We’re going to the Hamptons this weekend. Barrett informed me of this over a mostly silent dinner on Sunday evening, where he skimmed through work emails on his phone between bites until I requested that he not have his phone at the table. He told me that was what he usually did before I was his house guest, and I retaliated by adding a no phone at meals rule to my list. Barrett’s hazel eyes challenged mine before he simply stood up and set his phone on the counter before returning to his seat.

Fifty-one percent of the reason I added it was because I hate when people have their phones at the table while eating a meal, forty-nine percent of the reason was to spite Barrett.

It backfired because then we just sat in silence. I forgot who I’m dealing with. He’s a robot with an off switch. This week there have been no signs of the edgy, dare I say expressive Barrett from Saturday night. He’s got that guy under lock and key.

Not that I’ve seen him that much. He’s up early and off to work before I come downstairs, and I’ve been walking to work with the weather being so nice in the mornings.

I have yet to crack the code on the whole ladder thing. He was mad before I went into his study, but me being on the ladder only served to anger him more. In the moment I liked it, I thought it was a game, but there was something in his face that made me realize it was more than him being annoyed that I danced with another guy or cost him a chance to talk with Fred. Like it made him feel out of control.

But that kiss?

If that was my punishment, I’ll take another.

We’ve said zero words about the kiss, but there have been many heated glares and awkward fingers fumbling to pass the pepper. Barrett more of the glares and me the fumbling fingers. Barrett’s fingers have no problem gripping pepper shakers.

We’ve yet to acknowledge that his hands were under my dress with my back pressed up against a bookcase. Those long, firm fingers sliding up the inside of my thigh. I still wonder what would have happened if he didn’t answer his phone. I think about it daily. In my bed. In the bathtub. Even once in Barrett’s study when I knew he was working late. I’ve really given it a lot of thought. More than I should.

Yesterday morning, I banged my toe on the sofa by my bed and when I went to the freezer to get some ice, I found one of the shelves stocked full of cookie dough ice cream. I asked Rose about it. She was cleaning the third-floor bathroom and informed me it had been put on the grocery list.