by Lily Vixen
“How long?”
“Twelve years, three months.”
“You remember to the day?”
Blake shrugged again. When he turned to Elle, he could feel a sad smile pulling at his mouth.
“Trust me, you will too.”
Watersports
A doorbell chimed. Well, it didn’t exactly chime — it clanged and clonked like a drunk bellfounder had pulled a prank on someone when making the damned setup. Elle jerked, almost spilling coffee on herself, and lifted her eyebrows at Blake.
The pensive, depressed expression on his face lifted in an instant. He looked on the verge of outright laughter, but waved a hand at her and rose instead.
“Takeout’s here.”
“How on earth do you live with that thing?”
“Don’t get much company, so it’s doesn’t bug me.” Blake moved away, opening a kitchen drawer and rifling through it. “And hey, can we pretend I didn’t just say that? Hell, let’s just forget the last ten minutes happened, okay?”
He gave her a quick glance, but turned away before she could nod.
She heard his boots thudding down the stairs. Sinking back into the couch, Elle stretched out her legs and studied her bare feet for a moment.
Gah, her nail polish needed serious maintenance. She curled her legs under her, flinched when they touched something buried between the arm and cushion of the couch, and hurriedly leaned closer to see what it was.
Elle’s eyebrows twitched as she tugged at the corner of the magazine. There was less than an inch of it sticking out. She glanced at the empty, gaping doorway, and hurriedly yanked it free.
A Penthouse. She cocked her head to the side and gently lay it down on the cushion beside her.
She was on page fifteen, staring at a particularly vivid photo of a couple who were taking watersports to a whole new level, when she heard the door bang open. With a barely-suppressed squeal, Elle shoved the magazine under the couch.
Blake didn’t seem to notice. He had his hands full of bags with enough food to feed a small third-world country. Elle shot up, hurrying over to him and taking one of the more precariously-held bags from his fingers.
Again, their fingertips brushed.
Her mind flickered, serving her a brief vignette of those few seconds when Blake hands had been around her neck, thumbs stroking her throat. A bolt of electricity coursed through her, and she almost fell over her own feet as she stepped back from him.
“Got it?”
“Sure,” she managed.
Turning, Elle’s back stiffened.
There, in the middle of the floor, lay a Penthouse. Not the one she’d been peeking at either. She ran forward, kicked it under the couch with surprising accuracy, and spun around to face Blake.
His eyes were wide. He stood, stiff shouldered and slack-jawed, in the doorway.
“I’m sorry.” Elle swallowed, licked her lips, and carefully put the takeout on the coffee table. “It was just… I didn’t know it was—I just wanted—”
“Well,” Blake said, voice tight, “I guess it’s all downhill from here. You still want something to eat? ‘Cos I’d totally understand if you want—”
“No, please, you didn’t do anything—” Elle cut off again. “I’m starving, really. That—” she waved a hand in the direction of the couch, “—is perfectly natural.” She grimaced at Blake’s sudden cringe. “I mean, we all do it.”
Heat flashed onto her cheeks.
“I mean, sometimes. Not all the times. Not like, every—”
Shit. What the hell was wrong with her tongue? No, her brain. It was misfiring.
“Blake, I’m sorry—”
He cleared his throat, loud enough that it cut her off. Seeming unable to make eye contact with her, he went into the kitchen and set everything down. He dragged out a bar stool and slid onto it, calling her over with a flick of his head.
“You know what? Let’s just eat.”
So Elle went over. Sat down. And just ate.
Blake cast a quick glance over his shoulder and glared at the couch. Traitor. When he turned back, Elle was still staring out the window, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
Well, if he’d ever had any doubts, now he knew. Whatever this was, whatever he’d thought it would be, it wasn’t anymore. He could feel the woman getting ready to leave, preparing herself to tell him that the food was nice. That he was nice. That she had stuff to take care of, like her recent divorce. Her twenty-four-hour recent divorce. Actually, since he doubted there had been any paperwork involved yet, it was more like her imminent divorce.
God, he was an idiot. He’d had a lust-fueled breakdown, had almost screwed the woman in his office in exchange for money owed on her car, and had then decided it was better — better! — to drag her to his house instead. A house that screamed ‘single’ and practically yelled ‘desperate’.
