I wake when the blinds pull back from the window and the room fills with early morning sunshine. I stretch out in the warm sheets, and memory slowly returns as my muscles protest at the movement. Smiling, I reach out across the bed, but there’s nobody there, and the sheets are cold to my touch. My eyes fly open, and I scowl at the empty stretch of bed. Where the fuck did Laurie go?

I look around the bedroom, but there’s no sign of him. I’m alone in the pristine environment of my bedroom and a shocking feeling of anger stirs inside me. He went without saying goodbye.

I’m being ridiculous. I don’t like men staying in my bed overnight. They make the bed hot and the room messy.

So why am I so cross? Not just cross—I’m furious. Laurie left me with no word of goodbye, creeping out of my flat like a thief while I was asleep. Worse, I’m remembering how I’d asked him to stay, curling around him, urging him to remain in my bed.

I groan and scrub my hands through my hair, telling myself to calm down. It doesn’t work.

I stalk through the flat a few minutes later, unshaven, barefoot, and dressed in just my shorts.

“Mr Carlsen,” my housekeeper gasps. “Are you alright? Are you ill?”

“I’m fine, Mrs Sinclair,” I call as I reach the front door. “I just have a small errand to do before I have breakfast.”

“But Mr Carlsen, you’ve forgotten your shoes.”

Her scandalised voice fades away as the door closes behind me. I march to Laurie’s flat and bang on the door. I wait a few seconds and then bang again. After hearing the familiar faltering footsteps, I knock three more times for good measure.

“Okay, hold your horses,” he grumbles. The door flies open, and he appears. The cross look on his face melts quickly away to shock. “Mags,” he says. He looks me up and down, and his lip twitches at my attire. “Oh, poor you. The dress code for court is so stuffy.”

I consider trading witty quips and immediately discount it in favour of action. I grab his face, cupping his jaw in my palms.

“What the—” His question becomes a groan as I kiss him.

That sultry sound is like a match dropped in a bucket of petrol. I shove him back against the door, plundering his mouth with furious kisses. All the tension leaves his frame, and he melts against me, his hands in my hair, pulling and tugging, as he sucks on my tongue.

I pull back, our mingled breaths coming hot and fast. “You left,” I say.

He hesitates. “I did. I needed to paint.”

I relax slightly, and his gaze slants away from mine. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”