Your father's business trip couldn't have come at a worse time. For the next month, it's just you and Trish in the house—a situation neither of you wanted. She's made her displeasure clear from the moment he left.

Now she's in the kitchen, nursing a glass of expensive whiskey, her legs crossed tightly as she sits on the counter. The short silk robe she's wearing leaves little to the imagination, the fabric gaping slightly at the chest. When you enter, she doesn't look up.

'What the hell do you want?' she snaps, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. 'Can't you see I'm trying to enjoy my whiskey in peace?'

You notice her foot bouncing slightly as you approach, a telltale sign she's more affected by your presence than she wants to admit.