Boy, this is getting a little out of control. Jane's POV chapter was supposed to be seven hundred words TOP! Now it may be another in addition to this, plus perhaps lead to another story.

This addiction of mine must stop!

I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting.

Friday night, approximately 7:45 pm

Patrick exited the Citroën and gave the keys to the valet, indicating the trunk key that allowed the bellhop to retrieve the bags. After receiving the claim ticket, he glanced around out of habit and entered the resort lobby, with the bellhop following a respectful distance behind. He approached the check-in desk with ID and wallet in hand, fully expecting surprise that he was paying with cash. The staff was well trained and only reacted minimally, although he loved reading the telling twitch in the corner of the hotel clerk's mouth as he handed over several large bills.

Patrick Jane didn't do credit cards. The scam potential was far too great. The ability to be tracked by its activity was too damning. However, tucked away in his memory palace was Mashburn's credit card information. A quick text from Walter granted permission to use it to hold the reservation.

As the registration paperwork was filled out, he reviewed the weekend's itinerary in his head. This evening all depended upon how much energy Teresa had after he kept her up most of the night before, plus a full day's work and then the drive from Sacramento. He was adaptable, so long as they were together. The suite had a jetted tub as well as a steam shower, either of which would be delightful to share with the Lovely Lisbon this evening. But if she simply wanted to have a glass of wine and go to sleep, that would be just as wonderful.

Tomorrow he planned morning snowboarding lessons and then a fondue lunch in the restaurant overlooking the slopes. The afternoon could be either a couple's hot stone massage in the resort spa or maybe a little love in the privacy of their suite. Afterward, dinner at the Pianeta Ristorante or perhaps just room service, depending upon what happened in the afternoon.

Certainly Sunday morning would be leisurely room service brunch because he planned to make love to her all night. In the afternoon, perhaps they could do a little shopping in town before the two-hour drive back to Sacramento.

But even if all she wanted to do was catch up on her sleep for two days, he was fine with that, so long as she let him hold her in his arms as she slept.

After checking that the suite was satisfactory and tipping the bellhop, he unpacked quickly, changed out of his suit, and returned downstairs to await her arrival. Although they left at roughly the same time, he knew she'd drive safely and cautiously, just as she knew he'd speed like the impatient driver he was.

Let me know when you're close, he texted her. And use the valet parking. This is my treat.

He knew she wouldn't but it never hurt to try. He also knew it would be a few minutes before she answered. She'd have to find a safe place to pull off the road before she read and returned his text. He grinned when he read her answer.

Like hell, she said.

Find me in Coburn Station, he replied. Bar off main lobby.

Drink slowly, she answered. I'm still forty-five minutes out.

He rolled his eyes but smiled despite his mild disappointment. Hurry up. I'm… anxious.

In a minute she wrote back. Don't start without me.

He chuckled and thought for a moment before texting her again. Love you, Teresa. He wasn't surprised when she didn't text back.

Slipping the phone into his blazer jacket pocket, he settled at the bar and ordered a blended scotch neat. Mostly he enjoyed the nose of the drink, inhaling the rich bouquet before taking the smallest sip and feeling the warmth settle on his tongue.

My dear he thought as he remembered their parting early that morning, relishing the sweet, familiar yearning he felt for her the entire drive back to the CBI offices. The difference that made it so delightful? It wasn't unrequited. The future held such promise now when it didn't before.

They hadn't made love, although occasionally their kissing worked them up enough that he thought they might. Mostly they talked. It was easy to do. They'd been friends for so long; each knew what the other was interested in. She challenged him with her intelligence, asking him questions and sharing her opinion. It was delightful to watch her develop her argument against a point he'd made or to see her mind rework a concept in her head until she had a complete understanding of it.

The night he confessed his love, she said that he needed to let her into his heart. To his great surprise (and probably hers), he eventually found himself talking about being a carnie child, brought up not to trust those outside the close-knit community. It was easy to distrust. Anyone outside the community was likely never to be seen again because the show had moved on to the next stop on the circuit. By the time it returned, there were usually new people never to see again. It was only later that he found out why to outsiders, carnie society was reviled. And it was only after meeting Angela did he start to understand the outsiders' view of carnies.

