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Five minutes later, Dylan was back after the quickest shower in history, dressed in jeans and a pale-blue cotton shirt that he was still fastening when he entered the kitchen. He was barefoot and his hair was still wet—it looked wild and spiky. He seemed to have recovered some of his composure.

“How was your run, darling?” Lulu drawled. The champagne was affecting her too.

“Fine, thank you.” He almost smiled at her. “I feel much better.” He glanced at me and his eyes cooled. “Have you eaten anything?”

“Some pretzels,” I lied.

“Okay, I’ll get us a takeaway. What would you like to eat? Thai, Chinese, Japanese? This is your celebration evening. Your choice.”

“I’d like Thai,” Lulu interjected, and Dylan shot her an irritated glance.

“Yes, Thai,” I agreed, though I didn’t think I’d ever eaten Thai food.

Dylan opened a window on his tablet and handed it to me.

On it was a menu. I looked over it, daunted. “Will you choose for me?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied, and his face brightened.

A small frown appeared on Lulu’s perfect tanned brow as she watched us.

“You can choose for me too.” She sounded petulant as she wandered out of the kitchen.

“You always hate whatever I choose for you,” Dylan called after her.

I giggled and drained my champagne flute. “More please?” I beamed and held out my glass to Dylan.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he murmured, giving me a pointed but amused look.

“Oh, come on, Dylan. Please, can I have some more?” I was enjoying this champagne-induced carefree feeling.

The amusement left his face.

Lulu meandered back into the kitchen, clutching her handbag.

“It’s not like she’s a child, Dyl,” she snapped.

His pointed look shifted to her, and I thought he was going to say something unpleasant, but he didn’t.

“She’s been through a rough time. Let her have a drink,” Lulu added.

Dylan’s glare turned to ice. “Yes, because alcohol solves everyone’s problems,” he hissed.

Her dark eyes flashed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop overreacting, Dylan.”

“Overreacting!” Dylan’s voice rose, doing exactly that. “You come do the night shift in A&E on a Saturday night. I’ll show you how effective alcohol is at helping people through a rough time!”

The atmosphere in the kitchen took a nosedive. In my merry state, I was suddenly aware that they were glowering at each other, seething. The tension crackled and stretched between them.

Oh no. This is my fault.

They’re arguing because of me.

Their face-off must run deeper than concern about my alcohol consumption. And I knew in an instant it was because I was there.

There, with Dylan.

This is all my fault.