The waiter was talking to a group of old guys and seemed surprised to have customers so early in the morning.

I thought I might feel better if I ate something, even though my stomach rebelled at the idea.

I leaned back in my chair, staring across at Caro, not flinching from her gaze as she stared back. I had no idea how to start this conversation, especially as she didn’t look like she wanted to talk to me.

Our coffees arrived along with a basket of rolls, and I wondered who was going to break the silence first.

I pushed the basket toward her but she shook her head.

“No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.”

“Did you check out of that place?”

“Yes,” she clipped out.

“Did you pack up my stuff?”

She seemed surprised by my question. “Of course!”

Yeah? Well, I’d expected her to have tossed my stuff or left it behind.

“Okay, thanks,” I said quietly. “What do I owe you for the room?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Just tell me what I owe you, Caro.”

“Seeing as you didn’t stay in it, I don’t see why you should pay.”

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my irritation.

“Is this how you’re going to be?”

“How would you like me to be, Sebastian?” she asked coldly. “Because, honestly, I just don’t know.”

Fuck fuck fuck.

I grabbed a roll as a distraction, needing to do something with my hands so I could think, and started tearing it into pieces.

“Look, maybe we should just cut our losses,” she said, her voice empty and tired. “I’ll get a cab to the airport and you can … do whatever you want, Sebastian.”

God, no! Was that what she wanted? I stared at the crumbs on my plate.

“I don’t want you to go,” I admitted, the tug of desperation making my gut churn again.

She waited for me to say something else—but I had no clue what she needed to hear. What the fuck did I know about relationships? I’d gone out with Brenda when I was 16, then met Caro, and had boned so women since her that it was lucky my dick hadn’t died from over-use.

“Sebastian,” she said, with the tone an adult uses when a kid is pissing them off but they’re trying not to lose it, “you’re going to have to tell me why on earth you’d want me to stay. Last night you said some pretty unpleasant things: and I’m not going to accept your explanation about having drunk too much. It’s clear that you’ve been hanging on to a lot of anger toward me. And I don’t know what I can do about that.”

She was right. Christ, I hated that. I needed to give her something; explain the flashpoints that kept setting off my explosive temper.

“Caro, did you really try and find me when I turned 21?”

She sighed, looking disappointed.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I told you before: I wrote to Shirley, and I wrote to Donna. But no, I didn’t try and find you directly, because I simply wanted to know that you were okay. When both letters were returned unopened, I suppose I took it as an omen that it wasn’t to be. I didn’t feel I had the right to interrupt your life and risk doing further damage. I felt a great deal of guilt at the devastation I left behind me: I didn’t want to remind you of all that, or make you feel any obligation toward me. It never occurred to me that you … that you’d be waiting for me.”

Was she for real? I leaned forward, my tone angry. “But I said I’d wait for you. I promised I’d wait. Hell, Caro, it was the last thing I got to say to you. And you … you said…” I stopped, wondering if she even remembered what she’d said to me.

Her gaze softened and her eyes creased with emotion.

“Oh, Sebastian … I’m so very sorry.”

I swallowed hard, hearing the regret in her voice. “Did you mean it, Caro? Did you mean it when you said you loved me?”

“Yes, tesoro,” she whispered.

Her admission stunned me, that and hearing the nickname that she’d had for me all those years ago … but was it all in the past tense?

“I loved you very much,” she continued, but then her back straightened, and some of the softness hardened again. “But you’re not the person I knew ten years ago. The Sebastian I knew was sweet and gentle and loving, but you … you can be like that, but your anger scares me. The hatred I saw in your face and heard in your words—that was hard for me. I can see that you think I let you down badly ten years ago, or when you were 21 … and I can’t tell you how sorry I am for that, but I can’t fix it either—I can’t change the past.”

It was so hard to hear what she thought of me now, so I turned away, staring out at the waves.

“I’m confused about what you want from me, Sebastian,” she went on, her voice serious and determined. “One minute you say we’ve been given a second chance and that we should try again, and the next minute you’re blaming me for every bad decision you’ve taken in the last ten years. If you hate me that much, if you resent me that much, why am I here?”

“I don’t hate you, Caro,” I said quickly.

“Sebastian, you called me a liar; you said you could never trust me.”

I winced, hating to have my words thrown back at me.

“You asked me to come with you on this trip,” she said crisply, “and then the first time something goes wrong, you fling the past in my face. If you really believe I did what I did because I didn’t care, then I don’t see how we’re going to get past that.”

My hope, which had never been great to begin with, drained away.

“Look,” she sighed when I didn’t speak, “I wouldn’t be who I am now if I hadn’t met you—that’s the truth. I’d probably still be locked in a loveless marriage. But that’s only half the story.”

That made me look up.

“It was really tough for me when I got to New York. I had almost no money, no contacts, nowhere to live, no job. Do you want to know how I survived? I cleaned people’s houses; I scrubbed their toilets. For three years. Until eventually I earned enough from my writing.”

“I didn’t know,” I said, sad beyond words that she’d had to struggle so hard.

“No, because you didn’t give me the chance to answer you last night.”

I decided that I needed to know more about the missing ten years, but there was only one important question left for me to ask.

“You said you dated a couple of times.”

“Excuse me?”

She sounded surprised. Well, she knew my dating history—I needed to know hers.

“The first night we talked. I asked you if you were seeing anyone, and you said you’d dated a couple of times.”

“Yes, so?”

“When?”

“What, you want dates?”

“Yes.”

She sighed and shook her head, but she wasn’t saying no.

“I met Bob on my 35th birthday when I was having drinks with friends. We dated for three months and then he was transferred to an office in Cincinnati. Eric was a couple of years later: we dated for about six weeks before he dumped me for a younger woman.”

I waited for more but she just stared at me.

“That’s it?” I questioned.

I was stunned. She’d waited five years before she’d dated anyone after she left me? Seriously?

“I had a one night stand with a reporter when I was on assignment in Mexico,” she said defiantly, her head held high. “That’s it. Now you know my entire sexual history. Although I very much doubt you could be as succinct about yours.”

I had to concede a wry smile. “I deserve that,” I admitted.

She closed her eyes and leaned back.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She shook her head slowly and her lips turned down. “Not really.”

I was tired of trying to think of the right thing to say, so I just told the truth.

“I am sorry, Caro. I just get fucked up in the head sometimes.”

Her eyes were still tinged with hurt and anger.

“You can’t deal with it by lashing out at me,” she sighed. “And I can’t deal with it if you keep blaming me for something I can’t change.”