I go to the fridge and yank the door open, being immediately confronted with rows and rows of bottled water. Oh, what I would do for a glass of wine. I shut the fridge door with more force than it deserves - it's not the fridge's fault there's no wine in it. Will I ever have a drink again?
I sit myself on a barstool and gaze around the immense kitchen that I designed. I love it and never in a million years did I imagine I would have the opportunity to live here. Now I have, though, I'm really not sure about it. I love him, but I fear living with him will just encourage his controlling behaviour and challenging ways. Or would he be better? More reasonable?
My stomach does a little flip and a growl, reminding me that I should really get something to eat. I've only picked on a few biscuits today. It's no wonder I feel exhausted.
I'm just about to convince myself to lift my tired arse from the stool when I hear the front door open, and a few moments later, Jesse walks into the kitchen looking as wiped out as I feel. He doesn't say anything for the longest time. He just stands there and looks at me. I notice his hands shaking slightly and his brow looks damp. What should I do? My craving for a glass of wine diminishes instantly.
'Are you okay?' I ask.
He slowly walks over to me and stands me up. Reaching down, he clasps the hem of my dress and pulls it up to my waist and then grabs me under my bum and lifts me up to straddle his waist. He buries his face in my hair and walks us out of the kitchen. I can feel his heartbeat clattering against my chest as I hold onto him while he takes the stairs silently with me in his arms. I want to ask him what's wrong. I've got lots of things to ask him, but he seems so despondent.
He walks us to the bed and crawls on with me beneath him, settling on top of me with his weight spread all over my body. It's soothing. Locking my arms around him, I breathe into his neck and soak up his fresh water smell. I sigh contentedly. He might be a significant contributing factor to my stress and tiredness, but he makes it disappear just as quickly as he triggers it.
'Tell me how old you are.' I break the comfortable silence after I've held him until his hammering heart has returned to its usual, steady speed.
'Thirty two.' he says into my neck.
'Tell me.'
'Does it matter?' he asks tiredly.
It doesn't matter, but I want to know. He might like this game, but I don't and it's not going to make any difference to how I feel. I just think I should know. It is mandatory information, like his favourite colour, food or track - all of which I don't know. I know so little about him.
'No, but I would like it if you told me. I know none of your basic information.'
He nuzzles in my neck. 'You know I love you.'
I sigh. That's not basic information. I start to think about my introduction of a truth fuck into our relationship. Something has got to wheedle this small, insignificant piece of information out of him. I know my persistently asking him is having no satisfactory results.
'How was your day?' he asks, his voice muffled in my hair.
'Stupidly busy but very constructive.' I'm quite pleased with what I managed to get done, considering I thought my day would be a bombardment of calls and texts. 'And you need to stop sending flowers to my office.'
His head lifts and I'm greeted with a disgusted look. 'No. Have a bath with me.'
I roll my eyes at his stubbornness, but I could think of nothing better than having a bath with him at the moment. 'I'd love to.'
He pulls himself up so I have to release his neck, and he drops his lips to mine. 'You stay here, I'll sort the bath.' He jumps up and takes his jacket off as he goes to the bathroom.
I hear the water start running and I turn onto my side, feeling content and tranquil. He makes me feel like this and it's these times when I know why I'm here. It's how attentive, loving and tender he is. Perhaps living with him wouldn't be so bad after all. But