Eyes blazing, we stared each other down. Tension radiated off him in waves. Every muscle was drawn tight and ready to snap. He looked as though he was going to say something else, but then a shadow passed over his face. Resigned, he moved past me into the bedroom.

“Grace, look, I’m tired. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m going to bed.” He yanked the sheets down and got in. Shutting down and getting in.

“Wait. Wait a minute. We’re not done talking about this,” I insisted, following him and tugging on the covers.

He tugged them out of my hands and pulled them up, slumping down against the pillows. He rubbed his eyes, his hands dragging down across his face. “Christ, does everything have to be such a big fucking deal? I’m sorry I was late. I’m sorry I brought Adam. It will never happen again. Now I’m going to bed.” He sighed and turned off the light.

I stood there for a moment in the dark.

“Not kidding, Grace. I’m done talking about this.” His voice floated across to me.

Shaking, I walked away.

I grabbed a bottle of red wine and a glass, then headed out to the back porch and curled into the love seat. I filled the glass almost to the rim, covered up with a throw, and let the tears flow.

What was happening?

I sat in the quiet, looking up at the stars for at least an hour. Even though my mind was whirling, I felt almost numb. Things were so very off right now between us. I didn’t even know where to turn, what to think, whether to be upset or just concerned. Was I blowing this up out of proportion? There was no primer for this, no checklist of knowing when your celebrity boyfriend was going off the rails or just being a normal twenty-four-year-old guy.

A normal twenty-four-year-old guy who was chased by paparazzi on a regular basis and screamed at by adoring fans whenever he went out in public. A guy who couldn’t get ice cream with his girlfriend without it showing up on Twitter, and a guy who couldn’t have a bad night without TMZ questioning whether he was in the middle of a breakdown.

I sighed.

“I hate when you sigh,” a voice said from the porch. I looked over and could make out his silhouette, leaning in the doorway.

I smiled into the darkness. “It’s just deep breathing, really.”

He crossed the patio to sit next to me, taking my glass of wine and draining the rest. “I hate when I make you sigh. How about that?”

“Good thing you weren’t here when I was crying then,” I responded softly.

Now he was the one sighing. He moved his hands under the blanket, pulling my feet into his lap and kneading at my toes, rubbing my skin. I leaned down and flung the other half over him. He was in his skivvies after all, and it was chilly. With his hands anchoring me, I stretched out a bit, leaning back into the pillows and watching him thoughtfully.

“Can I apologize for real now?” he asked, looking at me.

I had my Jack back. I nodded.

“I’m so sorry for being an ass tonight. You were right to be pissed. And may I tell you again, for the record, you were amazing.”

“Thanks.”

“Seriously, Grace, I’m so proud of you. You killed it. It’s gonna be a huge success.”

“Well, we’ll see about that. Right now I’m not so worried about whether my show does well. I’m a little more focused on how well a certain Brit is doing.” I shifted a bit toward him to sweep my hand across his brow. He squeezed my foot.

“See, that’s the exact opposite of the thing I want you to be focused on right now. You should be enjoying this, focusing on you and everything you have going right now. Don’t worry about a prat like me. I’m fine.” He pulled me across the love seat and into his lap.

“I wish I could believe you, George.” I breathed into his neck as he clutched me close.

“I wish you could too,” he answered, lifting me and carrying me into the house.

He pressed countless kisses into my skin, shifting me in his arms so I could wrap my legs around his waist as he walked, feeling his strong body underneath and all around me. In between the thousand kisses, his lips told me how beautiful I looked tonight, how lovely, how he couldn’t believe I was his, how he didn’t deserve me. I tried to argue with him, but each time I tried to speak he planted another searing kiss on me, stopping my thoughts right in their track and funneling them into an entirely different thought process—one where we existed alone, just mouths and lips and arms and legs and tongues and all the time in the world.

His arms were tight around me, hands roaming, then settling on my bottom, pushing me where he wanted me most. I chuckled in spite of myself and didn’t let go of him when he placed me on the bed, my legs bringing him down to me.

“Something funny?” he asked, his fingers hurrying to unbutton my shirt. I answered with my mouth to his, kissing him deeply and letting my body tell him how much I needed him, wanted him, loved him.

“You’re the beautiful one, Jack.” I sighed, this time in a very different way than before. He stretched above me, all long limbs and bronzed skin. His eyes flashed green, even through the darkness. His fingers blazed a trail toward where my panties would be, if I were wearing any . . .

Finding me bare beneath brought forth a deep groan from him, and he ripped the last of my buttons through the buttonholes as he grew impatient.

“Dammit, you tore my shirt.”

“I’ll buy you another.” He grinned as my feet alone managed to push his boxers down and entirely off his legs. “Impressive.”

“You got that right,” I managed as he nudged against me with the part of him that never failed to intoxicate. Seconds later, he was inside.

“Christ, that feels good,” he breathed into my ear, then leaned back to rise up on his knees, digging his hands deep into my hips. I arched my back, throwing my head into the pillow, arms opened wide. He slowed his thrusts, tilting my hips up higher as he circled his own. Now he let one hand creep higher on my body, fingers teasing at my nipples, then pressing into my mouth as I kissed his hand.

“So beautiful,” he whispered as his hand now drifted lower, sweeping across my abdomen, dipping into my belly button, fluttering below. Kissing his own fingers, he returned them to me, where we were joined, where he now pushed into me agonizingly slowly. My entire body was taut, my hands tangled in my hair as he pressed into me. His fingers sought me, where I needed him, circling and twirling, rubbing slick and hot. I panted, bowing off the bed as he touched me, bringing me closer to the edge.

“Love to watch you come. Love to watch you come apart for me, for me,” he whispered as I writhed before him. He seated himself fully inside again, now speeding up his thrusts. “God, you should see yourself.” He groaned as I brought one of my hands down to tangle with his, guiding him as he rode me harder.

Tiny specks of light began to dance at the corners of my vision, and my body contracted, pulling him deeper, so deep into me as he held me open wide. I chanted his name over and over again as my orgasm raced through me.

“Mmm . . . that’s my girl.” He moaned, his eyes closing as I burst around him. He fell forward onto me, sweat slippery between us as he shook in my arms. “Love you, love you so much, Grace. I’m so sorry.” He murmured into my neck, his arms now tight as a band around me as he exploded. I scratched at his scalp and soothed him, hugging my legs around his back and keeping him inside as long as I could.

“I know, Jack. I know,” I whispered, kissing everywhere I could reach. Slipping out of me with a loss I desperately felt, he turned me onto my side so he could wrap his arms around me, tucking me into him, back to front, with his hands full of me.

I realized as he slipped toward sleep that we had avoided once again discussing what had happened tonight, and that at some point we were going to take this to the woodshed. But it wasn’t tonight.