He was single, granted, but not desperate. He’d been perfectly fine by himself for the last twelve years.
“Thank you for dinner.” Elle tore him from his thoughts.
He turned to her, gave a nod and a small smile. They stared at each for a few seconds. Blake rose, gathering up the empty takeout containers and throwing them in the trash. When he faced Elle, she was walking to the corner of the room where the dryer still tumbled away at her clothes. She spent a few seconds staring at the controls, trying to figure out how to interrupt its cycle.
A few seconds later, Elle was in the bathroom, not having looked in his direction once on her way over. He didn’t have to strain to hear the sound of her putting her clothes back on. They were probably still damp. But putting wet clothes back on was preferred to hanging around with him.
His shoulders slumped. Well, what had he been expecting?
Elle paused in the act of tugging on her skirt. For some reason, she kept expecting to hear Blake’s voice, calling out to her, asking her to stay. Why, she didn’t know. He was obviously pissed about her finding his dirty magazines. About reading one of them. Who wouldn’t be?
She’d outstayed her welcome. The best thing — the only thing — she could do was leave. Go back to the hotel. Get warm, make a plan. Figure out what the hell she was going to do with her life. She didn’t even have a job. Hadn’t, for many years. She wouldn’t even know how to type up a resume if her life depended on it.
Well, her life did depend on it. So she’d better go and Google it the second she arrived back at the hotel. And then she’d have to call her father. Hope he could talk his new wife into letting her stay at their place for a few days. Weeks.
All she needed was her car and enough fuel to reach him. How much would she need, for a five hour drive?
Elle shook her head, swaying her hips as she tried to force the tight, damp fabric of her skirt up her legs.
Blake would have to keep her car. She couldn’t pay for the car and still get to her father. There were busses, right? She could work out some kind of bus route, maybe get to her dad in a couple of—
“Everything okay in there?”
Elle started, and twisted half-around to stare at Blake’s shadowy shape.
“I… I have to go,” she said. “Home,” she added, in case he thought she’d wanted to use the toilet. “To the hotel.” Another clarification; home wasn’t home anymore. She, in fact, was homeless.
Tears pricked at her eyes. She forced them back with iron determination, straightening her shoulders and giving her skirt a final, hard tug.
It ripped. Loudly. Right along the side where the seam had been. Well, almost where the seam was.
Had it seriously been that tight on her? When in the hell had she gained so much weight?
“Uh… Elle?”
“Shit.” There was no getting the skirt back on. Almost no getting it off, she realized a few seconds later. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Is everything—”
“Fine!” She took a breath and tried to temper her voice. “I’m fine. Just… I tore my damn skirt.�
� And then, under her breath, “Fuck.”
“Shit. Okay… Well, look, I have a pair of slacks you could borrow?”
Elle squeezed her eyes shut. Forced her mouth into a thin line. And tried, desperately to tug her skirt off her again.
It remained resolutely tangled around her waist. Digging into her fat thighs. Squeezing out dimples of cellulite she hadn’t even noticed were there before. Again, her stupid body wanted to push out tears. Again, she forced them back.
Not here, not now.
“Let’s see.” Blake’s voice, a few feet away, came to her. “This one should work.”
He handed it to her around the corner of the cube-glass wall. Elle took it, pressed her eyes closed, and murmured, “I need your help.”
“My help?” Blake’s dark shadow paused. “With what?”
“With this fuck—” she blew out a breath. “My skirt’s stuck. As in seriously, seriously stuck.” She yanked on it again, hoping against all hope that it would simply tear in two and render Blake’s assistance unnecessary.
It didn’t, of course.
Destiny had decided she had a bone to pick with Elle Georgia. Somewhere, some-fucking-how, Elle had pissed her off.
“Stuck?”
“It won’t come off, okay?” This, with probably a bit more snap than the poor man deserved. “At this point, a pair of scissors or even a gigantic hacksaw would really come in handy.”
Blake laughed.
The sound made Elle stiffen. Then her lips squirmed trying — astonishingly — to turn up into a smile. She forced them into a line, of course. There was nothing funny about this.
“You walk under any ladders lately?” He stuck his head around the corner, and then hurriedly jerked it back.
