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I walk back out into the hallway and can hear him still deep in conversation, and I glance up the stairs. I’ve never even seen his bedroom. We are always at my house. I glance back down to his office, and then I sneak up the stairs.

The hallway is grand. Beautiful artwork hangs on the walls, and a marble side table sits at the top of the stairs with a vase of white lilies.

I feel a little deflated. Everything is so luxurious and perfect. What must he think of my disheveled home? I walk past a few guest bedrooms and a white marble bathroom, and then I get to the end of the hall: his bedroom.

It’s huge and grand, with a four-poster bed. The carpet is navy blue, and the walls are a beautiful shade of taupe. Styled to perfection, and not a detail out of place.

An abstract painting of a naked woman in beautiful hues of blue and mauve is hanging above the bed.

“God . . . ,” I whisper to myself as I look around. He is really slumming it at my dumpy house. I walk to his wardrobe and pause as I hold the door handle. I’m almost too scared to look, but I do anyway. I open the door and am surprised by the huge space of his walk-in wardrobe. It’s another room.

Expensive tailored suits are all lined up and hanging, shoes all polished and in pairs. I pull out the top drawer and see ties all rolled up and on display. This is like a fucking Prada store or something. I pull out the second drawer to find a display of expensive designer watches. Insecurity runs through me, and I slam the drawer shut in disgust.

I walk back out into his bedroom and sit nervously on his bed.

It’s a king size, with perfectly ironed white linen that has a navy stitching line about ten centimeters in from the edges. The only place I’ve ever seen this type of bed linen is in exotic house magazines.

I sit quietly on the bed as I look around his luxurious space. His bedside tables have neatly stacked novels and a crystal lamp on each side. Perfectly matched, like everything in Henley’s world.

What on earth do we have in common?

A sense of dread fills me. Even if we do work out . . . how long will it be for? He belongs with someone as perfect as him, not a hot mess like me who has dog fur on everything she owns.

“There you are,” his deep voice says from the doorway.

I force a smile. “Here I am.”

He leans onto the doorjamb. “What’s up?”

No kiss?

“Umm . . .” I pause as I try to get the wording right in my head. “Taryn just came over.”

“And?” He raises his eyebrow as if impatient.

“She thinks we have a double date with them tonight?”

He breaks into a breathtaking smile. “Well . . . kind of.”

“What do you mean, kind of?”

“They have been on my case, and I . . .” He shrugs.

“You what?” I snap.

“I thought tonight was a good opportunity to put it to bed and out of the way.”

“What happened to our date? I want you to myself. I don’t want to go out with Mason, and you are definitely not going out with fucking Taryn.”

“Relax.” He rolls his eyes and walks into his bathroom. “Blake and Antony are coming, too, with their girls.” He turns the shower on. “It’s a group thing. It’s no big deal.”

“Taryn thinks it’s a big deal, Henley,” I snap.

He drops his shorts and hops under the water. I’m instantly silenced by his beauty. He wets his hair and then begins to wash it.

“What happens if Mason makes a move on me?” I ask.

He smiles with his eyes closed. “Then I guess you handle it.”

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