then take a cautious glance around the gym, wondering if my lash-out has been noticed. No one is staring. I’ve gone totally unnoticed, everyone focused on their own grueling workout. I smile to myself and collect a cup of water and a towel from the nearby shelf, wiping my pouring brow as I make my way from the huge room, a certain skip to my step. For the first time in weeks, I feel prepared to take on the day.

I head toward the changing rooms, sipping my water, feeling like a lifetime of stress and woes has just been knocked out of me. How ironic. The sense of release is new and the urge to go back in and pound for another hour is hard to resist, but I’m already at risk of being late for work, so I push on, thinking this could get addictive. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, maybe even after work today, and I’ll thrash that bag until there are no more traces of Miller Hart and the pain he’s caused me.

I pass door after door, all with glass panes, and peek into each. Through one I see dozens of tight backsides of people pedaling like their lives depend on it, through another are women bent into all sorts of freakish positions, and in another there are men running back and forth, randomly dropping to the mats to do varied sets of push-ups and sit-ups. These must be the classes the instructor told me about. I might try one or two. Or I could give them all a go.

As I’m passing the final door before the women’s changing rooms, I pull up when something catches my eye and backtrack until I’m looking through the glass pane at a punching bag similar to the one that I’ve just attacked. It’s swinging from the ceiling hook, but with no one in sight to have made it move. I frown and step closer to the door, my eyes traveling with the bag from left to right. Then I gasp and jump back as someone comes into view, bare chested and barefoot. My already racing heart virtually explodes under the added strain of shock it’s just been subjected to. The cup of water and my towel tumble to the ground. I feel dizzy.

He has those shorts on, the ones he wore when he was trying to make me comfortable. I’m shaking, but my shocked state doesn’t stop me from peering back through the glass, just to check I wasn’t hallucinating. I wasn’t. He’s here, his ripped physique mesmerizing. He looks violent as he attacks the hanging bag like it’s a threat to his life, punishing it with powerful punches and even more powerful kicks. His athletic legs are extending in between extensions of his muscled arms, his body moving stealthily as he weaves and dodges the bag when it comes back at him. He looks like a pro. He looks like a fighter.

I’m frozen on the spot as I watch Miller move around the hanging bag with ease, his fists wrapped in bandages, his limbs delivering controlled, punishing blows time and time again. The sounds of gruff bawls and his hits send an unfamiliar chill down my spine. Who does he see before him?

My mind spins, questions mounting, as I quietly observe the refined, well-mannered, part-time gentleman become a man possessed, that temper he has warned me about clear and present. But then I retreat a pace when he suddenly grabs the bag with both hands and rests his forehead on the leather, his body falling into the now subtle sway of the punching bag. His back is dripping and heaving, and I see his solid shoulders rise suddenly. Then he begins to turn toward the door. It happens in slow motion. I’m rooted in place as his chest, slicked with a sheen of sweat, comes into view and my eyes slowly crawl up his torso until I see his side profile. He knows he’s being watched. My held breath gushes from my lungs and I move fast, sprinting down the corridor and flying through the door of the changing room, my exhausted heart begging me to give it a break.

“You okay?”

I look across to the shower and see a woman wrapped in a towel with a turban on her wet head, watching me with slightly wide eyes. “Sure,” I breathe, realizing I’m splattered against the back of the door. I can’t blush because my face is already bright red and steaming hot.

She smiles through a frown and carries on her way, leaving me to find my locker and retrieve my shower bag. The water is far too hot. I need ice. But after five minutes of fiddling with the controls, I fail to cool it down. So I make do and set about washing my tangled, sweaty mane and soaping down my clammy body. My earlier relaxed frame of mind and body has been obliterated by the sight of him, and now the visions are replaying in my mind, too. There are hundreds of fitness centers in London. Why did I choose this one?

I haven’t time to waste thinking too much or time to begin appreciating the pleasant effect of the hot water, which is now massaging my post-workout muscles, not burning my already heated flesh. I need to get to work. It takes me ten minutes to dry my body and hair and get dressed. Then I’m skulking out of the gym with my head down and my shoulders high, bracing myself for that voice to call me or that touch to ignite the internal flame. But I escape safely and hurry to the tube. While my eyes are thankful for the reminder of Miller Hart’s perfection, my mind is not.

