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“Please. I’m a pro. I had to buy more ingredients, but I haven’t had time to organize more thoroughly. I will, though.” She eyes me curiously. “Why does it bother you so much? You don’t have to come in here.”

Because you’re in here. So, yes, I do.

“It’s my house. I like things my way. I think I’ve earned that right. I pay for it.”

“Yeah…” She gives me an uncertain look. “That reminds me. I was supposed to tell you. Carlisle might be upset if I didn’t. So, here goes. He caught me snooping in your closet. Like, a week ago. I told him I’d tell you. I was just looking at your suits and stuff,” she adds quickly. “I was curious.”

“About what?”

“About how freaking perfect everything is in there! Andeverywherein your house.” She shuts off the mixer and removes the bowl.

“It’s not perfect.”

I watch as she starts loading buttercream into an icing bag. “There’s not a crumb or a speck of dirt or a piece of lint anywhere, Harlan. Your staff tiptoe around like little cleaning ninjas, rarely being seen, but making everything flawless for you.”

“It’s not flawless. And like I said, I pay for it.”

“It’s more than that. It’s nottheirstandards they’re adhering to.” She goes over to a big tray loaded with cupcakes, and puts one on a little turntable thing. She starts icing the cupcake, spinning it on the turntable to make a perfect pink dollop on top.

I don’t know what she wants me to say. So I just watch her ice cupcakes, one by one. Sheisa pro. The cupcakes look photoshoot-ready.

She keeps throwing me looks while she does it, like she’s waiting for me to explain my high standards or something.

I don’t.

“I’ve caught you doing it, too, you know,” she says. “You wipe down the counters behind my back when you think I’m not looking. You straighten books and mugs and shoes so they line up perfectly. You adjust chairs and doors and windows. You shower in the morningandwhen you get home from work?—”

“I like things clean.”

“It’s more than that, Harlan. I’m not blind.”

In the ensuing silence, I consider whether to tell her or not.

It’s not something I tell anyone.

My siblings know, because they’ve lived with me. I’m sure many of my staff have figured it out, too. I don’t hire stupid people.

But I don’t volunteer the information to them.

Quinn’s not stupid, either.

And maybe if I tell her, it’ll be another step toward gaining her trust?

“I’ve been diagnosed with OCD.”

She looks at me. She doesn’t seem surprised by this, exactly. More like surprised that I told her.

“In the past,” I add. “It’s not a problem. I have it under control.”

“I’m not judging,” she says. “I’m kind of fascinated, actually.”

“Why?”

“Because. That’s another piece of the Harlan puzzle, solved,” she muses.

“If you say so.” I can’t imagine how anyone would find something like my OCD interesting in the slightest. It used to feel like a fucking curse before I tackled it with major therapy.

“What kind of OCD do you have? I know there are different kinds.”