‘Still on Central Jesse Cloud Nine?’ he whispers in my ear, slipping his forearm around the tops of my shoulders and pulling me back to rest against his chest.

‘I am. Where are you?’

‘Me?’ he asks, kissing my cheek softly and sliding his palm onto my tummy. ‘Baby, I’m in paradise.’

I close my eyes on a contented smile and sink into his body, my hand finding his on my stomach, our fingers intertwining and feeling each other. Central Jesse Cloud Nine really is Paradise.

* * *

We spend the rest of the afternoon unpacking, taking delivery of groceries and Jesse gives me a guided tour, showing me the six en-suite bedrooms, all with doors leading to a different part of the veranda. The kitchen, which is white and modern, has wooden stained worktops and little touches like the suspended wooden grid with cast iron pans hanging over the cooking area to maintain the rustic feel of the villa. As an interior designer, I’m in awe. I couldn’t have done a better job myself. The bedrooms are all plain walled, but with sumptuous fabrics dressing the beds and billowing voile hanging at the windows. Sporadically placed canvases take the edge off the sparseness of the plain walls and all of the randomly placed rugs break up the vastness of the flagstone flooring that runs through the entire villa. This place features in Jesse’s history, I’m sure, but I don’t press it. He told me only that the renovations have been underway on and off for many years, so I gather he owns this place. But I didn’t have it confirmed.

Now we’re sat at the gigantic wooden table between the kitchen and the lounge space with a jug of ice water, and the questions are not prepared to stay in my brain for much longer. This place holds significance somewhere in Jesse’s life and my curious mind is struggling to hold back.

He watches me with a small smile as I lift my glass to my lips before he proceeds to quench his own thirst, still keeping his eyes on mine. I’m desperate to ask, and he knows it, but he’s making me suffer. Instead of volunteering the information that he knows I’m craving, he’s going to make me ask, and I promised myself that I would never push him for information on his history again. It doesn’t matter to me anymore, but its lack of importance clearly fails to prevent the inquisitiveness in me. I can’t help it.

I’m thankful when he speaks before me, preventing me from firing off a round of questions. ‘Would you like something to eat?’

I can’t prevent the surprised look from jumping onto my face. ‘Are you going to cook for me?’ There’s no Cathy here, and he knows I hate cooking.

‘I could’ve had staff, but I wanted you to myself.’ He grins that roguish grin. ‘I think you should look after your husband and fulfil your obligation as my wife.’

I cough a little at his arrogance. My obligation? ‘When you married me, you knew I hated cooking.’

‘And when you married me, you knew I couldn’t cook.’ he counters cockily.

‘But you have Cathy.’

‘In England I have Cathy to feed me, which is a good job as my wife doesn’t.’ He’s serious now. ‘In Spain I have my wife. And she’s going to make me something to eat. You did a good job with the chicken.’

He’s right, I did, but that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it, although I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t enjoy watching him eat it. I was looking after him for a change, and with that thought I’m oddly keen to prepare a meal for him. ‘Okay,’ I stand up. ‘I’ll fulfil my obligation.’

‘Oh good. It’s about time you did what you’re told.’ he says candidly, no smile, no humour. ‘Get to it, then.’

‘Don’t push it, Ward.’ I warn, leaving him at the table and making my way to the fridge. It doesn’t take me long to decide what to cook. I grab some peppers, chorizo sausage, rice and mushrooms, along with some lamb cutlets, and transport them to the worktop before locating a chopping board and a knife.

I set to work, halving the peppers and deseeding them, and then chopping the mushrooms and sausage finely and frying it all off. I boil the rice, chop some fresh bread and pan fry the lamb. And the whole time he sits and watches me busy myself, with no offer of help and no attempt to make conversation. He just quietly observes me fulfilling my obligation to feed him.

I’m halfway through stuffing the peppers, when he appears in front of me, leaning across the counter from the other side. ‘You’re doing a great job, lady.’

I pick my knife up and wield it at him. ‘Don’t patronise me.’ I’m shocked when his relaxed face flashes black and the knife is snatched from my hand.

‘Don’t fucking wave knives around, Ava!’

‘Sorry!’ I blurt, glancing at it in his hand and quickly appreciating my stupidity. It’s a nasty looking blade, and I’m brandishing it about like it’s a rhythmic gymnast’s ribbon. ‘I’m sorry.’ I repeat.

He places it down carefully and seems to gather himself. ‘It’s okay. Forget about it.’

I gesture towards the table for anything to do, other than apologise again. He doesn’t seem happy at all. ‘Do you want to lay the table?’

‘Sure,’ he says quietly, maybe thinking that he’s gone a bit over-the-top, I don’t know, but his withdrawn mood and my scorned state have formed a clear tension.

Jesse leaves me and quietly lays the table for two, while I finish preparing dinner.

‘Here,’ I slide his plate in front of him, but before I can pull my hand away, he grabs it and looks up at me with sorry eyes.

‘I over-reacted.’

I feel better already. ‘No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t be so careless.’

He smiles. ‘Sit,’ He pulls my chair out, but as soon as I’ve lowered myself, he stands. ‘We’re missing something.’ he informs me, striding off and leaving me wondering where he’s gone. It’s not long before he’s back, holding a candle in one hand and a remote control in the other. He finds some matches, lights the candle and places it in the centre of the table, then pushes a few buttons on the remote control, filling the villa with a distinct male voice. I recognise it immediately.

‘Mick Hucknell?’ I ask, a little surprised.

‘Or God. Either will do.’ He smiles as he takes his seat.

‘You’re willing to share your title?’ I ask, picking up my blunt knife and safe fork.

‘He’s worthy,’ he replies casually. ‘This looks good. Eat up.’

I acknowledge his nod at my plate with a small smile and carve my way through a piece of lamb, resisting the urge to brandish my knife again when Jesse leans over, looking at my meat. He’s checking how well it’s cooked. I help him out, turning my plate so he can see the centre of my lamb cutlet. He should be happy. I like my steak medium, but I love my lamb cooked thoroughly.

I stab a piece with my fork and bring it up to my lips. ‘May I?’ I ask, completely serious and with no hint of a smile on my face, which is good because I’m matching Jesse.

‘You may.’ he says, slicing through his own lamb and taking his first bite. He chews, nods and swallows. ‘You can cook, wife.’

‘I’ve never said I can’t. I just don’t like doing it.’

‘Not even for me?’

I flick him a look to gage his expression, and it’s as I feared. There is no humour and he’s not pouting at me playfully. I know where this is heading and whilst I do actually like cooking for him, I wouldn’t want to do it every day. ‘I don’t mind.’ I answer coolly.

‘I like you cooking for me,’ he muses. ‘It’s kind of normal.’

I pause and place my knife down. ‘Normal?’

‘Yes, normal. Like what normal married people do.’

‘Normal, like the wife cooks and the husband eats? That’s a bit chauvinistic.’ I laugh, but he doesn’t. He’s still concentrating on his careful cutting and eating. He wants normalcy? Then he should try being a bit normal himself. But do I want him to be normal? No, I don’t. He wouldn’t be Jesse if he was normal. We wouldn’t be us if he was normal. I take another bite of lamb to busy my mouth, instead of calling him a caveman. We’ll never be normal, not completely, and I hope we’re not.