As soon as the lunchtime rush dies down at the bistro where I work, Sylvie is on me like a wolf. “Tell me,” she says, dropping to the sofa next to me.

“Nothing to tell.”

“Livy, give me a break! You’ve looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp all morning.”

I cast a sideways frown to find my coworker’s bright pink lips pressed into an impatient straight line. “A what?”

“Your face is all screwed up in disgust.”

“He texted me,” I grumble. I’m not telling her the rest. “He texted me to ask how I am.”

She scoffs and takes my can of Coke, slurping loudly. “Supercilious moron.”

I jump forward without thought. “He’s not a moron!” I shout defensively, immediately snapping my mouth shut and retreating back on the sofa when I clock Sylvie’s knowing look. “He’s not a moron and he’s not supercilious,” I say calmly. He was loving, attentive, and thoughtful… when he wasn’t being a supercilious moron… or London’s most notorious male escort. I drop my head on a sigh. Landing myself with one hooker is bad luck. Two? Well, that’s just unreasonable of the gods.

She reaches over and squeezes my knee. “I hope you didn’t entertain him with a reply.”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted. Which I don’t,” I say, pulling myself up.

“Why?”

“My phone’s broken.” I leave Sylvie on the couch with a wrinkled brow and no further explanation.

All I’ve told her about my breakup with Miller is that there was another woman. It’s just easier that way. The truth is unspeakable.

When I enter the kitchen, Del and Paul are laughing like hyenas, each with a vicious knife in one hand and a cucumber in the other. “What’s so funny?” I ask, making them both halt their happy tittering, their faces morphing into a wash of pity as they each assess my weak body and mental state. I stand quietly and allow them to reach the only conclusion there is. I still look whitewashed.

Del’s the one to snap back into action, pointing his knife at me, clearly making himself smile. “Livy can judge. She’ll be fair.”

“Judge what?” I ask, taking a step away from the blade.

Paul pushes Del’s hand down on a tsk and smiles at me. “We’re having a cucumber-chopping competition. Your silly boss here thinks he can beat me.”

I don’t mean to, but I laugh. It makes both Paul and Del jump back a little, shocked. I’ve seen Paul slice a cucumber, or I tried to see. His hand is a blur of motion for a few seconds until the vegetable in splayed out neatly, each slice perfect. “Good luck!”

Del smiles brightly at me. “I don’t need luck, Livy, sweetheart.” He spreads his legs and lays his cucumber down on the chopping board. “Say when.”

Paul rolls his eyes at me and stands back, a wise move judging by the hold Del has on the knife. “Are you ready to time it?” he asks, handing me a stopwatch.

“Is this a regular thing?” I take it and reset the display.

“Yep,” Del answers, focusing on the cucumber. “He’s beat me on a pepper, onion, and lettuce, but the cucumber’s mine.”

“When!” Paul shouts, and I immediately press down to start the timer as Del flies into action, bringing the knife down repeatedly and savagely on the poor cucumber.

“Done!” he yells, out of breath, looking over at me. He’s broken out in a sweat. “What did I get?”

I look down. “Ten seconds.”

“Pow!” He jumps into the air, and Paul immediately confiscates the knife from him. “Beat that, Mr. Master Chef!”

“Piece of cake,” Paul claims, taking up position by the chopping board and scraping away the dismembered cucumber before setting his own down. “Say when.”

I quickly reset the timer, just in time for Del’s, “When!”

Paul, as I knew he would, sails through the cucumber with finesse and control, as opposed to Del’s heavy-handed massacre. “Done,” he declares calmly, no sweat and no heavy breathing, which defies his overweight frame.

Looking down at the stopwatch, I mentally smile. “Six seconds.”

“Get out of town!” Del shouts, marching over to me and snatching the watch from my hand. “You must’ve cocked up.”

“I did not!” I actually laugh. “And, anyway, Paul sliced, you hacked.”

