I sit and watch him for a moment as he lines all the ingredients up and then lays out all the cooking utensils. Everything is done in a specific order. He’s so methodical in the way he does things, the ultimate control freak. “I’m going to get the washing off the line,” I say.

He flicks the tea towel over his shoulder as he concentrates on the task at hand. “Okay.”

I walk out to my backyard and break into a huge goofy grin. The hottest man on earth is in my kitchen cooking dinner for me.

How is this real?

I take my time and get my washing off the line, and then I water my backyard. I keep glancing in through my kitchen window to Henley as he putters around, just to make sure that I’m not dreaming right now.

Nope, he’s still there.

This is really happening . . . aah!

Eventually I carry the huge-ass washing basket inside, and the scent of garlic and herbs fills the house. “Oh, that smells good.” I dump the washing basket onto the floor.

Henley glances up at it and then goes back to chopping vegetables.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask as I flick the kettle on.

Henley glances back at the basket of washing. “No thanks.”

“What about a glass of wine?”

“No.” His eyes go back to the basket of washing. “What’s happening over there?”

“What do you mean?”

“The washing. Why is it on the floor?”

“I just got it off the line.”

“And?” He widens his eyes. “What are you going to do with it now?”

“Oh . . .” I pick up the basket of washing and carry it into the living room and tip it upside down and dump it on the couch.

His face falls in horror. “You did not just do that.”

“Do what?” I frown.

“You don’t . . .” He shakes his head as if he’s about to explode.

“You don’t what?”

“You don’t dump the washing on the fucking couch, Juliet,” he blurts out in a rush.

I look around and shrug. “I do.”

“Oh my god.” He washes his hands and marches out into the living room in exasperation. He begins to fold the washing at double speed.

“What are you doing?” I frown.

“Folding your fucking washing. What does it look like?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s triggering me. How it is not triggering you is the question.” He folds a T-shirt and puts it onto the couch. He folds another shirt and puts it on top of the other. “You never told me you were messy,” he huffs. “I don’t do messy, Juliet.”

“Washing on the couch is hardly messy, Hen.”

“I beg to differ.” He flicks a pair of jeans as he folds them. “What happens if we want to sit on that couch?”

“Then we throw it onto the floor.” I shrug.

He closes his eyes and holds his hand up. “Stop talking.” He picks up a pair of my panties and holds them up. They are full brief beige granny panties. “What in god’s name are these?”

I get the giggles at his horrified face. “What does it look like?”

He marches out into the kitchen and puts the panties in Barry’s bowl. “You have permission to eat these,” he tells him. “Rip the fuckers to shreds.”

Barry turns his head to the side in confusion.

Henley rolls his eyes. “Dumb dog.” He marches back out to the living room. “I have to do everything around here—cook the dinner, fold your washing, and supply all the orgasms?”

I smile over at my beautiful grumpy man. “It works for me.”

“What do I get for doing all of this?” He flicks a T-shirt before he folds it.

“Me.”

His eyes rise to meet mine.

“You get me, Hen. All of me.”

A trace of a smile crosses his face. “Well . . . all right, then.”

He goes back to folding, and I walk over and wrap my arms around him from behind. “You’re so adorable, do you know that?”

He keeps folding my washing. “Don’t patronize me, Juliet.”

“I’ll fold the washing. You go and finish dinner,” I tell him.

“You’re going to put it away too?”

“Will that make you feel better?”

He nods.

I smile and kiss him softly. “Okay, I can do that.”

He exhales heavily. “I just . . .”

“I know, baby. It’s okay,” I tell him. “You just tell me what you need to feel comfortable, and I can do it.”

He nods as he realizes that he has just shown me a piece of his personality that he normally keeps hidden.

Another piece of the Henley James puzzle fits into place.

My man has OCD.

Four hours later . . .

“This show is shit,” Henley huffs.

“Everyone says it takes until episode three before you get into it.”

He exhales heavily.

After the most delicious dinner in history, we are in bed and watching episode one of Game of Thrones. Henley is on his side behind me. His naked body is snuggled up against mine; his erection is growing by the minute. “We should fuck,” he whispers in my ear before grazing it with his teeth. Goose bumps scatter up my arms.

“We just had sex for an hour in the shower,” I mutter dryly. “You could not need more.”

The man is an animal.

“I can never get enough of you.” He bites my earlobe once more. “Being inside of you is my favorite place to be.”

I smile. “It’s a personal favorite of mine too.”

His big hand kneads my breast, and my phone beeps as a message comes through.

“Who is messaging me this late?” I frown. It beeps again as another message comes through.

My phone is on his side on the bedside table. “Something must be wrong. Can you pass me my phone, please?”

He reaches over and grabs my phone, and as he stares at the screen his jaw tics in anger. His furious eyes rise to meet mine. “Why the fuck is Joel messaging you at ten p.m. on a Sunday night?”

Chapter 16

“What?” I sit up in a rush. “What do you mean?” I hold my hand out for my phone, and he slaps it into my hand and gets out of bed in a rush.

I read the message.

Hi Juliet.

Can we catch up tomorrow?

I frown.

“What does it say?” Henley snaps.

“Umm . . .” I roll my lips, unsure how to answer.

“Well?”

“He wants to catch up tomorrow.”

“The only thing he is going to be catching up with is my fist.”

“About my house, Henley. This is work related.”

“Bull fucking shit,” he snaps. “It’s ten p.m. He is hoping that you and he start chatting now in some kind of little Sunday-night sexting session.”

I roll my eyes and return to concentrating on my show.

He begins to pace with his hands on his hips. “His plan is all becoming clear now.”

“Will you get into bed?” I snap, annoyed. “I am not texting him back. He will get the message loud and clear that this is inappropriate behavior.”

“Has he texted you before at night?”

“Yes. But it’s been work related, just like this time is. It’s completely innocent.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Ugh, Henley stop. It’s Sunday night. We are supposed to be in relax mode.” I drag my hand down my face. “Get back into bed.”

He continues to pace.

“What are you worried about?”

He stays silent as he paces, and I know that he’s trying to hold his tongue.

“Henley, you have me.”

His eyes rise to meet mine.

“Nobody is going to steal me. I am yours.”

“For how long?”