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‘So you’re thirty-five.’ I tilt my head to the side. ‘No girlfriend. No wife. Parents?’
His eyes glitter, dark and mesmerising, in his handsome face. He’s stripped out of his jacket and the white bow tie sits loose around his neck. ‘My mother died ten years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’ My sympathy is instant. ‘You didn’t say.’
He shrugs. ‘Why would I?’
‘I guess when I told you about my mum? You know, the fact we’ve been through the same thing?’
He presses a button on his coffee machine and black coffee pours out. ‘We haven’t, though.’
‘Losing our mums, I mean.’
‘No loss is the same. No grief can be compared. You’ve just buried your mother; the pain is fresh, her absence is something I imagine you’re still dealing with every day.’ His perceptiveness makes my heart hurt. ‘Not having my mother in my life is a part of me now, as much as my nose or my eyes. I accept it as my reality. I don’t grieve her in the same way I might have when it first happened.’
I know he’s a brilliant litigator but, listening to him speak, I comprehend the orator he is, the persuasive way he has of putting words together that is compelling and unique.
‘I don’t know if I ever won’t feel this.’ I press my fingers into my chest and, to my chagrin, tears moisten my eyes. He looks at me with sympathy for a moment, then slides the coffee towards me. I shake my head. It would keep me awake all night.
‘On second thought,’ I murmur, taking it from him, sipping it slowly.
‘Everyone’s different, like I said.’
‘How did she die?’ It’s a blunt question, but I don’t apologise for it.
‘A stroke.’
It’s a simple answer, but I feel like there’s so much more he’s not saying.
‘And your father?’
Michael makes another coffee and holds it cradled in his hands. ‘I don’t see him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t see him.’ His eyes land on mine, and I feel like something winds from him to me, an invisible string that binds us in some way.
‘You don’t get on?’
His lips twist in cynical acknowledgement of that. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Millie?’
I blink, sipping the thick, strong coffee. ‘Yeah?’
‘My father’s off-limits.’ The words are vice-like in their intensity.
‘Why?’
He lifts his brows. ‘Because I said.’
‘But...’
‘It’s a deal-breaker,’ he snaps. Then, more gently, almost like a plea, ‘Just let it go.’
I nod slowly, but I don’t like it. I dislike it more than I should. I push it aside, but I think my hurt probably shows on my face and in my voice. ‘You’re the boss.’
