You can’t step into the future if you keep one foot in the past.
—Paige
Lucas woke with an aching neck from having slept awkwardly on the sofa.
Through the floor-to-ceiling window he could see the golden fingers of dawn spreading across the sky. The snow had stopped falling, but the past few days had turned Central Park into a glossy winter wonderland. Snow lay thick on the paths and trees were draped with a sparkly coating of magical winter white.
The bottle of whiskey was still open in front of him, and next to it the empty glass, a reminder of the night before.
He remembered the dancing, the champagne, that tense ride home in the car and the incredible sex that had followed. Eva had been so open and willing, so generous and honest in her affections, giving without hesitation or qualification. And afterward, during the conversation in his study, she’d been equally generous. Instead of being annoyed or insecure that he was talking about his relationship with another woman when only an hour earlier they’d been wrapped together in the most intimate way possible, she’d listened carefully, paying attention.
Swearing softly, he swung his legs off the sofa and dug his fingers into his hair.
She’d gone to bed with him as a woman who believed in happy-ever-afters and emerged the next morning with her illusions shattered. That’s what a relationship with him did to a person.
What the hell happened next?
He couldn’t walk away because he was in his own apartment. And he couldn’t send her away because he needed her here so that he could work.
Trapped by a dilemma of his own making, he walked into his bedroom, braced for conversation, and saw that the bed was empty. The shoes she’d worn the night before were half-hidden under the bed, a reminder of those few heightened hours of excitement at the ball.
He should have stopped it then.
Instead of dancing with her, he should have let her go home with one of the other men there. He should have stood back and let it happen.
It would have been better for both of them. Instead, he’d destroyed her fairy-tale moment.
He eyed the tangle of sheets and wondered if she’d slept in her own room. Either that or she’d packed and left. And he couldn’t blame her for that, could he?
The thought disturbed him more than it should have, as did the relief that followed when the delicious smells of sizzling bacon wafted up from the kitchen.
She hadn’t gone home.
Trying to work out what that meant, he walked into the shower, hit the jets and closed his eyes as the hot water pummeled out the last of the sleep from his body.
Lifting his hand he stroked the water away from his face, trying to clear his head.
He’d known her for less than a week, and yet he’d told her things he’d never told anyone before. Deeply personal information he’d long ago promised himself would never see the light of day. But there had been something about the way Eva had looked at him, something about the kindness in her eyes and the lightness of her touch that had unlocked secrets he’d kept firmly to himself.
He wouldn’t blame her for misreading the signs and thinking that this was more than it was.
He cursed softly and reached for a towel, knotting it around his waist.
There was no sense in delaying what was inevitably going to be an awkward conversation.
Better to get it over with so both of them knew exactly where this was going.
He dressed quickly and then walked downstairs to the kitchen.
She was wearing his shirt again, and her hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head. He heard the sound of sizzling and a delicious smell enveloped him, waking his taste buds. He noticed that today she wasn’t singing and he felt another stab of regret and guilt.
No doubt he was responsible.
“Do I smell bacon?” He decided it was up to him to breach the awkward morning-after moment, although he wasn’t exactly sure which part of the night before would make her feel most awkward. The sex or the confession. “I thought you were vegetarian?”
Without looking at him, she reached for a plate. “The bacon is for you. I’ve heard it’s the perfect cure for a hangover.”
“I don’t have a hangover.” It was a lie and they both knew it, but instead of arguing she turned back to the pan and left him to contemplate why she’d be going to so much trouble.
“Eva—”
“Don’t talk.”
“Because you’re upset?”
“No, because I’m not awake yet. It’s early, Lucas. I’ve already told you I don’t function well at this hour, especially after the limited sleep I had last night.” Yawning, she plated the bacon, added a toasted English muffin and a poached egg and placed it in front of him. “Don’t talk to me. I’ll be fine.” She’d basically excused him from having a conversation he’d been dreading. He should have been relieved.
“I don’t need breakfast.”
“I got up early to make this for you, so if you don’t eat it I will be upset. And you need to replenish the calories you used up last night.”
“About that—”
“Eat.” She handed him a knife and fork and turned back to pull a tray of something that smelled delicious from the oven.
He scanned her long, bare legs and forgot what he’d intended to talk about. “You stole my shirt.”
“I wanted to make breakfast before taking a shower. Do you mind?”
What was one more intimacy stacked on top of the others they’d shared?
