He cleaned the condo while I dozed, and when I was awake never once left me alone. Underneath that moody and hard exterior was a kind and gentle man. I tried not to get too used to this new and improved Tudor, especially the familiar warm feeling of having him with me constantly. It'd hurt too much when he left.

It was obvious that he had personal problems, or at least something was happening in his life to cause him worry, and he called his mother several times a day. He had finally told Pamela where he was and why, and even admitted that we had seen each other a few times through Tink and Tate’s courtship. It still frustrated me as to why he could never just say we were friends on our own accord. But I didn’t question him about it. I didn’t want to hear the answer.

After spending Thursday and Friday in living hell, I woke up early on Saturday morning with the bright winter sun peeking through my curtains. I stretched, and for the first time in many hours I felt good. I tested each muscle with tiny non-jerky movements, and there was no pain. I gently moved to sit up, waiting for the nausea to hit, and to my delight it never came. I rolled my shoulders and clapped my hands silently in glee. I was turning over to tell Tudor the good news when I heard soft rhythmic breathing coming from next to me. There he was, fast asleep, looking all tousled and sexy, still fully dressed, his arms tucked under the pillow, snoring lightly through slightly pouted lips – my hulking guardian angel. He had done so much for me in the last couple of days, and our turbulent relationship seemed to be improving with each passing hour, so I probably owed him a lie-in.

In celebration of my dormant hormones, I decided that I would treat myself to a shower. An entire tub of brown sugar body scrub later, I dressed and scurried into Tink’s room to style my hair and apply my much-missed shovel of make-up. I looked into the mirror and grinned; my locks were once again shiny and smooth, flowing down my back with a gentle curl at the ends, and my trusty Mac make-up collection had replenished my lackluster pallor. I had put on my red-tartan wool shorts with black tights and a black, fitted long-sleeved top that accentuated my figure, and I felt bloomin’ great.

I made my way to the kitchen and began to make a proper English fry-up in honour of feeling healthy and as a big food-based thank you to Mr. Hollywood – not ‘The Blade Reaper’ but ‘The Domesticator’! I opened the kitchen blinds, letting sunshine flood into the front room, flicked the stereo onto a country radio station and set to cooking bacon and eggs to the soothing tones of Miranda Lambert and Lady Antebellum.

As I was plating up the delicious morning feast, I heard a commotion coming from my bedroom. I turned my head to hear better, when Tudor came barrelling into the kitchen shouting my name and halting on the spot when he found me at the cooker, spatula in hand and dolled up in my novelty apron depicting Botticelli's, 'The Birth of Venus' in all her naked glory.

“Tash? What are you doing out of bed?” he yelled.

I smiled and shook my head. “Good morning to you, too! And for your information, Mr. North, I am feeling one hundred percent better,” I twirled around and gave an enthusiastic grapevine step, showcasing my resurrected kinetic abilities.

He began walking towards me, and with each step his lips lifted into a joyful smile, his t-shirt and jeans all rumpled from slumber, but still managing to look like a Calvin Klein model. When he reached the kitchen island, he glanced down and spotted the calorific feast. “What's all this?”

“This, my good friend, is a celebration of my cracking hormone stability and your stellar care-giving skills. I hope you’re not watching your figure, Hollywood, as this may seriously add a few pounds!”

He moved back from the island, a cheeky, shit-eating grin on his face and lifted his tight white tee to his chest, displaying his ripped abs and swirling black tattoo. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay just this once, what do you think?” he said with a c**k of his head.

Holy f**k! What do I think? Sheesh! I want to scrap the fry-up and nibble down on every tasty morsel of that muscle-laden smorgasbord! That’s not a six pack, that’s a friggin’ brewery, and this girl’s game for a piss up!

I tried to focus and picked up the spatula that I had dropped at the impromptu brawn peep-show, and managed to mumble, “Erm…yeah I think you’ll be okay just this once.”

I was blushing furiously, my face – and other unmentionable places – on fire!

Tudor smirked and let his T-shirt drop, knowing full well what he had just done to me. I very nearly pole-vaulted the breakfast bar to stop the material from falling back into place, but I thought it might look a bit too eager, and I wasn’t confident that the wooden spoon in the pan of baked beans would give me enough spring action to clear the necessary height.




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