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you can’t keep.”
    “If the tea doesn’t do it, the toast will. I put extra marmalade on it.”
    She smiled at him grudgingly. “Thank you. I don’t deserve you.”
    “Quite right. You must have been great in another life.”
    She nodded, self-pity momentarily overtaking her, and sipped at the hot tea. It helped a little. “I think I was Mother Teresa.”
    “You can’t have been her. She would have had to have died before you were born.”
    “Okay, pedant. I was Florence Nightingale. Or Marie Curie.” He laughed.
    “Okay, Flo. Eat your toast. I’m going to get the papers.”
    The green dress was on the back of the chair. She vaguely remembered putting it there, before she and Andy made love last night. Normally she wouldn’t have bothered; they were both pretty wound up, as she remembered, by the time they got back. But it was the dress . She suddenly remembered a guy—a guy she hadn’t thought about in years—
    who’d carefully folded his suit trousers along the crease and laid them 50 e l i z a b e t h
    n o b l e
    reverently over a chair before climbing into bed with her. For the first and last time, given what a passion killer that was. Lisa shot the dress a spiteful look. It was all its fault. Andy had asked her, and she had said yes, and now everything that was so clear last night was all cloudy again, and, between that and the headache, she felt utterly lousy. She pushed the tray aside, lay back, and pulled a pillow across her face.
    She was asleep again when she felt Andy slide into bed beside her.
    Despite herself, she leaned back into his solid warmth. He put his arms around her and laid his head against her neck.
    “Did the tea help, my lovely?”
    “Bit.”
    He squeezed her tight. “Brr. It’s freezing out. You’re all toasty. Mmm.”
    He laid one of his legs between hers, forcing her to turn toward him, and began to kiss her, his hands on her face. She pulled away, a little irritably.
    “Blimey. Haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. Can’t imagine why you’d want to kiss me.”
    “Can’t imagine why I wouldn’t.” But he brought her head down to his chest, stroking her hair. “Aren’t you the woman who agreed to marry me last night? Then brought me back here and did unspeakable things to me?
    Because if you aren’t, I was drunker than I thought!” He ran his hands down her flanks, onto her bottom. “No . . . no . . . I’m sure it was you. . . .”
    Now. Now was the time. If she just explained . . . she was carried away. She wasn’t sure, she wasn’t ready, it wasn’t the right time . . . she’d had too much champagne, it was the fairy lights and the song and the bloody dress. . . . Now was the time. Maybe, just maybe, if she did it now, she could salvage this—she could make it okay. Maybe he’d laugh it off. And they could go back to what they’d been before last night.
    So why wasn’t she saying anything? Why was she letting him kiss her?
    Letting him press himself against her, stroking so gently, so insistently up and down her back, letting the mood change to something more serious and intense and sexy again. It felt good, of course—it always did.
    But that wasn’t it. This was . . . easier.

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    And so she didn’t say anything. As he moved on top of her, his breath hot and coffee-flavored against her ear, she stared, wide-eyed, at the ceiling, fighting a ripple of panic, or was it nausea, and the moment for honesty passed.
    She pushed him away, playfully at first, then seriously, with urgency.
    “I’m serious, Andy. Get off me.” He rolled off, and she ran, naked, to the bathroom, tea and bile and champagne rising in her throat. She threw up violently in the toilet, then sank to the tiles, and laid her head back against the wall.
    “You okay?”
    “Fine. Don’t come in.”
    He was already in, handing her a hand towel to wipe her mouth. “I don’t care about a bit of mess. I’m good with bodily