He wonders if he still might tell her that he loves her or, more tentatively, that he 'thinks he might be in love with her', which is both more touching and easier to back out of.
He picks up the phone. He is frankly drunk now, and with drunkenness has come the old compulsion: to say something stupid to an attractive woman.
And from the leading lady;
'Dexter, I love you so much. So, so much, and I probably always will.' Her lips touched his cheek. 'I just don't like you anymore. I'm sorry.'
'Oxfordshire. Very nice,' she said, privately mortified at the speed with which initimacy evaporates, to be replaced by small talk. Last night they had said and done all those things, and now they were like strangers in a bus queue. The mistake she had made was to fall asleep and break the spell. If they had stayed awake, they might still have been kissing now, but instead it was all over and she found herself saying; 'How long will that take then? To Oxfordshire?'