He laughs a pompous laugh before signalling to the back of the store. ‘Why, of course; however, we are far more renowned for our suits and shirts.’

My eyes follow the direction of his pointed finger and find a section to the rear of the store with just a few rails of casual garments. It’s quite sparse, but I’m not risking leaving to try and get Miller to a shop with a wider range. It’ll give him too long to worm out of it. And on that thought, I swivel again to see if he’s braved venturing into the shop. He hasn’t.

On a sigh loud enough for him to hear, even from outside, I turn to find the assistant again. ‘I’ll have a look.’ I go to pass him, but he shifts on an uncomfortable shuffle of his portly body, blocking my path. I frown and throw him a questioning look as he runs disapproving eyes down my floral dress, all the way to my exposed pink toenails.

‘Miss,’ he begins, returning his beady eyes to mine, ‘you’ll find most shops here on Jermyn Street will be of the . . . how should I say?’ He hums in thought, but I don’t know why. He knows what he wants to say, and I know it, too. ‘The higher end of the clothing spectrum.’

My sass runs and hides. I’m not his typical clientele, and he isn’t afraid to voice it. ‘Right,’ I whisper, too many unwanted thoughts running through my mind. Like posh people eating posh food and drinking posh champagne . . . all of which I serve to them from time to time.

He smiles the most insincere smile and starts fiddling with the sleeve of a nearby shirt on a mannequin. ‘Maybe Oxford Street would be more suitable.’

I feel foolish, and this rotten man’s reaction to my enquiry has only confirmed my constant worries, and he hasn’t even seen Miller. That’ll shock him. Me with a finely dressed specimen such as Miller?

‘I believe the young lady would like to be shown the casual department.’ Miller’s voice creeps over my shoulders and makes them seize up. I’ve heard that tone. Only a few times before, but I’ll never forget or mistake it. He’s angry. I note the shop assistant’s widened eyes and stunned expression before I chance a very wary glance at Miller as he joins me in the store. To the man not trying to help me, I know he’ll look perfectly composed, but I can see the brimming fury. He’s not happy and I expect Mr My-Garments-Are-too-Posh-for-You will know about it very soon.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Is the young lady with you?’ I can see the surprise and it eats away all of the reassurance that Miller constantly fills me with. It’s gone. I’ll face this daily if I continue to try and immerse myself in Miller’s world. I know I’ll never leave him – not ever, not a chance – so it should be something that I must either learn to accept or learn to deal with better. I have copious amounts of sass for my uptight, part-time gentleman, but I seem to struggle on some occasions beyond that. Like now.

Miller’s arm slips around my waist and pulls me closer. I can feel the tightness of his strung-out muscles, and panic makes me want to remove him from the store before they release and knock this old guy on his plump arse. ‘Would it matter if she wasn’t?’ Miller asks tightly.

The man shifts and shuffles in his tweed, laughing nervously. ‘I thought I was being helpful,’ he insists.

‘You weren’t,’ Miller retorts. ‘She was shopping for me, not that it should matter.’

‘Of course!’ Stout Man gives Miller a quick appraisal, nodding his approval before carefully pulling down a white shirt. ‘I believe we have much that you would find appealing, sir.’

‘Probably.’ Miller shifts his hand to my neck and starts rubbing that reassurance back into me. He never fails. I’m warm and feeling less exposed to the demeaning words that have been directed at me, despite him being perfectly polite in his insult. Miller steps forward and runs a fingertip over the luxury material of the shirt, humming his approval. I watch him cautiously, still sensing those coiled muscles and knowing for damn sure that that hum of approval was entirely fake.

‘Wonderful piece,’ the assistant says proudly.

‘I beg to differ.’ Miller returns to my side. ‘And it could be made of the finest material money could buy, but I wouldn’t buy it from you.’ I’m turned by a gentle flex of his hold. ‘Good day, sir.’ We exit the store, leaving a dumbfounded man with a lovely white shirt hanging from his limp hands. ‘Fucking prick,’ Miller spits, pushing me onward.

I keep my mouth shut. I can’t even locate the need to be annoyed that I haven’t managed to get Miller interested in some casual clothes, and after that scene, my determination should be stronger. But I never want to face another confrontation such as that, not just because it was humiliating, but also because of my lingering worry about Miller’s temper. He looked feral, bordering on becoming that frightening creature who takes leave of his senses and doesn’t seem able to control himself.

I’m marched down the street, my heart sinking with each step we take when it becomes apparent that we’re heading for his car. That’s it? Our quality time together consisted of a reality check in a posh clothes store? Disappointed doesn’t cover it.

We arrive at Miller’s Mercedes, where he places me neatly in the passenger seat. I watch silently with careful eyes, not daring to voice my discontent as he steams around the front of the car and throws himself into the driver’s side.

I’m nervous.

He’s pissed off.

I’m silent.

He’s breathing erratically.

The anger seems to be intensifying rather than dulling. I’m struck stupid, not knowing what to say or do. He slams the key into the ignition on a hiss, turns it, and revs the engine so hard I think the car might blow up. Sinking further into my seat, I start toying with my ring.

‘Fuck!’ he roars, smashing his fist into the centre of the steering wheel. The punch alone startles me, making me fly back in my seat, but the horn sounding off drags out my alarm. That nasty fear bolts through my speeding heart, but I keep my eyes on my lap. I can’t look at him. I know what I’ll see and Miller’s rage isn’t a pretty sight.

It seems like for ever before the echo of the horn fades to nothing, leaving a ringing in my ears, and it’s even longer before I find the courage to glimpse at him. His forehead is resting on the steering wheel, his palms gripping the circle of leather, and his back is rising and falling erratically.

‘Miller?’ I say quietly as I lean forward a fraction, cautious, but I soon retreat when his palms lift and smash back down on another shout. He flings his body back into the seat, falls silent for a few, long moments, and then he yanks at the handle of the door, getting out and slamming it behind him. ‘Miller!’ I shout as he paces away from the car. ‘Shit!’ He’s going back to the shop! I blindly feel for the door handle, watching his long legs eat up the pavement, but then I halt my frenzied grappling when he comes to a sudden standstill and his hands fly into his hair. I’m frozen, weighing up the merits of trying to calm him down. I don’t relish the thought. Not at all. My heart continues to clatter in my chest, threatening to break free as I wait for his next move, praying he doesn’t push onward because there isn’t a chance on earth that I can stop him from doing whatever he intends to do.