Henry had a list of everything that needed preparing and, according to prep and cooking time, which order things needed to be done in. I understood this. This wasn’t just one of his usual let’s-cook-for-a-dinner-party type things. This was a military-grade, tactical response effort that involved precision, critical timing, and analytical thinking. That was just from Henry. All I had to do was follow his instructions.

I’d joked with Emily that Henry was going to be in a fluster and when my phone beeped with a message from her, it cracked me up.

#PrayForReed

The truth was, Emily adored Henry, and thought he was the funniest guy on the planet. And they ribbed each other constantly.

“What’s so funny?” Henry asked, scoring the ham with surgical precision.

“Oh, nothing,” I replied, and was saved by my stomach rumbling loudly.

“Okay, okay,” he answered. He quite often spoke to my stomach. “Give me one second.” He grabbed an apple, sliced it, added some cheese and blueberries to a plate and handed it to me.

He knew me well enough now, and had done for some time, to know I needed regular feeding. And I wasn’t useless, I could get my own. But Henry really was at his happiest when he was feeding someone. And to put it mildly, and adorably, he loved providing for me.

I bit into a piece of apple and kissed his cheek. “My stomach says thank you.”

He preened a little, waved me off and went back to prepping the ham, without missing a beat.

At any given time, he would be cutting fruit or veggies and without breaking conversation would pop a slice into my mouth, or have small snacks already prepared for me to grab at a glance. Everyone I worked with was amazed at the food I’d bring in. Sliced capsicum and cucumber with crackers and hummus, or diced fruit salad and yoghurt. Or pistachio-crusted beef sliced with rocket salad. Or lamb and beetroot filo tarts. Or grilled halloumi and baby spinach with balsamic glaze.

The list was endless.

Henry was a gourmet cook, and he was brilliant at it. I truly believed his culinary talents were wasted in corporate finance, but he swore he loved his job, and cooking was just a passion. But he did it all so effortlessly, and thought nothing of making healthy lunches for us both to take to work, and even the simplest of dinners were amazing.

I loved nothing more than helping him in the kitchen while he worked his magic, handing him things as he needed, listening to him talk about his day. Or rant about the latest gossip news on Barry Gibb or Kylie Minogue.

I just loved being with him, and being around him.

I just loved him.

And even though he was fitter now than he’d ever been—he could do the Bay Run now without stopping—and he took his health seriously, he was still Henry. That would never change. He loved food, he loved eating it, he loved making it. Cheesecake was, according to him, a forever-critical component of the healthy eating pyramid. He’d still enjoy a glass of wine if we went out, or curled up on the couch with a good book.

And maybe that was what I loved most about him. That he could change his life but stay true to who he was.

When we’d talked with our friends about Christmas Day, everyone had family commitments, so I’d suggested we host Christmas Eve dinner instead. Except I hadn’t really known what that entailed. I’d been thinking some snags on the BBQ, sitting on the patio with an Esky full of beer. Or maybe even take a portable BBQ to the beach, or to the park down the end of Darling Street. The weather was perfect for it.

Henry, on the other hand, had an entire three-course menu planned, and had started preparing different condiments three weeks in advance, and more thought had gone into house decorations than I would have ever thought possible. And the money equivalent to the national debt of a small country…

But it made Henry happy.

And stressed.

I’d helped de-stress him earlier, as much for my benefit as for his. I couldn’t help it. I’d woken up alone, and I missed him. I’d known he’d had to go early to the fish markets, but sex with Henry was something else. Like his body was made for mine.

I’d always needed to have an emotional connection with someone before I could have a physical one, and with Henry, given I loved him so damn much, so did my body.

I couldn’t get enough of him.

We’d been together for two years, engaged for almost one, but this was our first Christmas together being engaged. And seeing him with my ring on his finger did crazy things to my heart. I smiled as I remembered our engagement party; he’d had shirts made for us both. Mine had had ‘Reed-Z’ on it, and his had said ‘Feyoncé.’

“What are you smiling at?” he asked, looking up from where he was shoving little black cloves into the soon-to-be-glazed ham.

“Just remembering.” I grinned at him, then left my job quartering figs so I could plant a kiss on his lips. “Our engagement party.”

He eyed me for a moment, then broke out in the dance moves and sang about putting rings on it, which I had to admit he had down pat. He held out his left hand and sang the chorus, doing the moves across the kitchen floor, but his ring finger was bare.

Of course I noticed it. I always did. Every time he cooked or cleaned, he took his ring off and sat it on the kitchen windowsill. He claimed it was safer, and that he’d die if he ever lost it, but it still sent a pang through my chest every time I saw him without it on.

He stopped mid-dance move and frowned. “It’s just right there,” he said. “On the windowsill, where it always is if I’m not wearing it.”