Patrick was careful to minimize for Teresa about his start as the psychic Boy Wonder at the tender age of nine, explaining only that his father had trained him on the key words and phrases that the man then used to convey the information about what kind of object he was holding in his hand. Starting the question with "Patrick…?" meant it was a female-oriented item. Starting with "My boy…?" was male. "Can you see…?" indicated a silver object. "What do I…?" signified a gold one. "What is it that…?" meant it was non-metallic. At first there were only a few things his dad would pick so guessing was easy for a boy his age.

In a few years there were so many more phrase cues for him to remember that his father taught him to organize his brain using the system Patrick learned later was called a method of loci or a memory palace, although his dad never used either of those names. To Patrick, it was just a big house of storage, and at first he imagined a cozy home of the type he saw in Miracle On 34th Street on TV. When the clues became so complex that it took hours out of his day to learn them by heart, he searched for examples of larger buildings to use for figurative storage. He'd seen a movie that featured a high school, so he switched to that.

Yet the more he used the high school of his imagination, the more he yearned to actually attend one, even though he was only twelve years old.

He didn't tell Teresa, but when he asked his father about going to a real school instead of the limited home-schooling provided within the carnie community, he received a beating that he realized later almost ended his life. Had it not been for Bertha the Fat Lady who took him to the local hospital, it definitely would have. The long deep scar by his left eye was a daily visible reminder.

He still didn't understand why Alex Jane hadn't been arrested for attempted murder, or at least child abuse. As the last blow landed, he remembered the slurred voice of his father shouting "No son of Alex Jane is going to get brain-washed by a bunch of marks."

And no son of Alex Jane was stupid enough to risk another harsh beating by asking again, which was when Patrick developed his intense love of reading and problem solving. Books borrowed from other carnies or picked up at garage sales or stolen from stores were devoured by him in secret, usually with a dictionary nearby to decipher words that were well beyond his father's knowledge.

Patrick did share with Teresa that it was through the expansion of his world with books that he understood the real reason his father didn't want him to go to school; Alex Jane had no true talent or ability of his own, other than thinking of ways to cheat people. Without his son's unquestioning acquiescence to performing like a trained seal and making their money, Jane Senior's gambling and alcohol issues would give the carnie community ample reason to leave him jailed in one of the towns along the circuit. There was a serious danger that school would teach Patrick how horrible his life was, prompting him to run away, leaving it behind.

The phone vibrated in his pocket, indicating another text.

Stopped for gas Colfax.

Colfax? She was more than 45 minutes away, especially the way she drove! Dammit, woman!

He heaved a sigh, staring at the message. Better safe than sorry. There was a long stretch of large ranches and desolate national forest between here and there, so in a way he was grateful for her caution and making certain she had plenty of gas.

Take your time. Be safe.

It felt so good when she sent just a heart emoticon as reply.

How flirtatious! He was really getting to like these displays of affection from Teresa. As a young couple, he and Angela were very reserved. It was the nature of carnie folk not to express emotions –especially in public – because it might expose affiliations and accomplices to the wrong people Out of habit he and Angela continued to act as they were raised. Reading a mark was second nature to a carnie, especially the one who specialized as a con artist. Avoiding being read was just as natural.

It surprised him continually how incautious cops were about being read, his dear Teresa in particular. Her blatant cover was a glare that deepened whenever she felt another reaction coming on.

Cho on the other hand was one of the few cops good at hiding his reactions, although Jane could see them if he paid close enough attention.

Like the 'Earl Grey' interlude he and Teresa had shared in the break room earlier that day. He knew Cho was listening because his breathing slowed and his eyes moved around the report instead of across it, definitely not reading it. At the time Jane mentally shrugged, deciding that if Teresa was more interested in playing their game than keeping their relationship secret, it was all on her. He'd promised to refrain from initiating personal compliments of her, but if she was going to flirt with him, there was nothing to stop him from appreciating her attention.

The look on her face was priceless when Cho cleared his throat. She practically ran back to her office.

Later, as Jane exited the men's room, Cho was entering. He grabbed Jane's arm with undeniable pressure and pulled him back into the bathroom. After checking that they were alone, Cho invaded Jane's personal space and looked in his eye as if weighing his words before speaking them.

"I don't care what you do with each other because, frankly, Lisbon's a big girl who can take of herself, but if you fuck up the happy atmosphere she's created around this team and ruin her good work, I'll kick your ass, Jane. Then Rigsby will finish you for hurting her."

Ice Man was a very good nickname for the man in front of him. Jane swallowed hard.

