Guilt tells me I shouldn’t, but I can’t help feeling quietly happy by his question. He’s falling, too, just as hard as I am. I embrace his uncertainty and cuddle him tightly, locking my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips, like I’m trying to squeeze some reassurance into him. ‘I’m only going away if you send me,’ I say, because I think that’s what he means. I couldn’t possibly turn to dust.

‘There’s something I’d like to share with you.’

‘What?’ I ask, remaining where I am with my face stuck to his neck.

‘Let’s get washed and I’ll show you.’ He reaches behind his neck and pulls my arms away, forcing me to vacate my comfort zone. ‘You’ll be the first.’

‘First?’

‘The first person to see.’ He’s turning me in his arms, therefore turning my inquisitive face away, too.

‘See?’

His chin rests on my shoulder. ‘I love your curiosity.’

‘You make me curious,’ I accuse, pushing my cheek onto his lips. ‘What are you going to show me?’

‘You’ll see,’ he teases, releasing me.

I turn around and face him again, seeing him sliding down, dunking his head and rubbing some shampoo through it, before rinsing and following it up with some conditioner.

I make myself comfortable at the other end of the bath and watch as he works the conditioner through his waves. ‘You use conditioner?’

He pauses with his massaging hands and studies me carefully for a few moments before he speaks. ‘I have very untamed hair.’

‘Me too.’

‘Then you must feel my pain.’ He slides back down the bath and rinses his untamed waves, while I grin like an idiot. He’s embarrassed.

When he surfaces, I’m still grinning, and he rolls his eyes at me as he pushes himself up, my gaze lifting with him forever until he’s towering over me and I’m staring at his soaking, na**d perfection.

‘I’ll leave you to wash your untamed mane.’ He’s not smiling, but I can tell he wants to.

‘Thank you, kind sir.’ I continue to admire his wet nakedness as he takes the steps from the bath, his butt cheeks tensing and swelling delightfully. ‘Nice buns,’ I say quietly to myself, slipping further into the bubbles.

He turns slowly and cocks his head to the side. ‘I beg you don’t adopt your grandmother’s terminology.’

I burn bright red, and with nowhere else to escape my embarrassment, I disappear under the water.

When I’m finished taming my own wild locks with conditioner, I reluctantly leave the warm serenity of Miller’s colossal bath and dry off. Ensuring I’ve emptied the tub, rinsed the bubbles away and tidied up the bathroom after me, I pad into his bedroom and find a pair of black boxer shorts and a grey T-shirt spread neatly on the bed. I smile to myself as I dress, his boxer shorts barely staying up on my waist, his T-shirt completely swamping me, but they smell of Miller so I tolerate the annoying need to hold the shorts up as I go in search of him.

I find him in the kitchen, looking breathtaking in his own pair of black boxers and a T-shirt to match the one he has picked for me. Seeing Miller without a perfect suit adorning his perfect body is a rarity, but the casual edge that his casual attire puts on him whenever I do is always welcome. I’m beginning to resent his suits, seeing them as a mask that he hides behind.

‘We match,’ I say, pulling up my boxers.

‘So we do.’ He approaches me and runs his fingers through my wet tendrils before bringing them to his nose and inhaling deeply.

‘I should call my grandmother,’ I say, closing my eyes and absorbing his closeness – his scent, his heat . . . his everything. ‘I don’t want her to worry.’

He releases me and arranges my hair, staring at me thoughtfully.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

‘Yes, I apologise.’ He shakes himself from his daydream. ‘I was just thinking how lovely you look in my clothes.’

‘They’re a bit big,’ I point out, glancing down at the material swamping me.

‘They’re perfect on you. Call your grandmother.’

Once I’m done checking in with Nan, my nape is taken lightly and I’m led over to the docking station where his iPhone is kept. He presses a few buttons before leading me from the kitchen without a word. The xx’s ‘Angels’ joins us, soft and hypnotising in the background, seeping quietly through the integrated speakers. We pass Miller’s bedroom and turn left, then he unlocks a door and pushes me gently into a large room.

‘Wow!’ I gasp, stumbling to a stop on the threshold. ‘Oh wow!’

‘Come in.’ He encourages me in and flicks a switch that floods the room with powerful artificial light. I shield my eyes, annoyed my view has been spoiled for a few seconds while my eyes readjust.

Once I’ve stopped squinting, I drop one hand, keeping his boxers up with the other, and stare in complete wonder at my surroundings. I’m in awe. I’m in heaven . . . I’m shocked.

I turn towards him and give him a confused look. ‘This is yours?’

He looks almost embarrassed when his shoulders jump up a little on a mild shrug. ‘This is my home, so I guess so.’

I slowly turn back to the source of my shock and start to take it all in. The walls are covered, they’re propped up on the floor, and they’re stacked on wire racking systems. There are dozens, possibly hundreds, and they are all of my beloved London, whether of architecture or landscapes.

‘You paint?’

He’s up against my back and resting his arms over my shoulders. ‘Do you think you could say something without it sounding like a question?’ He nips at my ear, which would usually make my breath falter, but I still haven’t caught it yet. This can’t be right.

‘You did all of these?’ I wave my arm in the general direction of the whole studio, casting my eyes around again.

‘Another question.’ He bites my cheek this time. ‘This was my habit before I found you.’

‘This isn’t a habit, this is a hobby.’ I look at the paintings on the wall again, thinking that such excellence couldn’t really be classed as a hobby. These belong in a gallery.

‘Well, now you’re my hobby.’

I have a moment of comprehension, and I’m suddenly on the move, breaking free from Miller’s hold and making my way out of his painting studio, heading for the lounge area until I’m standing before one of the oil canvases gracing his wall. This one is of the London Eye, blurred but clear. ‘You did this?’ I’m speaking in sodding questions again. ‘I’m sorry.’

He approaches from my left and stands next to me, observing his own creation. ‘I did.’

‘And that one?’ I point to the opposite wall, where London Bridge is holding court, still keeping the damn boxers up.

‘Yes,’ he confirms, and I’m on the move again, back to his studio. I walk further into the room this time, surrounding myself with Miller’s art.

There are five easels, all holding white canvases with partially finished works. The giant wooden table running the length of the side wall is cluttered with pots of brushes, paints in every colour on God’s earth, and photographs scattered everywhere, some pinned on cork boards among the art. An old squidgy sofa is sitting in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the glass so you can sit and admire the view across the city, which nearly matches the magnificence of the paintings around me. It’s a typical artist’s studio . . . and it completely defies everything that Miller Hart stands for.