“I know.” I shrugged, trying to not let it bother me. It was ridiculous. I didn’t even wear one, but I still hated to see him not wear his.

“You know why I take it off,” he whispered.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“And you know the best part?” he asked dreamily. “Every time, you put it back on my finger like it’s the very first time.”

That made me smile. “It’s my favourite thing too.”

He held his hands out to the side, so as not to touch anything, and leaned up for a kiss, which I happily gave him. “I love you,” he murmured. “And ring or not, I’m yours.”

I leaned down and gave him a hard kiss. “Love you, too.”

“Good. Now keep going with those figs. We have so much to do.”

“Yeah, about that. Remind me next year, if I suggest we host Christmas Eve dinner again, kick me in the shins.”

“It’ll be fun,” he said, going back to his ham. “When we get everything done and people start to arrive…”

I looked around the kitchen. It looked like a bomb had gone off, and Henry usually had his kitchen immaculate. I had to wonder if we’d pull this off. “Oh, God, Henry…”

He pasted a glaze over the ham and shoved it in the oven. “It’ll be fine.” Then he was stirring some salad dressing to dissolve the sugar, like he had no worries in the world.

“How can you not be panicking right now? Look at the kitchen.” Then I made the mistake of looking at the clock on the microwave. “Jesus. We’ve got two hours!”

“I just have to put the quince on to simmer and cook the linguini fresh just before time. I don’t want it to go gluggy, and I’ll do the fish before serving because I want the skin to stay crispy.” He tilted his head, studying me. “Do you need de-stressing?”

I snorted. “Well, if we had more time…”

“Don’t worry, darling,” he said, waving his hand. “Tonight, when Santa comes, so will you.”

He made me laugh. He always made me laugh. “Just once a year?”

He scoffed. “Hardly. Once a day still isn’t enough.”

With a smile, I pressed against his back. Or, more specifically, his arse. “Because you love my dick inside you.”

He pushed the salad dressing away and eyed the microwave clock, and groaned in frustration. “We don’t really need to have the fish, do we?”

I kissed the back of his neck. “It’s the showstopper.”

He leaned back into me and hummed. “We have the ham. And I can order Chinese food if I have to.”

I laughed and playfully bit his shoulder. “You would never.”

“I will walk out of this kitchen right now and never cook again if you keep pressing against me like that.”

I chuckled into his neck but my phone beeped again, distracting us. I pulled it out of my pocket and, holding it in front of Henry, read the message. It was Em.

Henry killed you yet for being the world’s worst cook?

I snorted, and replied. My skills aren’t culinary. And he doesn’t complain.

Henry was obviously reading the screen. I didn’t mind; I had nothing to hide.

“Does that say hashtag PrayForReed?”

I barked out a laugh, hit the camera icon and snapped a selfie of us in the message, sending it straight to Em.

“Oh, my God, that photo is hideous!” Henry cried. “Why did you do that?”

“It’s not hideous. It happens to be one of my favourite positions.”

He turned in my arms and looked up at me. “Did that say hashtag PrayForReed? Did you tell her I was trying to kill you?”

I slid my phone onto the kitchen bench so I could wrap my arms around him. It probably didn’t help that I laughed. “I may have referred to you as Maggie Beer at the dining table, Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen.” His mouth fell open, making me laugh some more. “Don’t act all offended. You once said I was your Loki in the bedroom, Thor out of it.”

He pouted. “Because it’s true. And I’ll have you know, you Loki’d me on the dining table earlier, and I can assure you, there was nothing Maggie Beer about that.”

I barked out a laugh, tightened my hold around him. “No there wasn’t.”

“I’m not like Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen,” he mumbled into my shoulder.

“No, you’re not. I was only kidding. You know Em loves you.”

My phone beeped with a message and before I could grab it, Henry did some lightning-fast ninja move and snatched it off the counter. He read the message out loud. “‘Oh, God, could you two stop being so damn cute? You’re so in love it makes me wanna hurl.’” Henry pouted again. “Okay, so she might be forgiven.” Then he scrolled back up to the photo and re-examined it. He hummed and tilted his head. “Well…”

“Well, what?” I asked.

He turned the phone around so I could see the photo. “The way you’re looking at me is a little bit sweet.”

It was true. I might have had my chin on his shoulder but my eyes were trained on him, and my smile said all he needed to know. “I look at you like that all the time.”

He handed me back my phone like he was trying to be mad, but his dreamy sigh gave him away. “Okay, so you might be forgiven too,” he said, Maggie Beer-like. Then he went Gordon Ramsay and clapped his hands together. “Right. Back to your figs. We have to get that sauce caramelised and simmering, then the peaches need to be done, before I can even think about the fish.”

I smirked. “Yes, chef.”

Two hours later, there was a knock at the door. The first of our guests had arrived.