“Only for me, yes?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes. It’s quite ironic. She’s not exactly easy unless I have my hands all over her. I collect the plates and water. “We’ll slum it on the sofa.” We head into the lounge and I let her settle, her legs tucked under her arse, the shirt riding up her thighs. Lord, those thighs. Wrapped around my waist. Feed her. I hand over her plate and relish in the deep inhale she takes as I find the remote for the TV and open the doors to reveal the gigantic flat-screen.

“Do you want to watch television, or would you prefer music and conversation?” I ask, watching her shoveling some noodles into her mouth. She freezes, and I smile as she swallows, ridding her mouth of the obstruction to speech.

“I’ll take music and conversation, please.”

Stupid me. I shouldn’t have asked. I should have put on the TV and settled down, not giving her the option to question me. Because that’s what’s going to happen. Questions. I look across to her, finding she’s back to shoveling food into her mouth, ravenous.

“Good?” I ask.

“Very. You don’t cook?”

“I don’t.”

She doesn’t even remove her fork to smile. “Why, Mr. Ward,” she coos, and I know something snarky is coming, “is that something you don’t do well?”

Yes, as well as being honest, apparently. “I can’t be amazing at everything,” I say mindlessly, gazing directly at her, hoping my pros outweigh my cons.

“Your housekeeper cooks for you?”

“If I ask her to, but most of the time I eat at The Manor.”

She nods, thoughtful, her mind evidently spinning. Here they come. The questions. “How old are you?”

I still, thinking, being presented yet again with the perfect opportunity to feed her curiosity. “Thirty,” I say quietly, tagging an “ish” on the end.

“Ish.”

“Yes.” I match her small smile. “Ish.”

She shakes her head mildly, only slightly exasperated, and goes back to eating, slowly working her way through the plate. My mind reels as I study her thoughtful state, wondering what’s running through that pretty head.

“Ava?”

She jumps, startled out of her daydreaming. “Yes?”

“Dreaming?”

“Sorry, I was miles away.” She sets her fork down, and I free her hands of the plate, putting it on the table with mine.

“You were. Where were you?” There’s way too much space between us, so I reach for her and drag her to my end of the couch, tucking her neatly into me.

“Nowhere,” she whispers, getting comfortable. Her weight on me feels somehow like a protective shield. We’re in our bubble again. And once again, I can’t comprehend the thought of popping it.

I sink my fingers into her hair and run them to the ends, twiddling with a glossy lock. “I love having you here.”