She woke up to the particular cruelty of Paris sunlight coming through curtains she hadn't closed properly.

Andrea lay still for a moment with her eyes shut, waiting for her head to decide how bad it was going to be and the answer came quickly — a dull persistent pressure behind her eyes, her mouth dry, the faint residual warmth of too much Burgundy still sitting somewhere at the back of her throat. She breathed slowly and took inventory of what she knew.

She opened her eyes slightly and realize she was in Henry's shirt.

The shirt was soft and white and the sleeves fell past her hands completely. She...