“You are not sleeping there,” I demand. “Go home.”

He rolls over onto his back.

“No.” I nudge him with my foot. “I am not scratching your belly. What the fuck do you think this is?”

He rolls over again and crawls toward me.

“Don’t even try that crap. We are not friends. Go home.”

He looks up at me, perplexed.

“The concrete is hard, you fucking idiot. Go home to your bed.”

He barks.

Ugh, I hate this dumb dog.

Juliet

I walk through my house, straight to the back door, and I open it and look out into the backyard.

Silence.

Barry is usually waiting at the back door for me after he hears my car arrive home.

Hmm. He must be asleep. I close the door and walk back into the house. I turn the television on and put some bread in the toaster. I look out into the yard through my kitchen window. It is weird he hasn’t come to see me.

I’ll just check if he’s okay.

I walk out into the yard. And using the flashlight on my phone, I walk to his doghouse. It’s empty.

“Barry,” I call softly.

Silence.

Fuck. I begin to get a little panicked. “Barry,” I call again.

I hear a soft bang, bang, bang coming from over the fence . . . his signature tail wag.

I look along the fence and see a new hole that he must’ve dug.

Shit, he’s in Henley’s yard.

If he’s destroyed it again, I swear to god, I’m going to kill him.

I walk out the side gate and duck around the fence. I let myself into Henley’s backyard. His house is all in darkness. It is after midnight, after all.

I don’t want Henley to wake up, so I tiptoe around to the backyard, and I hear Barry’s tail thumping on the veranda. “Shh,” I whisper. I shine the flashlight up to him and see him sitting on a makeshift bed.

“What the?” I walk up onto the veranda and shine the flashlight down; three pillows have been covered in a blanket.

Henley made him a bed.

I then notice a bowl of water set beside him.

I smile goofily and look up at Henley’s bedroom window.

I feel like I know a secret, that I’m about to uncover a huge diamond stash that has been buried deep for years. Something valuable and precious. Priceless to its owner.

Henley James isn’t a tyrant at all. It’s his defense mechanism.

The man with the perfect dick may just also have the perfect heart . . .

I’ve just got to work out how to get him to show it to me.

I pour the first of the white paint into the roller tray.

Today’s the day. I’m starting to paint my house, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited for something. I bought the equipment I need and washed all the walls. I’ve taped all the windows and baseboards, and I’m ready to rock. I’m starting in the foyer hall; I roll up and I roll down.

Ugh, the paint is strong smelling. I open the front door to let the fresh air in and continue on my merry way.

An hour later, “Hey there, you” sounds from the porch.

I look up to see Mason standing at my front door. “Mason.” I smile awkwardly.

“I came to visit, but looks like now I’m painting,” he replies.

“Oh no.” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Thanks anyway, though.”

“I insist. I’m ducking home and changing clothes, and then I’m coming back to help you.”

“No, you can’t,” I blurt out.

Like really, you can’t. I’m trying to win Henley’s trust. Having you in my house will only make him pull away from me.

“See you in five minutes.” He smiles before jogging home.

Fuck’s sake.

This street is like the fucking Brady Bunch. Why is everyone so damn helpful?

Henley is going to come home and see him here and then ghost me again.

Ugh . . .

What do I do now?

I’ll text Henley.

Help!

Mason just showed up here to help me paint.

I wait for his reply.

Tell him to fuck off.

I smile. Good answer.

I can’t. He’s being helpful and nice.

I see the dots bouncing.

My foot up his ass will also be helpful and nice.

I giggle and reply.

I didn’t realize you had a foot fetish.

I wait for a reply, but one doesn’t come.

Okay, at least he knows why Mason is here now. I feel better about it, having told him. I get back to painting, and just like he promised, Mason comes back. He’s wearing shorts only: biceps and abs for days.

What the hell? He’s cut like the Hulk. All that special-ops training sure pays off.

“Couldn’t find an old T-shirt, so I guess it’s skin.” He throws me a sexy wink.

Nice.

I’ve got to give it to him, that’s pretty smooth.

“Well then”—I smile as I go back to painting—“skin works for me.”

“Skin always works for me too,” he says. “Maybe you should paint in your underwear?”

I giggle. “Oh, you’d like that?” I tease.

“I would, actually.”

You are never seeing me naked; I look like a jellyfish compared to you.

“White, eh?” Mason says as he pours some paint into his paint tray.

“Yeah, I am trying to make it all fresh and classic,” I reply.

“I love this old house.”

“Me too. So tell me about your work,” I ask him as I paint.

“I’m a Navy SEAL.”

“Have you always wanted to do that?”

“Pretty much. I loved scuba diving and the ocean when I was young, appreciated discipline, and loved to train hard.”

I can see that.

“Those things kind of went together,” he adds.

My phone beeps a text. It’s from Henley.

What’s happening?

I smirk and take a photo of Mason painting in his shorts, muscles on display. I send it to Henley.

Painting.