He took a mouthful of food. Then another, and instantly felt better. The bacon was crisp, the muffin lightly toasted and the egg perfectly cooked. She always seemed to know exactly what to serve him. Mood food.
“When you weren’t in the bedroom, I thought you’d left.”
“I slept in my own room.” She poured herself a coffee and leaned against the counter. “You should have slept in yours. You must have a terrible neck ache after a night on the sofa.”
“Eva, what happened between us last night—”
“We’re not going to talk about this now.”
“Yes, we are.”
She sighed. “Well, if we are, I need more coffee and I won’t be held responsible for anything I say while in a sleep coma.” She topped off her mug and handed him one, too. “Last night was perfect, Lucas. The dress, the ball, the dancing, the sex. All of it was perfect.”
He’d been trying hard not to think about the sex, but now she’d mentioned it he couldn’t think of anything else. Eva, naked, those incredible breasts pushing into his chest. Eva, eyes closed and lips parted as he’d kissed her.
Eva, listening without passing judgment—
Shit.
“You’re ignoring the part where I destroyed your dreams.”
“You mean the part where you told me the truth about your marriage? No.” She sipped her coffee and then put her mug down slowly. “I’m glad you were finally able to tell someone, because carrying that around on your own must have been a heavy burden. I’m sorry you’ve been living with that and I can understand now why you’re so reluctant to believe that anyone is the way they seem.”
“Eva—”
“You always look for deeper meanings, so I’m going to save you the trouble and tell you what’s in my head. Was last night incredible? Yes, it was. Do I wish it could be more than one night? Yes, part of me does.”
So did he. He wished she’d dressed in something other than his damn shirt. It would have made it easier to concentrate. “Part of you?”
“The part of me that wants to ignore the truth, which is that you have a lot of baggage to deal with before you’re ready for a relationship with someone else. Getting involved with you would be like driving a car over nails or broken glass. It could only end badly and I prefer not to start something when I can already see trouble in the distance. So you don’t need to worry about me. We’ll call it a one-night stand.”
He should have been relieved she was being so sensible. He was relieved, so the kick of disappointment made no sense.
“You don’t like one-night stands.”
“They’re not my preference, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy one if that’s how it turns out.” Her voice was light, but he knew it barely revealed the surface of her feelings.
“I’d understand if you decide to leave.”
She lifted her coffee and took another sip, studying him across the rim of her mug. “Do you want me to leave? You asked me here so that you could finish writing your book. Unless you’ve finished, or my presence is no longer helpful, then I’ll stay until the job’s finished. Do you need me or not?”
His mouth was dry. He had to remind himself she was talking about work. “I need you.”
“Then I’ll stay.” Her mouth curved into a smile. “And I promise not to pounce on you in the night, so you don’t need to take refuge on the sofa. And now we’ve got that out of the way, we can carry on as if nothing has changed.”
He wished it was that simple.
He wished he could pretend nothing had changed, but it had. It was like trying to close the door on an overfull closet. Everything stored there was pushing back, trying to escape after years of being locked inside out of sight.
Maybe she thought this was one-sided. Maybe she didn’t understand how hard he was struggling not to push aside everything decent inside himself and take sanctuary in her warmth and her generosity.
He said nothing as she served him another helping and made him a coffee that was exactly the way he liked it.
Everything she did was exactly the way he liked it.
The only way to deal with it was to go back to work.
After finishing his second helping, he stood up and loaded his plate into the dishwasher with a clatter. “Thank you for breakfast.” His tone was rougher than he’d intended but she didn’t seem offended. He was coming to the conclusion that she was one of those rare people who had an intuitive grasp of another’s emotions, and respected them.
“You’re welcome. Thank you for the orgasm.” She turned pink. “Forget I said that. I’m still half-asleep.”
No matter how tense the situation, she always made him smile.
“You’re only thanking me for one? What about the others?”
“I lost count.”
His gaze met hers and the air in the apartment heated with the shared intimacy.
He thought that if he did what he was burning to do it would end in disaster and she wouldn’t be thanking him for anything.
She’d be cursing the fact she’d ever met him.
* * *
The storm had now fully passed, the streets were cleared and gradually people were venturing out again, wrapped up against the cold as they prepared for the holiday season. There were gifts to be purchased and wrapped, trees to be decorated, store windows to admire and parties to attend.
