Feeling the two pills stubbornly lodged halfway down her throat, Eileen coughed twice and took several large swallows of water. She placed the glass on the counter in front of her and gathered the nerve she needed to actually talk out loud about her potential shame. “Sorry?” she asked, forcing herself to look up, if not exactly into Simon’s eyes then at least at his chin. “I don’t remember what happened last night,” she admitted.

“No, I imagine not,” he said as he began pushing buttons and twisting handles on the espresso machine. “Just coffee? Or I could make you a cappuccino, if you like. Or anything really, espresso, macchiato, latte. We even have some flavored syrups,” he offered as he opened the cupboard above the machine. He turned and looked at her, waiting for her order.

Eileen tried to figure out how bad this was. Was Simon really feeling this casual because nothing had happened? Or was this his way of sidestepping the avalanche of personal disgust and shame they both should feel because they had crossed the worst line ever last night?

“Just coffee, please.”

He gave her a quick closed-mouth smile and then turned to begin the task. She watched him, the way the fabric of the same short sleeved T-shirt he’d worn yesterday stretched and pulled across his muscled back, his bare arms, the hands that had no trouble getting the espresso machine to grind coffee beans and begin percolating her a perfect cup of aromatic caffeine. His hands had touched that back. His hands had held her face. Their lips had—

“So, again,” he said, turning to face her while the machine hissed and gurgled behind him, “I’m really sorry about last night.” He looked at the floor before raising his eyes to hers and waiting for her response.

Eileen bit her lip, wishing he would say more, wishing she could remember more. God, she didn’t even know how horrible she should be feeling. “I’m sorry too,” she said.

Simon blew a fast stream of air out through his lips. “You?” He shook his head. “You’re a saint. Seriously, Eileen, I don’t know what I would have done. Thank you, for everything.”

She raised her eyebrows, envisioning all the ways this thank you could be so completely inappropriate. Had she slept with him? Done other equally unfathomable sexual things with him? She couldn’t bear to think she was capable of such a betrayal, to her sister, to Eric—but she also couldn’t be sure that she wouldn’t do it given the amount of alcohol she had been applying to her utterly dysfunctional life lately. She was going to have to say it, the question, out loud right now. She pressed the pads of her fingers to her closed eyes.