"Understood," he answered. "No drama."

Cho nodded once and stepped back, entering a stall like they hadn't spoken. Jane straightened his jacket on his shoulders and left.

The phone vibrated again, rousing Patrick from his thoughts.

Did you eat yet? I'm going to grab a doughnut.

It was a wonder that woman was as skinny as she was, considering her steady diet of fatty fried foods. Besides, what kind of inamorato would he be if he let his lady eat stale gas station doughnuts?

We'll order room service when you arrive, he texted back. Just get here already.

It didn't matter what he wrote. No doubt she'd taste like a chocolate-iced, fried cake doughnut when he kissed her. Not that he was complaining exactly.

They have blueberry muffins. I'll bring you one.

That woman. He didn't deserve her.

Almost as good a treat as you, so get here so I can devour you.

Her return text came immediately.

Promise?

Cross my heart, he wrote back. He fought the grin from coming to his face when he added. But drive safely.

Her answer was another heart emoticon.

He asked the bartender to refill the snack mix bowl and just as he settled in for his wait, his phone vibrated while returning it to his pocket.

By the way…

When nothing more followed, he sent her a question mark.

Love you too, Patrick.

He closed his eyes and swallowed. A deep breath went far in preventing happy tears from escaping his eyes. His hands tightened around the phone. It vibrated once more.

The message read And since when do you even own a pair of jeans and a blazer, Goldilocks?

Whipping around, he scanned the bar room, looking for her.

Through the door into the main lobby, he spotted her sitting on the armrest of an upholstered chair, arms crossed over her chest, legs crossed at the ankles. Her lovely face was made even prettier by the amused-at-his-expense smile. As he slipped the phone into his pocket and started towards her, she brought her phone again and texted quickly. He stopped at the vibration and took out the phone.

Truthful answer to my question…come here.

Shaking his head in disbelief, he crossed the last thirty feet. "So no gas at Colfax?" he asked.

"Nope, and no blueberry muffin either."

"Humph. So what's your question?" He gave her a soft peck on the lips and then leaned over to pick up her bags. She grabbed the lapel of his blazer and brought his face closer, her smile turning into a smirk.

"Did you send that threatening message to the governor's office?"

She raised her eyebrow playfully, as if the question was just teasing.

"Is this work related or relationship related?" he asked in a careful, soft voice.

He watched the smirk diminish greatly. It wasn't the response she expected. "Relationship," she said.

He straightened and shoved his hands into his pockets. This was dangerous territory. He'd sworn to her during their first liaison, after their first date, that he'd always be truthful when it came to their relationship. In his mind, it was with the understanding that his job as a consultant played by a different set of rules. They both knew that in order for him to be effective in his unique way, it needed to.

But if she took to claiming everything was relationship-related, things could turn sour very quickly. He'd take a chance and gauge her response to the truth.

"Yes, I did."

She grimaced and took a deep breath. Her gaze fell to the phone in her hand.

"Okay…okay, thank you for being honest."

"I'm a selfish, egotistical bastard who wants what he wants when he wants it."

"Yep," she said softly, still not looking at him. Finally she stood and picked up one of her bags, gesturing toward her garment bag and the large suitcase on rollers. "Give me a hand with these, will you?" When he did, she glanced around. "Which way to the elevators?"

"Here," he said, leading the way.

It should have been a happier reunion, but the tension in her body language warned him to not make light of the situation. Her gaze never met his as they walked. She was accepting the fact that he'd committed a felony that had nothing to do with Red John – nearly a felony anyway, since there were no actual threats against the governor's wellbeing, so it was more of a 'gross misdemeanor'.

Regardless. She wasn't happy about it.

They had the elevator car to themselves when the door closed and started to move to the 11th floor.

"Still love me?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "But don't ever ask me to drink the Kool-Aid again. If I find out you did something like this in the future, I will arrest you."

"It was stupid," he agreed. "I'm sorry."

She looked at him, a little surprise, a little disbelieving. Finally her eyes softened and she nodded.

"Thank you." Her voice was low and affected.

I don't apologize enough to her for some of the selfish things I do.

As he bent forward to kiss her, the elevator stopped and the doors opened, taking on a passenger, so he moved away. He may be in love but public displays of affection still weren't a choice for him. He looked at Teresa from the corner of his eye and found her staring straight ahead, blushing.

Her either, apparently.