Eva concentrated on her work and tried not to think too much about that night with Lucas.
It had been so special it deserved to be thought about, but at the same time thinking about it made her yearn for something that wasn’t on offer.
Neither of them spoke about it, but that didn’t mean the tension wasn’t there. It simmered under the surface, creating tiny ripples in the otherwise smooth atmosphere. Until now she hadn’t realized how much could be conveyed by a touch or a glance.
She envied Lucas his self-control.
“I mean, if it was me, I wouldn’t be able to resist.” She spoke to Paige, while she stirred, whisked and baked. She’d told her friends the truth about what had happened that night, omitting everything Lucas had told her. That wasn’t hers to share. “He’s the kind of guy who can have chocolate in the house and not eat it. Why wasn’t I blessed with ruthless self-control? I’d be thin and successful.”
“You were blessed with plenty of other things, and no man would swap your curves for ‘thin.’”
“You think I’m fat?” She glanced over her shoulder, trying to see her bottom. “I’ve been using Lucas’s exercise bike every day and lifting weights. I’m looking toned, but not thin. Probably because I haven’t mastered self-control.”
“Self-control is overrated. So he hasn’t mentioned that night? Not once?”
“Apart from the very awkward morning-after-the-night before conversation, no.” She sifted more flour into the bowl. “We’re ignoring it. On the surface, at least.” Underneath? Underneath the tension was rising. The time they spent together was so intense it was becoming harder and harder to behave normally. She’d almost reached the stage where she couldn’t remember what normal was.
“Mmm.” Paige didn’t sound convinced. “Are you sure you’re happy to stay there? I wouldn’t want you getting serious about him.”
Eva pulled a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “I’m not serious.”
“I know you. With you, sex is always serious. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“It had been a while for me so I guess that makes it different. It wasn’t serious.” If she said it enough times, she might even start to believe it.
“But you wish it was?”
“I’m not letting myself think like that.” She closed the fridge door, thinking that maybe she had more self-control than she thought. She wasn’t great at resisting sugar, or lipstick, but she was doing pretty well resisting her feelings for Lucas.
Over the next few days Lucas spent most of his time closeted in his study, only emerging to eat the meals she prepared. She wondered if he was isolating himself because he needed to work or because the intensity of their relationship was starting to get to him, too. There was as much meaning in their silences as there was in the words they exchanged. There were times when she thought she might burst into flames.
And then there were the moments she worried that by being alone in his office he’d retreated back into his own private hell. And she couldn’t help wondering whether he was thinking of her at all while he brooded.
As promised, he’d turned over the third bedroom for her to use as an office. He’d moved the desk, giving her a view across the city and the park.
It took all her self-discipline not to spend all day staring out of the window.
She kept her laptop there, and her planner, and checked in regularly with Paige and Frankie. On one evening she joined them for an event in midtown, but other than that almost all her work was conducted on the phone and the internet. Her working day was spent organizing food for events, liaising with venues and clients. The rest of her time was spent in the kitchen.
Christmas had been a time of year she and her grandmother had both treasured and memories were everywhere, in flavors and fragrance, in textures and taste. There were some dishes she hadn’t cooked since her grandmother’s death, but she cooked them for Lucas and discovered that there was comfort as well as sadness and nostalgia in doing so.
Despite, or perhaps because of, his preoccupation with his book, Lucas was an appreciative audience. He was complimentary about everything she prepared, and seemed genuinely interested in her creative process.
Dinner became the most important meal of the day for her, because it was the only real time they spent together. Breakfast was often eaten standing up, lunch was equally quick and sometimes Lucas simply loaded his plate and took it back to his office.
Dinner was the one meal he lingered over. He always questioned her carefully about what they were having, and then chose a wine he thought would complement the food. She was impressed by his expertise.
“So some of the wines you have are very old and very valuable?”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes you buy them at auction?”
“That’s right.” He poured wine into a glass and handed it to her. “Try it. Tell me what you think.”
The first time he’d asked her to do that she’d been embarrassed. She knew nothing about wine, and wasn’t about to try to bullshit her way past an expert.
“I like it. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Why do you like it?”
“Because it tastes good and makes me want to finish the whole bottle.” She smiled over the rim of her glass. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t get any more technical than that. How did you learn about wine?”
“From my father.” He topped off his own glass. “It’s his hobby. Growing up, we used to tour vineyards in California, New Zealand and France.”
