Me
I like it when you call me Professor.
Mia
Not as much as when I call you Henry.
Me
I like that too.
Are you coming up for pizza or what? I don’t know if I’ll like it cold.
Mia
You don’t know?
Me
I’ve never tried cold pizza. Even hot pizza has been a while. I already told you this.
Mia
Okay, fine. I’ll come up on one condition.
Me
Let’s hear it.
Mia
You tell me what your thing with pizza is, and you make me come two more times. Deal?
I find myself grinning as I read her response.
I type my own.
Me
If you insist.
I’ve never done this. Been this stupid. Let my body call the shots when my mind is screaming at me to tell her I’m different. Let her know I’m interested in more than her body. Despite my own baggage. Despite my ex cheating on me. I’m interested in Mia. Every inch of her. Even her stubborn side.
37
MIA
“So what’s the deal with you and pizza?” I ask, then take another bite of pepperoni goodness. A string of cheese stretches from my teeth to the crispy crust, and I pinch it between my fingers and lick the excess grease off.
Chuckling, Henry watches me, taking a bite of his own slice. His strong jaw flexes as he chews and offers a shrug. “Honestly, it’s a pretty boring answer. My mom hates pizza, so we grew up eating other foods.”
“So, it isn’t one of your things?” I ask.
His brow arches.
“Ya know, like the showers, and the germs, and the––”
“Thought you said you weren’t going to pry,” he challenges.
“That was before your ex dropped by and pissed me off.”
His amusement falls, and he sets his pizza back onto his plate, wiping the grease from his fingers on a perfectly-squared napkin. “I’m sorry she showed up unannounced.”
“Does she do it a lot?” I ask. My eyes drop to my dinner. “Show up unannounced?”
“Only one other time.”
“Oh?”
“The morning you were locked out of your apartment,” he clarifies. “It’s probably why I was a little on edge. I’m sorry if I took it out on you.”
“You didn’t,” I reply.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, of course,” I deflect, bunching my napkin up and rolling the edge between my fingers as my curiosity gets the best of me. “Do you miss her at all?”
“Not in the slightest.” My gaze snaps up to his, and he adds, “She was simply convenient.”
“Don’t all guys like convenient?”
“I wouldn’t know. I can’t speak for all guys.”
“Do you like convenient?” I push.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I thought I did.”
“Thought?”
“I must say, I think I have a thing for brats.”
I snort. “Speaking of things…if pizza isn’t one of them, what are some of your others?”
He looks down at his half-eaten slice and lifts it to his mouth. “Who said I have things?”
“Do you really think you’re that sneaky?” I volley back at him because, seriously. The guy might hide it well from most people, but anyone who pays attention and is around Henry for more than a day or two would have to notice his quirks.
Wouldn’t they?
“I like routines,” he offers.
“And?”
“And I like my personal space. I like order. I like cleanliness.”
“Kate’s boyfriend likes cleanliness too. Macklin,” I clarify.
“Yeah, I know. It’s one of the reasons why we get along,” Henry informs me. He hired Macklin to work with the physical therapists, sports medicine doctor, and emergency crew to make sure the players are well cared for.
“But as far as I know, Macklin doesn’t have OCD,” I continue.
The bite of pizza he’d been about to eat halts an inch from his mouth. “You caught that, huh?”
I nod. “It was just a hunch.”
“My disorder is mild overall.”
“But you keep it close to the chest,” I conclude.
“I do, yes.”
“Have you always had it?” I prod.
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve always obsessed over success and grades and having a clean space, but it didn’t alter my day-to-day life until after everything happened with your father and Troy was arrested.”
Surprise flickers in my gaze at the mention of Henry’s catalyst, the pizza in my mouth turning to sawdust. I force it down my throat and take a sip of the beer I’d stolen from his fridge. “Why not?”
“My therapist thinks it’s because it was the first time I felt like something was truly out of my control.”
It makes sense. My father’s death sent a lot of people spiraling. My aunt. My mom. Me. And, apparently, Henry too.
“You see a therapist for your condition?” I ask.
His brow cocks. “You’re surprised?”
I shrug and take another bite of pizza, chewing slowly as I consider his question. Am I surprised? Maybe a little. It’s not every day big, bad alpha men see therapists for their mental health. Knowing he does only makes me more attracted to him.
Which is a problem. His pros are slowly adding up, making it harder for me to keep our rules in place.
Sticking a pin in that particular predicament, I swallow my bite of pizza and say, “I guess I always assumed you had the perfect life. Hiring a therapist proves you see your quirks as something worth addressing––worth fixing––instead of ignoring them like most people would.”
“When it started affecting other relationships, I decided it was time to find a solution.”
“And have you found a solution?”
“There isn’t a solution. Or at least nothing concrete. I’ve been seeing my therapist off and on for over five years. I learned a handful of techniques to battle my triggers with OCD, but there are still certain quirks I adjusted for.”
“Like not having your clothes anywhere near the bathroom.”
“Yes.”
“Why is it a trigger?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It makes me feel like I’m suffocating. Like something bad is going to happen.”
“Even when you’re naked, and your clothes are sitting on the bathroom counter?”
He hesitates, his body turning rigid. After a few seconds, he lets out a slow breath, and forces the tension in his muscles to soften. “The thought alone is nauseating.”