‘It does?’
‘Yes.’ I gaze up at him and he smiles fondly. He might seem alarmed by my pointless historical knowledge of architecture, but I know he relishes in my enthusiasm. ‘Have you remembered your challenge?’ I pull him to a halt before he can take us across another road.
My lovely, obsessive man regards me closely. And I grin. He remembers. ‘Something about fast food.’
‘Hot dogs.’
‘That’s right,’ he confirms, full of trepidation. ‘You want me to eat a hot dog.’
‘I do,’ I confirm, hysterical on the inside. Every day we have been in New York, we’ve each set a challenge for the other to fulfil. Miller’s challenges for me have all been somewhat interesting, from preparing a lecture on a local building to bathing without touching him, even if he touched me. That was torturous and I failed miserably. Not that he was much bothered, but it lost me a point. My challenges for him have been a little bit childish but perfectly appropriate for Miller, like sitting on the grass in Central Park, eating in a restaurant without precisely aligning his wineglass, and now eating a hotdog. My challenges are all very easy . . . supposedly. He fought through some and failed others, like resisting shifting his wineglass. The score? Eight to Olivia, seven to Miller.
‘As you wish,’ he huffs, attempting to tug me across the road, but I stand firm and wait for him to turn his attention back to me. He’s watching me carefully, his mind clearly racing. ‘You’re going to make me eat a hot dog from one of those grubby little corner stands, aren’t you?’
I nod, knowing he’s seen the grubby little corner stand only a few paces away. ‘Here’s one.’
‘How convenient,’ he mutters, reluctantly following me to the hot dog cart.
‘Two hot dogs, please,’ I say to the vendor as Miller twitches uncomfortably beside me.
‘Sure thing, sweetheart. Onions? Ketchup? Mustard?’
Miller steps forward. ‘None.’
‘All!’ I interrupt, pushing him back and ignoring his gasp of annoyance. ‘Lots of it, too.’
The vendor chuckles as he loads the bun with a hot dog and proceeds to pile on onions before squirting lashings of ketchup and mustard across the top. ‘Anything the lady likes,’ he says, handing me the finished product.
I push it straight to Miller with a smile. ‘Enjoy.’
‘I doubt it,’ he mutters, eyeing his breakfast dubiously.
I direct an apologetic smile to the vendor and take my hot dog, handing him a ten-dollar note. ‘Keep the change,’ I say, quickly taking Miller’s arm and leading him away. ‘That was rude.’
‘What was?’ He looks up, genuinely stumped, and I roll my eyes at his ignorance.
I sink my teeth into one end of the bun and gesture for him to follow suit. But he just looks at the hot dog like it could possibly be the strangest thing he’s ever seen. He even turns it in his hand a few times, like looking at it from a different angle might make it more appetising. I remain quiet, enjoying my own, and wait for him to take the plunge. I’m halfway through before he braves a nibble on the end.
Then I watch in horror – which almost matches Miller’s – as a big dollop of onions, mixed with a copious amount of ketchup and mustard, slips off the end and splatters down his bright white T-shirt.
‘Oh . . .’ I swallow hard, bracing for the imminent meltdown.
He’s staring at his chest, his jaw clenching, his hot dog quickly tossed to the ground. I’m all tense, my teeth clamped down on my bottom lip to stop me saying anything and stoking the clear irritation coming off of him in droves. He snatches my napkin and starts rubbing frantically at the material, stretching the stain, smearing it in a little more. I cringe. Miller takes a calming gulp of air. Then he closes his eyes and slowly reopens them, focusing on me. ‘Just . . . fucking . . . perfect.’
My cheeks puff out, my lip slipping through my teeth painfully as I try my hardest to contain a laugh, but it’s no good. I throw my hot dog in the nearby bin and lose control. ‘I’m sorry!’ I gasp. ‘You just . . . you look like the world is going to end.’
Eyes blazing, he clasps my neck and leads me down the street, while I work hard on reining myself in. He won’t appreciate it, whether we’re in London, New York, or Timbuktu.
‘This will do,’ he declares.
I look up and see a Diesel store across the street. He quickly guides me across the road, with only three seconds to spare on the pedestrian countdown, no doubt unwilling to even allow the potential of being mowed down delay his mission to be rid of the horrifying stain on his T-shirt. I know for absolutely certain that this would never be his usual store of choice, but his current tarnished condition won’t allow Miller to seek out a less casual outlet.
We enter and are instantly bombarded by loud, pumping music. Miller whips off his soiled shirt, revealing miles of sharp muscle to everyone in sight. Lines of definition rise from the waistband of his perfectly hung jeans and drift into stupidly taut abs . . . and then that chest. I don’t know whether to cry with pleasure or shout at him for sharing the stunning sight.
Countless female shop assistants trip over themselves to be the first to make it to us. ‘Can I help?’ It’s a petite Asian woman who wins, smiling smugly at her colleagues before dribbling all over Miller.
The mask slips right into place, delighting me. ‘A T-shirt, please. Anything.’ He waves his hand around the store dismissively.
‘Certainly!’ She’s off, grabbing various garments on her travels, calling behind her to follow, which we do once Miller has settled his palm on my nape. We walk until we’re at the back of the store and the sales assistant has reams of material in her grasp. ‘I’ll pop them all in the changing room and you can call if you need any assistance.’