Between his upbringing and his book tours, he was well traveled.
“I’ve only ever been to Europe once. I spent a month working in a kitchen in Paris.” She took another sip of the wine. “You’ve been everywhere.”
“Not everywhere, and even when I travel I don’t see much of the places I stay. If it’s a book tour then invariably all I see is the airport, the inside of a hotel and a bookstore, before moving on to the next place. Tell me more about Paris. What did you love about it?”
“So many things. The bread, the passion for cooking, the quality of ingredients.”
She was flattered by his interest in her. She’d been on dates with men who seemed to want only to talk about themselves. Lucas asked questions and paid attention to the answers.
He was a generous listener and she found herself telling him about her upbringing, and small details about her grandmother that she hadn’t shared with anyone else.
“Puffin Island is small, so our house was always full of people. After Gramps died, we didn’t have to cook for about six months. There was always a casserole on the doorstep. And Grams loved that. She worried that it was just the two of us and she wanted to make sure there were plenty of people in my life, so she used to cook constantly and invite people over to sample what she’d produced.”
They moved away from the subject but a few nights later he raised it again.
“Why did you leave Puffin Island?”
“I went to college.” She added a tiny drop of truffle oil to the pasta she was making. “Grams decided it was time for her to make a change, too.”
“That was brave of her.”
“She was an amazing woman. She always looked forward, not backward, and she never doubted that she could do something. She moved to New York City after living on a rural island in Maine, and she made it her home.”
“Having been an English professor she must have enjoyed the access to culture.”
“She did. And for the first few years she had a small apartment on the Upper West Side. Being close to Central Park was her way of keeping green space in her life. We used to take picnics to the park. I loved feeding the ducks.”
“Did she miss the island?”
“I don’t think so.” Eva served the pasta and put the plates on the table. “She thought it was marvelous to be able to listen to outdoor concerts in the summer, and to be able to buy any ingredients she wanted and not rely on the one store on the island to have it in stock.”
“Did you miss it?”
“No.” She sat down opposite him. “I loved the island, but New York City was like paradise for me. The day I discovered Bloomingdale’s was the day I knew I was home. That, and the shoe floor of Saks Fifth Avenue. It’s big enough to earn its own zip code. There’s even an express elevator that takes you straight there.”
“Straight to heaven?”
“Something like that.”
“Your grandmother sounds like an extraordinary person. It’s no wonder you had a special bond.”
“She was my everything,” Eva said. “My whole world. She was the type of person who tried always to focus on what was right in her life, not what was wrong. If I looked out of the window and said ‘it’s raining, Grams’ she’d say it would be good for the plants, or that we’d be able to go out and have fun splashing in puddles. We were snowed in for half the winter once, like the rest of the island, but she never complained. She said it was the perfect weather to cozy up in the kitchen and cook. She was so—sunny.”
“She passed that on to you.”
“I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure.” She poked at her food. “Since she died, I feel more like a raincloud than sunshine. She was the most important person in the world to me and I don’t think I’m adjusting very well to being without her—” She blinked, automatically hauling her feelings back inside. “Sorry. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Do you want to talk about something else?”
No. She wanted to talk about her grandmother. She wanted to talk about her feelings. “I don’t want to moan on about my problems.”
“Because that’s what your grandmother taught you?” He studied her thoughtfully. “You’re allowed to feel down, Eva. And you’re allowed to talk about feeling down.”
“I think part of me is afraid that if I start, I won’t stop. My friends have been so good, listening to me and hugging me when I’m upset, but I know I need to sort myself out.”
“You were the one who told me there was no time frame to adjusting to loss.”
“I feel as if I’m letting Grams down. I’m trying really hard to be the way she taught me to be, but it’s hard.”
“Could it ever be anything else? After Sallyanne died I read a lot about the theory of grief, but grief is personal and in practice all you can do is keep going, day after day, and hope it gets better.”
“What do you miss most about her?”
“Sallyanne?” He put his fork down. “I don’t know. Probably her irreverent sense of humor. What do you miss most about your grandmother?”
“The feeling of being wrapped in love. The sense of security that came from knowing she loved me no matter what. Since I lost her, I feel as if I’m lying in a big cold bed and someone has ripped the covers from me. And then there are the hundreds of small things I miss. Like calling her to tell her my news, and hearing her tell me what’s been happening in the assisted living community she was in—the latest funny thing that Tom said, or how Doris left her teeth in a cup and scared the mailman. I used to go to their Christmas party. I miss that.” She reached for her wine and gave Lucas an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Self-indulgent rant over.”
