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“Oh my god, will you relax about the stupid recipe, just chuck shit in.”
He inhales sharply as if frustrated. “I do not just chuck shit in, and for the record, this is probably why your cooking is ordinary.” He glances over toward the door. “What are you doing?” he growls. “Do not eat that.”
I turn to see Barry carrying his shoe around in his mouth. “Barry.”
Barry looks up at us, completely clueless, and Henley walks over and takes his shoe off him. “This is not food.” He walks into the kitchen and begins to get things ready. “Fuck’s sake, dog, you’re a liability.”
“He’s hungry too. Can you cook some extra for him?”
“Hard no.” He fakes a smile and then drops his face.
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.”