He gasps and Paul laughs with me, giving me an endearing wink. “So now I have the pepper, the onion, the lettuce, and the cucumber.” Paul takes a marker pen and puts a big tick through a basic picture of a cucumber on the wall.

“Bullshit,” Del grumbles. “If it wasn’t for the Tuna Crunch, you’d be history, buster.” Del’s moodiness only increases our laughter, both of us chuckling as our boss stomps off. “Clean up!” he shouts back to us.

“Boys,” I muse.

Paul smiles fondly. “It’s good to see some spirit, darling.” He gives me an affectionate rub of the arm, not making too big a deal of it, before strolling off and shaking a pan of something on the stove. Watching him whistle happily to himself, I realize my earlier bubbling anger has completely subsided. Distraction. I need distraction.

*     *     *

It’s the longest afternoon ever, which isn’t a good sign of things to come. I’m left to lock up the bistro with Paul, Sylvie having gotten off early to get to her local boozer to nab a front-row seat in time for her favorite band that’s playing tonight. She nagged me for a solid half hour, trying to entice me to go, but by the sounds of things, the band is in the heavy metal genre, and my head is banging enough already.

Paul gives my shoulder another friendly rub, the big man clearly uncomfortable with emotional women, before he heads off toward the tube, leaving me to go in the other direction.

“Baby girl!” Gregory’s worried call hits me from behind, and I turn to see him jogging toward me in his combats and T-shirt, looking all muddy and grubby.

“Hey.” I fight against my body’s desire to fold in on itself at the prospect of another pep talk.

He catches me up and we start strolling toward the bus stop together. “I’ve tried calling you a million times, Livy,” he says, worried but annoyed.

“My phone’s kaput.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter. You okay?”

“No, I’m not.” He scowls down at me. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” I mutter, not giving anything else away. Just like Sylvie, he knows nothing of male escorts and hotel rooms, and he doesn’t need to. My best friend already hates Miller enough. There’s really no need to give him more ammunition. “I’m fine.”

“Cocksucker!” he spits.

I don’t humor him and instead change the subject. “Have you spoken to Benjamin yet?”

Gregory takes a long, weary breath. “Briefly. He took one of my calls to tell me to stay away. Your cocksucking coffee hater has put the fear of God in him.”

“Well, whose fault is that? You said you wouldn’t let anything happen to me that night, but when I needed you, you’d skulked off with Benjamin.”

“I know,” he mutters. “I wasn’t thinking, was I?”

“No, you weren’t,” I confirm, mentally scolding myself for my cheek.

“And now Ben’s closed off from me completely,” he says.

I look up to Gregory and see a hurt I don’t like. He’s falling for a man who’s pretending to be someone he’s not… a bit like Miller. Or was he pretending the whole time he was with me? “Completely?” I ask. “No contact?”

Gregory sighs deeply. “He took a woman home that Saturday night and took great delight in telling me so.”

“Oh.” I breathe. “You never mentioned it before.”

He shrugs, playing it easy. “Kinda bruised my ego,” he says, his forced indifferent expression turning to mine. “You look a little red-faced.”

Still? “I went to the gym this morning.” I reach up and feel my brow. I’ve been hot all day.

“You did?” he asks, surprised. “That’s great. What did you do?” He starts dancing around on the pavement. “A bit of circuit training? Some yoga?” He bends into the most obscene pose and looks up at me with a grin. “Downward dog?”

I can’t help returning his smile, pulling him back upright. “I punched the crap out of a bag of rocks.”

“Rocks?” He laughs. “I think you’ll find those leather bags are full of sand.”

“Felt like rocks,” I grumble, looking down at my knuckles and seeing a row of red blisters on each.

“Shit!” Gregory grabs my hands. “You did go to town. Feel better for it?”

“Yes,” I admit. “Anyway, don’t let Ben mess you around.”

He chokes on a laugh. “Olivia, you’ll forgive me if I don’t take any notice of your advice. What about you? Have you heard from the coffee-hating prick?”

I resist the urge to defend Miller again or to tell Gregory about the text message and gym scene. It’ll get me nowhere, except lectured. “No,” I lie. “My phone’s knackered, so no one can contact me.” That thought suddenly thrills me, and it’s undoubtedly a good thing should Miller decide to text me again. “This is me.” I point at the bus stop.

