THEY NEVER MADE it out of the kitchen. They were rough and urgent, zippers yanked open, mouths searching, buttons popped and skittering, as though Robin and Eric had been simultaneously possessed and, in a way, they were. It had been such a long time, the space widening between them with each day, week. Month. God, had it really been that long?

Robin felt the tile counter against her bare back, then the granite island, and then she was riding him on the hardwood floor, a need roiling within her that she hadn’t felt in years, maybe not since the first time she’d been with Eric—a longing so intense and unfillable that it bordered on pain.

After they finished, they lay beside each other, Robin drained, fileted, the stress sapped out of her, replaced by a sense of well-being that, considering the reality of her situation, proved what simple, physically driven creatures human beings truly are.

“Wow,” Eric said. “That was . . .”

“Yeah.”

More silence. But that was normal. Neither of them had ever been big sex-talkers. Not during, not after, both preferring the sound of each other’s breathing. It was good to know that in this area at least, Robin and Eric hadn’t changed since they met.

“Eric?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I trust you?”

“What? Of course you can.”

“Eric . . .”

“I don’t know what you think was going on with me, but—”

“I’m not talking about a month ago or a week ago. I don’t care what was going on back then. Well, actually, that’s not true, I do care.” She took a breath. “But I’m willing to just . . . shut the door on everything that happened before the shooting. Okay? I won’t think about it. I won’t ask you about it. As long as I can trust you from here on in.”

“Robin,” Eric said. “I never cheated on you.”

She rolled over on her side and gazed at his profile, strong arms folded behind his head, eyes aimed at the ceiling. Outside the kitchen window, the sun was starting to set, casting a pink glow across the room. Eric’s blue eyes shined in it. She wanted to believe him. But.

Eight months ago, at the height of their estrangement, three friends on three different nights had spotted Eric at Chez Chas—a Midtown restaurant with a celebrity chef and seriously dark lighting. Two had seen him entering the place, one had seen him leaving. That friend, the one who had seen him leaving, was the one who had seen him with a woman.

Eric’s reasons for being there could have been innocent, even though he’d claimed to be working late on all three nights. The woman could have been a fellow producer. She could have been a source. But.