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You walk down the stairs of the immense villa, which is so quiet now that all those actors – whom Jane had rounded up from various FBI offices – have gone off in search of food. You’re starving, as – so intent on playing the part of the lady of the house – you’ve barely touched a bite.
On the sofa beneath the stairs, Patrick is sleeping soundly. You can’t quite understand why they haven’t put a mattress in another room; it’s all very well that he’s used to sleeping like this, but it almost seems cruel to see him there, curled up with his scarf wrapped round his neck.
You drape a blanket over his body, taking it from the headboard, and you can’t help but be captivated by the sight of him, so defenceless, so relaxed. You’d like to reach out and stroke his hair.
Go on, if you want to.
Reach out – it takes no effort at all.
You bite your lip and head back upstairs to your room. Why had you gone downstairs in the first place?
You slip under the duvet and ring the office; Agent Pike answers. Ah, that’s why you wanted to go downstairs: food.
You go back downstairs, looking – once again – for leftovers.
And it’s impossible, as you sit at the coffee table in the living room with a tray of savoury pastries, not to look at him again.
You don’t know why, but you find yourself comparing him to Agent Pike. You’ve flirted with him, several times. How long has it been since you last flirted openly with a man you’d only just met?
Since you’ve known Patrick, more or less.
And you know you only did it because you don’t stand a chance with your favourite counsellor, even though you’d love to.
You tidy everything up, wash your hands and go to head back upstairs, but a movement, caught out of the corner of your eye, makes you turn – again – towards Patrick.
He’s asleep. It was just a slight twitch in his sleep.
Teresa? Hey, Teresa?
Stop biting your lip; if you really want to run your fingers through those soft curls, just do it.
See? It’s easy. Stretch your hand out a bit further.
They’re softer than you expected.
He opens his eyes, Patrick, and you pull your hand back, quickly, as if you’d been burnt. But you know it’s late.
He’s looking into your eyes; don’t get distracted, stay focused.
‘I was wondering if you’d rather sleep upstairs. In a proper bed.’
‘With you?’
Breathe, Teresa. Breathe. Don’t panic; it’s an innocent request, isn’t it?
‘Yes. We’ve known each other for ages; why should we be embarrassed by each other’s presence?’
You’ve gone red, Teresa. It seems you don’t even believe what you’re saying yourself.
He gets up and follows you, climbing the stairs behind you. Don’t turn round or you’ll catch his gaze travelling down your bare legs.
You lie down under the duvet, pressed close to your side, careful not to move a muscle. But didn’t you say it wouldn’t be awkward? You won’t be able to sleep like this – you realise that, don’t you?
Close your eyes – try, at least.
Well done, that’s it.
Sleep – nothing will happen unless you want it to.
You wake up, closer to him but without having done anything indecent. You’ve been good.
Now get dressed, get ready – you’ve got a date with a criminal; you don’t want to be late.
And, perhaps, you’ll be able to sleep together again tonight...