He gets to the front step. “Mind if I come in?” he asks.

I move aside, and his body touches mine as he goes by.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to get you wet.”

I strain to keep from making a sex joke, and say only, confusingly, “Oh, it’s nothing. I mean, don’t worry about it.”

My grip on her collar slips and Maureen starts to run out, but is stopped by Cillian’s quick, sharp whistle.

Whoa, why is that so hot? He’s like Captain von Trapp without the late-wife baggage and war trauma.

I find a dry towel from under the bathroom sink, and then ask, “So why didn’t you wear a jacket or something?”

“I was in a hurry.”

As I hand it to him, I look up into his eyes and see something there I haven’t seen before.

My blood runs icy. In a good way.

“I feel like a right clown,” he says.

“Why’s that?”

He breaks my gaze and walks into the kitchen, where he tosses the towel into the washer like I did, and then opens the fridge. “Y’mind?”

He holds up the open bottle of Gamay. I gesture that he should go ahead.

He gets out the glass that matches mine.

“Did I take these glasses from a hotel by any chance?” I hold mine up.

“So you are starting to remember then?”

“No,” I say, thrilled that I’d been spookily right. “I have flashes sometimes. Vague sort of memories that aren’t really memories. It’s kind of like being a little psychic except all I get is senses of things like that.”

“Bit like déjà vu?”

My mouth falls open. “Exactly!”

He pours his wine and then leans against the counter. The candlelight sends him into even more flattering light than usual.

“So why do you feel like a clown?”

“Ah, yeah. Because I know you’re not the same girl. You said as much. But you are. And somehow, it’s doing my head in.”

He smiles and blushes a little.

“Can I say something completely inappropriate?” I ask, the words coming out without my full consent. “Now that we’re being honest with each other.”

He nods.

“You look”—I glance at his body and then back to his face—“really fucking hot tonight.”

That muscle in his jaw flicks and he says, “So do you.”

I know I’m in sloppy pajamas, but for once in my life I don’t do the self-deprecating, painfully female thing where I say, No, no I look awful.

I get it. I get that he sees me, not the clothes.

“This is so bizarre,” he says. “I don’t think there’s a rule book for what you’re supposed to do in these situations.”

“Situations where your ex-girlfriend is convinced she’s traveling from another dimension and therefore she doesn’t know you?”

“That’d be it.”