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“I’ll figure something out,” I say. No way am I going to admit I have nowhere to go.
It mortifies me when he seems to read my mind. “It’s late,” he says. “You can stay in my guest bedroom.”
He leaves without waiting for an answer.
As he exits the room, the little voice purrs in satisfaction. Stay the night, she says suggestively. Such an exciting possibility.
“Shut up,” I tell her.
Don’t pretend you don’t want to jump his bones, she says. Did you see that fine figure of a man or have your eyes gone blind? I know you were salivating. Just admit it.
I groan. “Do you have to be such a lech?”
She cackles. I’m just getting started.
I look around Storm’s lounge. It is very much a guy’s space. Comfy leather sofas. Sleek wood and glass furniture. A single piece of art on the wall in many shades of dark red that evoke an uncomfortable tumult of feelings. No pretty nik-naks. No photos. No sign of a girlfriend at all, for which I am ridiculously pleased.
After Storm finishes talking to forensics, he returns to show me to my room and the guest bathroom. The little voice continues to whisper suggestions on how to make my move. I mutter a thanks to him and quickly shut the bedroom door.
I find that he has left one of his nightshirts on the bed for me to sleep in. It is pale blue and looks like it would come to my knees. It looks cozy and welcoming. I don’t put it on. It would feel far too intimate to be wearing something of his. I decide to sleep in my own clothes instead.
Except I can’t sleep. I lay awake for hours listening to the little voice complaining that she is bored. She is tired of being s
hut away. Oh how delightful it is that Storm is in a bedroom just down the hall. She tells me how easy it would be to tiptoe along the carpet and knock quietly on his door. That I wouldn’t even have to say anything to him. That he and I both know what we want. That he is probably lying awake in bed at this very moment thinking about it.
“Stop it,” I whispered to her. “Please just stop it.”
I put my pillow over my head, scrunching it up around my ears. But that does not work, because she is inside my head, and she isn’t in the mood to back down. This chance may not come again, she says. Make the most of it while you have it. Let go of your inhibitions. It would be so easy.
I ignore her. She doesn’t care.
All you have to do is admit to yourself what you want. What’s the point of holding back? You’re going to die one day, and then you’ll regret all the things you never did when you were young and life was full of possibilities.
I continue to ignore her. Sooner or later she has to shut up. I’m in charge. She can’t make me do anything that I don’t want to.
If you don’t use it, you’re going to lose it, she taunts. That tall muscular body. Don’t you want to touch it? Put your hands on it and feel how warm and smooth it is? She continues in this vein for what feels like forever. Then she changes tack. Don’t you want him to think of you next time he goes to interview Beatrice Grictor? Trust me, I can show you how to make him forget all about stupid little Beatrice.
I don’t know how, but eventually I drop off. I dream of being back in Raif’s office, and the waft of applesmoke perfume that came into the room along with Beatrice’s pretty little heels. When my alarm wakes me it feels like I’ve only been asleep for minutes. Beastie is curled up by my feet. I am clenching something tightly in my fist. It is Storm’s gold coin.
I stare at it, disconcerted. How did that get there? Storm had put it in the evidence bag on his dining table. I slip quietly into the lounge but to my dismay, the evidence bag is gone. I can hear Storm moving around in his room. I hurry back to my guest bathroom to wash up and finger-brush my teeth.
When I emerge, Storm is in the kitchen cooking breakfast. I sense he doesn’t usually cook breakfast and that he is doing it for my benefit. He is freshly showered, his hair deliciously damp, and wearing an impeccable smart-casual outfit suitable for field work.
Oh so yummy, says the little voice sadly. What a wasted opportunity.
I can’t entirely disagree. I stand in the doorway quietly, watching him. It is some time before I realize that he is perfectly aware that I am there.
He grins at me, and puts a plate of toast and eggs and mushrooms and sausages down for me on the table, and a glass of orange juice too. “Tea?” he says.
“Yes please.” I look approvingly at the plate. He has not been stingy with the portions. My mouth is watering.
“Yoghurt?” He places one in from of me before I can answer.
I open it out of curiosity. It is orange flavored, which I think must be weird until I try it. It is oh so tangy and creamy and delicious. One taste and I gulp the rest down in large spoonfuls. Where has this been all my life?
I find Storm is watching me and smiling. “Sleep okay?” he asks.
“Sure.”
