‘We shouldn’t be in here,’ I said, looking back at the gate as Patrick lay down in the grass, stretching his arms up behind his head. ‘What if someone comes in?’

‘It’s eleven thirty on a Saturday night. No one is nipping into the park now.’

‘We’re here,’ I reasoned. ‘Anyone could come in.’

‘Unless you’re the terrible sort of person who would break in, you have to have a key to get inside,’ he replied. ‘And only rich people have keys. Rich people don’t like to cause a fuss. If someone comes in, we’ll just quietly let ourselves out.’

I couldn’t argue with his logic.

Carefully, I lowered myself down beside him, rolling onto my side to avoid my tender injury. Patrick shifted onto his side until we were nose to nose.

‘I hope you didn’t have too much fun without me tonight,’ he said softly, running his finger along the line of my cheekbone, all the way down to my lips. ‘I am sorry I was so late.’

‘I understand,’ I told him as I kissed his fingertips. ‘And I would have had more fun if I hadn’t completely decked it at the roller rink and fallen flat on my arse. It’s going to be black and blue by morning.’

Patrick laughed and leaned in to replace his fingertips with his lips. The kiss was long and warm and lazy and, for several seconds, I couldn’t feel anything else at all. ‘Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?’

‘Do you remember that time we went ice skating at Somerset House and I went absolutely flying?’ I asked as he pulled away, our eyes still locked on one another. ‘It was even worse than that. How I haven’t broken my neck before now, I’ll never know.’

‘Hmm,’ Patrick replied, his eyes misting over for a moment. He rolled onto his back and I moved with him, resting my head on his chest. ‘That guy back at the bar,’ he said. ‘What’s his deal?’

‘John?’ I asked, practically purring as he combed his fingers through my hair. ‘He’s a friend of Sumi’s.’

‘Seems like a bit of a twat.’

‘Definitely doesn’t give a good first impression,’ I agreed, coming to as he pulled his hands away. ‘I think he might be all right though.’

It was the nicest thing I’d ever said or thought about John McMahon.

‘He’s married,’ I added quickly, not quite sure why. ‘His wife is really tall.’

‘Oh.’ Patrick shifted suddenly and my head slipped off his chest and onto the hard ground. ‘I didn’t care for the “You must be the boyfriend” remark.’

‘No?’ I sat back up, rubbing the sore spot on my head. ‘Why not? Do you not want people to think you’re my boyfriend?’