Gregory dips and kisses my forehead, giving me a sympathetic face. “I’m going to the parents’ for dinner tonight. Wanna come?”

“No, thanks.” Gregory’s parents are lovely people, but keeping up with conversation requires brainpower, and I have none to spare at the moment.

“Tomorrow, then?” he pleads. “Please, let’s do something tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow.” I’ll find the enthusiasm for a full-on discussion within the next day, as long as the discussion remains on Gregory’s diabolical love life and not mine.

His happy smile makes me smile in return. “Catch ya later, baby girl.” He roughs up my hair and jogs off, leaving me to wait for my bus, and as if the gods detect my gloomy mood, they open the heavens and let it pour down on me.

“What?” I exclaim, wriggling out of my jacket and covering my head, thinking it’s just typical that my bus stop is one with no damn shelter. And to rub it in, all of my fellow bus waiters have umbrellas and are looking at me like I’m stupid. I am stupid—for more reasons than not just carrying an umbrella. “Shit!” I curse, looking around for a doorway, anywhere to escape the pounding rain.

I circle, hunched under my jacket, but I find no place that’ll protect me. A heavy, defeated sigh falls from my mouth while I stand hopelessly in the pouring rain, thinking that the day couldn’t possibly get any longer or worse.

I’m proven wrong. I suddenly can’t feel the rain pelting my body, and the loud pounding of it beating the pavement dulls out, leaving my hearing saturated with words. His words.

The black Mercedes slows and pulls up at the bus stop—Miller’s Mercedes. In an action based on pure impulse, because I know he won’t want to get his perfection wet, I turn and start jogging up the road, the chaos of London rush hour attacking my chaotic mind.

“Livy!” I barely hear him in the distance, over the pounding rain. “Livy, wait!”

When I reach a road, I’m forced to stop, the traffic zooming through the green light, leaving me among many other pedestrians waiting to cross, all with umbrellas. I frown when the people on both sides of me jump back, but by the time I’ve realized why, it’s too late. A great big truck zooms past, straight through a lake of a puddle by the roadside, kicking oceans of water up my body.

“No!” I drop my jacket on a shocked gasp as the freezing cold water drenches me. “Shit!” The lights change and everyone else starts to cross, leaving me looking like a drowned rat on the curbside, shivering and brimming with tears.

“Livy.” Miller’s voice is quieter, but I’m not sure if it’s because he’s far away or the rain is drowning him out. His warm touch on my wet arm soon tells me it’s the latter, leaving me surprised that he’s ventured out of his car, given the dreadful weather and the effect it’ll have on his expensive suit.

I shrug him off. “Leave me alone.” I bend to collect my saturated jacket from the ground, fighting the growing lump in my throat and the familiar internal sparks that his touch on my cold, wet skin has instigated.

“Olivia.”

“How do you know William Anderson?” I blurt, swinging my eyes to him, finding he’s standing beneath the safety and dryness of a giant golf umbrella. I should’ve known. I’ve surprised myself with my question, and obviously Miller, too, judging by his slight recoil. There are many questions I should be asking, yet my mind has centered on this one alone.

“It’s of no importance.” He’s being dismissive, making me more persistent.

“I beg to differ,” I spit. He knew. All that time he knew. I may have only mentioned William’s first name when I spilled my heart, released everything from my conscience about my mother to Miller, but he knew exactly who I was referring to, and now I’m certain that that was the cause for the majority of his violent reaction and shock.

He must see the unyielding determination on my face because his impassive expression wavers slightly into a scowl. “You know Anderson, and you know me.” His jaw tenses. He means I know what they both do. “Our paths have crossed over the years.”

From the bitterness rolling off of him in waves, I determine something quite quickly. “He doesn’t like you.”

“And I don’t like him.”

“Why?”

“Because he pokes his nose in where it isn’t wanted.”

I inwardly laugh, thinking how much I agree, and my eyes drop to the ground, seeing raindrops splashing the pavement. Miller’s confirmation only reinforces my previous fear. I’m delusional if I b