It was probably guilt. She felt as if it had been painted onto her skin. Not that she’d done anything to be guilty about. Unless thoughts counted. Did they? “I’ve had a week in the sun relaxing. And I forgot to use sunscreen, so my nose is peeling.”

He’d almost smiled. “I imagined you clearing your mother’s house and doing endless jobs. How have you spent your time?”

“I saw Angie. I spent time on the beach. I swam every day. I painted.” And flirted.

“You painted? Good. You don’t do enough of that, and I’m guessing I’m partly to blame.”

She shook her head. “I should have made the time.”

“How? There are so many demands on you it’s a wonder you have time to brush your teeth.” He sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck. “It’s humid and close.”

“We’re going to have a storm.” In more ways than one.

She fought the urge to have the conversation now and get it over with. She needed time to think about what she wanted to say. She didn’t want to have it while wearing a sexy red dress she’d worn to cook dinner for another man. Even though technically she’d done nothing, it felt wrong.

“Go to bed, Sean.”

In the end he’d agreed and had taken his hastily packed bag to the bedroom they used when they stayed while she’d slept in the room she’d been using all week, surrounded by memories of her childhood.

And now they were facing each other across the kitchen table while rain dripped onto the patio outside.

“You’re awake early.” Sean poured her a mug of coffee and handed it to her. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Not much. You?”

“No. Why did you choose to sleep in your old room?”

“I don’t know.” She took a sip of coffee. Her eyes felt gritty. “I was tired when I arrived and picked that room. I think I needed a complete change.”

“From me?”

“No.” She put her mug down. The article lay on the table between them, along with so many things that needed to be said. “I didn’t plan any of this, Sean. So many things happened that last day, and in the months leading up to it. Something inside me snapped. I felt overwhelmed all the time. And isolated, as if all I was to my family was a fixer—someone to bring them things they’d forgotten, book tables they couldn’t be bothered to book, or cook meals so that they didn’t have to. I’d ceased to be a person. And that was my fault, because I allowed it to happen and I didn’t say anything.” And it was a relief to finally say it. A relief to have it out there in the open.