“Honey, Blaine took advantage of you. You can’t beat yourself up for the rest of your life about it,” Conor said. “How much did you drink?”

“A glass? I don’t remember.”

Conor froze. “You drank one glass of champagne and blacked out?”

“Yes. That’s why I don’t drink. Obviously, I have an adverse reaction to alcohol.”

He straightened her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Louisa, no one passes out from one glass of champagne.”

“What are you saying?”

“Health conditions exist where people have no tolerance for alcohol, but they’re rare. Do you have any weird medical issues? Were you on medication?”

“No.” Louisa’s head tilted, and he could see her mind making connections. “Would you explain what you’re thinking?”

But Conor thought he’d better prove his point. “The condos are connected to the hotel, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you get room service?”

“Yes. The number is on the base of the phone charger.”

He reached for the handset, dialed the room service number, and ordered a bottle of champagne.

“You want to get me drunk?” she asked, one brow shooting upward.

“No, I want to do an experiment.” He met her eyes. “Do you trust me?”

“I do.” She didn’t hesitate.

He went to the fridge and pulled out the cheese. He found an unopened pack of crackers in the pantry. A knock on the door signaled the arrival of room service. Conor opened the door. A young man in a white shirt and black slacks wheeled a cart into the living room. A champagne bottle sat in a bucket of ice. Two tall flutes flanked it.

The waiter opened the bottle and poured two glasses before bowing out.

Louisa sat down on the couch. She picked up a glass and fingered the stem. “I’ve tried alcohol a few times since that night, but I never got past the first sip. The taste triggered anxiety. I was afraid of what might happen.”

“Look, I’m not saying it’s impossible, but don’t you think you should know?” Conor set the plate of crackers and cheese on the coffee table. He picked up the second glass. He tapped it to hers. “Here’s to the truth.”

Louisa sipped. Her free hand went to the base of her throat, but there were no pearls to rub. She needed a distraction.

“Does it taste all right?”

Worry clouded her eyes. “I’m never going to like it.”

“That’s OK.” Conor scanned the living room tables. “Where’s the remote?”

“In the drawer.”

He turned on the flat-screen hanging opposite the couch and surfed until he found a classic movie channel. A whistling Ray Milland sauntered across a black-and-white seascape.

“Oh, I love this movie.”

Conor set the remote control on the table. He leaned back on the sofa. “What is it?”