“There is nothing weird about giving you this,” he says.

He forces a card into my hands, looking at me expectantly until I tear open the envelope. I open the card and, after a second, a huge bang sounds. I blink at the sight of multicoloured confetti twirling madly around our bedroom and mingling with the dozens of yellow balloons that are bobbing against the ceiling.

“Happy Birthday, Charlie Burroughs,” Misha shouts.

“Oh my God,” I breathe.

“No, but close,” he advises me. He has a rose tucked between his teeth, and he looks a bit like a pirate. I eye him consideringly—a naked pirate.

He removes the rose and throws it rather cavalierly over his shoulder. “None of those naughty looks from you,” he says. “You’ll have to resist the glory of my naked body for a little longer.”

“How much longer?”

He shrugs, reaching down by the bed and bringing up a tray laden with food. “As long as it takes to eat all this.”

“Bloody hell,” I breathe. The tray has a huge pile of assorted pastries on it, as well as a cafetière of coffee for him and a big mug containing my green tea.

“Don’t worry,” he says, setting the tray down before wriggling into bed and pulling the duvet over him. “I didn’t make any of it apart from the coffee and tea. The bakery down the road supplied the croissants.”

“That’s a huge relief,” I tell him and, ignoring the tray, I lean over and kiss him soundly. I add a bit of tongue for good measure and pull back. I’m gratified to see his eyes looking glazed over, as they always do when we’re close.

He cups my cheek in his palm. “Happy Birthday, darling,” he says, his eyes warm and so loving.

I smile at him and then turn and look at the tray. “You did all this for me? What a lovely birthday.”

“It’s just the start,” he scoffs, selecting an almond croissant and passing it to me, knowing it’s my favourite. “After this, we will have stupendous sex. And then it’s your birthday surprise from me.”

“Are we going round to my dads’ house later?”

He shakes his head. “We’ll go on Sunday when you will have more presents and a cake that luckily your mother hasn’t baked.”

“Thank the Lord,” I intone, and we cross ourselves and laugh.

“So, what are we doing today, then?” I ask, taking a bite of the croissant and groaning at the sweet buttery goodness. His eyes darken, and I smile at him.

“Minx,” he says affectionately. He helps himself to a pastry. “The rest of the weekend is taken up with my present.”

“Is it a day spent parachuting?”

He stares at me. “No. Why on earth would that be the first thing to spring to your mind?”