“Obviously I’m not keeping anyone out.” I look him up and down, then turn to unlock my door. The shiny new deadbolt sounds. I push the door open, ready to ask him if he’s ever heard of boundaries, but the words die on my lips when I step inside.
“What the… how long were you here?” I ask, entering my now very,veryclean house.
I set my bag down and look around. Sean picks it up and puts it on a hook by the door, making sure it’s hanging straight.
The whole place smells like cinnamon and orange. My back door opens into the kitchen, and I can see the living room from where I’m standing. The blinds are slightly parted, giving me a view straight onto the tree-lined road in front of the house. The air is cool and everything is organized. My mail is even in a little basket on my counter, and there’s a bowl full of fresh apples in the middle of the butcher block island.
I turn to face him.
“Did you use my homemadecleaner?” I ask him in disbelief as my voice rises an octave. Panic mixes with this warm feeling that overcomes me, knowing he was here cleaning. It doesn’t even bother me that he was here without me. I realize it’s because he wanted to take care of me, and no one else has done that since my mom.
“I did.” Sean nods and takes off his cut as he follows me in, hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair as I kick off my sandals. The thick, shag area rug in my living room even has straight, uniform vacuum marks across it. I’m not a messy person, but I just don’t have the time to deep-clean my house, so this is just … on another level.
“You said the other day you don’t have time to clean, but I do.” And apparently, he doesn’t know when to stop, because this place is absolutely spotless.
“I don’t know what to say,” I reply, stunned.
“Say thank you,” he answers simply.
I close my mouth and blink, still in shock. “Thank you.” I look back at him, realizing he must be getting to me if I feel like I owe him a thank you for this very unhinged, stalker-like, yet somehow sweet gesture.
I turn and run my hand along the shining counter. Everything is folded neat and straight.Perfect.
Sean nods toward the fridge. I follow his gaze because, as astonished as I am, I know I have to eat in order to get to the clinic on time. I narrow my eyes. More shock follows as I open my fridge, finding it’s also been cleaned and restocked.
“You made food?” I ask as I pull out the glass container that’s resting on the top shelf. That same sense of panic washes over me, but I do my best to push it away as I head to the cupboard for a plate. I pause, because my plates are no longer there. The cupboard is filled with drinking glasses and coffee mugs. I turn to face him, a hand on my hip.
He doesn’t look even the slightest bit apologetic for rearranging my kitchen.
“It made no sense to keep your plates there. Plates should be on the other side; glasses should be closest to the sink.”
I pull a glass down and fill it with water from the tap.
“This all goes way beyond boss–employee relations you know,” I comment before I take a sip.
“Every boss–employee relationship is different, Layla.” He leans on the counter, his brow furrowed.
I just shake my head and open the container. It’s so pretty I don’t even want to dump it out onto a plate. It’s deep green leaves of romaine with tiny tomatoes, evenly sliced avocado and bocconcini cheese. The chicken is grilled and sliced perfectly, lying neat and evenly spaced across the top.
I look up at him and wonder if he knows the depths of the compulsive tendencies that I’m beginning to notice in him. I recognize them in so many ways because my mother had them. A product of always trying to control her environment. As if everything being perfect would prevent my father from blowing up or nagging at her. I imagine that, after serving overseas and the things he’s seen during his life, Sean has these tendencies for very similar reasons.
“I’m supposed to be planning your diet, not the other way around, you know. You have a problem giving up control?”
He stands to his full height. As he comes closer, it seems obvious that it’s impossible for him to be still for long. My stomach turns queasy with the feeling of someone taking care of me. I’m just not used to it, and it scares me more than anything else. If I ever got used to it and then it was gone …
“No, little dove, I have no problem letting you take control, but you have a problem letting people help you.” His slow, easy tone strikes a chord deep within me. It settles me, calms me.
“Are my forks still in the same place?” I ask with an eyebrow raised, moving toward the usual drawer.
“Yes,” he says evenly. “Because where they were made sense.”
“I’m glad you approve.” I can’t help it. I smile at him, pull a fork out and take a bite of the salad. It’s really fucking good. Of course.
“Did you make this dressing?” It’s honey mustard and it’s delicious.
“Yes,” he answers quickly. “The shit you buy from the store is garbage.”
I lean back against the counter and watch him as he retreats to take a seat at my kitchen table. He’s relaxed here, one arm leaning on the table and his legs spread, the other arm resting on his thigh. His black t-shirt clings to all the right places on his upper body, yet it’s obvious he never tries to be hot; he justis.Every look he gives me with those intense green eyes exudes raw temptation and certainty. He looks entirely too large for this space, and after doing these unexpected, crazy things for me—things I’d never have expected him to be capable of when I first laid eyes on him—he looks way too enticing.