“Don’t apologize. And for the record, I don’t think you’re self-indulgent. Far from it.” He helped himself to more food. “From what you’ve told me, I think you’ve been keeping too much of it to yourself. You should talk. It’s important.”
“You don’t talk.”
“I write. That’s my way of relieving tension.”
“You kill characters?”
“That, too.” He gave a soft laugh and she laughed, too.
She realized she felt better than she had in ages. “Thank you for listening. It’s easy to talk to you, perhaps because you’ve lost someone, too. You know how it feels. You understand.”
It was something else that connected them, another layer of intimacy deepening what they already had.
She’d given up trying not to want him. She wanted him desperately. She wanted him to take her to bed and make love to her the way he had the night of the ball, but no matter how late they talked into the night, no matter how personal the conversation got, he didn’t touch her again. And she tried desperately not to touch him.
Once, she’d touched him by accident while handing him a plate and she’d pulled back so sharply the plate had almost landed on the floor. He’d caught it one-handed and the brief flame in his eyes had told her he was not only aware of her struggle, but he was experiencing it, too. But even though the sexual tension simmered hotter than anything she cooked up in his kitchen, he did nothing about it.
And neither did she.
She told herself that he was being sensible, but still there was a dull ache of disappointment that things couldn’t be different and a sharp edge of longing. Her nights were disturbed by sweaty, erotic dreams, the images from which she found it hard to erase in the light of day.
She tried to lure her mind away from thoughts of sex. “How is the book going?”
“It’s going well, thanks.” He poured more wine. “I wrote another ten thousand words today. Enough to make me think this book might actually be finished on time.”
“As I’m in it, are you going to let me read it?”
He reached for his glass. “You don’t read crime fiction.”
“I’ve never played a starring role before.”
“I never let anyone read my work until it’s finished.”
She felt a stab of disappointment. “All right. But I expect a signed copy.”
“Even if there’s blood on the cover?”
“I’ll wrap it in flowery pink paper.”
She served a light tarte au citron inspired by the summer she’d spent in Paris, and afterward Lucas returned to his study.
Eva caught up on her emails, updated her social media accounts and made two calls to clients.
On her way up to bed she made herself an herbal tea, and took Lucas one, too.
The door to his study was open, but there was no sign of him.
She put the tea down on his desk, and noticed the words on the screen. He’d obviously stopped in the middle of a chapter.
Curiosity tugged her toward the screen.
She felt a flash of guilt that she was peeping without asking him, and then shrugged it off. She was his inspiration. Surely that entitled her to at least take a look at the character he’d created?
She stared at the screen, intending only to read a few lines.
But then she kept reading. She kept reading even though her mouth was dry and her hands were shaking.
She was so absorbed, she didn’t hear Lucas come back into the room.
“Eva?”
His voice cut through her shock and she backed away, stumbling over a stack of books he’d left on the floor.
“It’s me.” The words jammed in her throat. “You said I was your inspiration—”
“Eva—”
“I’m the murderer. I thought I was a nice, kind character but I’m the murderer? You made me the murderer?”
“It’s not you. My characters are not real people.” He hesitated. “It’s true I took some of your character traits.”
“She has blond hair and a DD cup. She’s a brilliant cook! You might as well have called her Eva! Everyone is going to know it’s based on me and it’s h-horrible.” She couldn’t push the words past the tense ball of anger in her chest. “And the detail—”
“Eva, please—”
“All those questions you asked when we were together. I thought it was because you were interested in me. Because you wanted to get to know me, but you wanted more detail for your book.”
“That isn’t true.” He stepped toward her but she lifted her hand.
“Do not come any closer. Do not touch me, Lucas, because right now I’m so mad.”
“You’re overreacting. At most it’s loosely based on you, that’s all.”
“All?” She stalked forward, her finger outstretched. “I’ve got news for you, Lucas. I am a real person. A real, flesh-and-blood person with emotions and f-feelings. I am not one of your characters and we are not in one of your novels. This is real life. This is my life and you don’t get to—” She stabbed him hard in the chest, her breathing shallow and rapid. “You don’t get to turn me into a murderer.”
“If you’d listen—”
“Don’t placate me. You think I’m capable of murder? Well, I’ve got news for you—” she spat the words out “—since I met you, I just might be. Right now I can think of at least a dozen interesting ways I could kill you that you’ve probably never even thought of.” With that she turned on her heel and left his office, slamming the door behind her.
She went to her bedroom and slammed that door, too, so upset she couldn’t breathe.
He’d made her the murderer.
All this time she’d thought they had something special, that this new intimacy was genuine and deep, and all the time he’d been using what he’d learned about her in his book. He wasn’t interested in her because he cared about her, but because he cared about his story.
She’d kidded herself that she was helping him by being here, inspiring him. Instead she’d given him the inspiration to turn her into a bad person.
She paced the floor, so monumentally stressed she had no idea what to do to calm herself. A drink. She needed a drink. It worked for Lucas in times of stress, so why not her?
She stalked downstairs to the kitchen. She ignored the whiskey and instead reached for a bottle of wine from the rack.
Footsteps sounded behind her but she didn’t turn.
She didn’t want to look at him, let alone talk to him.
How much of it had been real? Those lingering glances, the almost agonizing restraint they’d both shown when they were in the same room—had she imagined all of that?
She’d told him things she hadn’t even told her closest friends, and instead of guarding those confidences like treasure, he’d stolen them for profit.
She thumped the wine down on the counter and grabbed a corkscrew.
“Whatever you do don’t drop that,” he breathed. “It’s a bottle of—never mind.”
“Great value, is that what you were going to say?”
“There are only eleven bottles left in the world. It’s the best.”
She gave him a long, hard look and then yanked the cork out of the bottle. “Now there are ten.” She poured the wine into a glass and lifted it, challenging him with her eyes. “To murder.” She took a sip and closed her eyes briefly. “Mmm. You’re right, that is good. They say crime doesn’t pay, but in your case it obviously pays extremely well. You should have bought the other ten bottles.”
He eyed the open bottle. “I did.”
She lifted the bottle and topped off her glass, temper simmering. “Where are they?”
“In storage.”
“So what’s this one doing here?” She took another mouthful. He was watching her with the same degree of caution he might have shown an unexploded bomb.
“I was keeping it for a special occasion.”
“Doesn’t get much more special than this. It’s not every day a girl finds out she’s a murderer. It’s not exactly the career I had mapped out for myself and I’m not sure my grandmother would be proud, but I believe in celebrating every little thing. I hope I’m good at what I do. Am I?” She drained the glass and thumped it back down on the counter.
He winced. “You shouldn’t drink that so fast. You’ll get a headache.”
“I’ll drink it any damn way I like and you can watch me do it.”
“This isn’t like you.”
“Maybe it is. Maybe this is the side of me you haven’t seen before. You’re the one who is always telling me people have other sides to them. You think because I’m optimistic and like to see the best in people that makes me weak? You thought I wouldn’t dare open your superexpensive wine? Think again, Lucas.” She sloshed more wine into the glass. “How much is this bottle worth?”
He named a figure that almost made her drop the bottle, but she tightened her grip. “Right. Then I’d better savor every mouthful.”
“You’re not planning on sharing it?”
“No. You’re going to watch me drink it, and that is as close as I am ever going to get to torturing someone. And it’s the closest I’m going to get to satisfaction.”
His gaze was wary. “What do you mean?”
“I liked you, Lucas.” Her hand shook on the bottle. “I really liked you. And I thought—never mind what I thought. I was stupid. You can put that in your book if you like. Might as well get the facts down.”
“If you’re implying that our sleeping together had something to do with my book, then you’re a million miles from the truth.”
“Really? And yet we haven’t had sex since. So either you didn’t enjoy it, or you got what you wanted, and—”
“Eva—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Truly.”
“The book has nothing to do with why we haven’t had sex since that night.”
“Save it. From now on I’m not saying a single word because that way you can’t use what I say for evidence, or characterization, or—” She waved the bottle. “Or other nefarious gains. Nefarious. You see? I know words other than nice and fine. Are you impressed?”
“I think you probably need to stop drinking.”
“Don’t tell me what I need. Are you suggesting I can’t hold my alcohol? Because I’ll have you know I could drink you under the table.” She swayed and just about managed to stay upright. “Screw you, Lucas. Oh wait, I already did that.” Deciding to exit while she could still walk without falling over, she scooped up the wine and stomped up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her.