“What?” Elle glanced down at herself. She still wore the robe, but it had gaped open at the front, exposing a whole lot of bosom. “Oh, for shit’s sake. At this point?” Elle stuck her hand around the corner and beckoned Blake. “Please, just get me out of this thing.”
Blake came inside, making an obvious effort to avert his eyes while simultaneously trying to assess the situation with her skirt. It made him look like he had a serious eye condition. Elle felt that smile coming back, and decided to leave it on her mouth — just for the hell of it.
“You’re not the first woman to—”
“Shut it,” she barked, but not without her smile growing an inch. “Just…” her voice was unsteady now. “Just take it off.”
“Why, just the other night, I had another lady in here who—”
“Blake!” She was on the verge of laughter, but whether it would be the good kind, or the hysterical, way-too-much-shit-has-happened-for-me-to-keep-it-together kind of laugh… she didn’t want to find out.
The man stared down at her skirt, a hand going to stroke over the stubble on his chin. When last did he shave? Or was he trying to attempt a beard? It would look good on him — but it would be a pity to lose sight of that hard, square jaw of his.
Elle realized she was staring at the shape of his mouth and looked down at her skirt.
“If you wiggled a little, maybe I could yank it down while—”
“Don’t try and save it, Blake. It’s a goner. Just—can’t you like—” Elle made a tearing motion with her hands.
“Rip it off?”
“Yes, Blake,” Elle said. “Rip off my skirt. I beg you.”
He looked up at the sound of her deadpan voice, his own mouth squirming as if he wanted to smile. Perhaps deciding it would be inappropriate, the man gave her a firm nod, crouched down, and stuck out his hand.
“I’ll have to—kind of—you know—” He made a complicated gesture with his hand which could have meant anything from opening her like a can of sardines to playing noughts-and-crosses on her thigh.
“Whatever, just do it.”
“Sally always—”
“Enough!” This, with a cut-off laugh.
Blake smiled up at her, slid his hand between her legs less than an inch away from her sex, and tugged at the skirt. Tugged hard. Tugged so hard that Elle fell forward into him.
“Shit, sorry—”
“No, it’s okay.” Elle scrambled up, aware that the robe was doing a pathetic job at keeping her decent.
“Brace yourself,” Blake said, motioning to the cube wall beside Elle.
“You know, Sam’s never once told me that.”
Obviously, she’d done the joke wrong. Instead of the smile, or perhaps small laugh, she’d been expecting, Blake’s face flashed into a look of sympathy. Elle cleared her throat, grabbed hold of the wall, and gave him a nod.
“Bracing.”
Blake tugged.
Her skirt came free with a loud rip. Elle stayed upright this time, and gave her thigh a furious rub where the fabric had sloughed over her skin.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Don’t mention it. Always glad to take a lady’s clothes off.”
There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence, punctuated by Blake’s remorseful sigh, and then he handed her the slacks she’d dropped on the floor.
“Would you like a sweater or something?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
He left the bathroom, stuck his hand back around the corner and flourished her torn skirt at her until she took it. She stared at the thing, shook her head, and stepped into Blake’s slacks. They were warm, incredibly roomy, and smelled like him.
When last had she worn something that smelled like a man? Her man? Elle looked up, blinking at her morose expression in the small mirror above Blake’s sink.
Not in a long, long time.
Blake tried not to do a double-take when Elle came out of the bathroom. It was weird, seeing someone else in your clothes. Even weirder having a complete stranger in your house, of course. But clothing was so personal.
“Blake, about the car—”
“Oh, listen, Elle, if you want to—”
“I can’t take it right now.”
Blake blinked at the woman. He took a step back, leaning his hip against the kitchen counter as he folded his arms over his chest. He wanted to prompt more, but from the skittish look in the woman’s face, she looked about to speak anyway. So he just watched her, trying to figure out what wheels were turning in that mind of hers.
“I’d like to, but honestly, I don’t even know where I’d park it. I can’t stay at the hotel, and—” Elle shook her head. “You don’t need to know any of this,” she mumbled. Clearing her throat, she added in a stronger voice, “Is it okay if I come for it Wednesday? Or Thursday?”
She finally lifted her eyes, hope glimmering in them. “Is there like some kind of stipulated period of time I need to collect—”
“Thursday. You’d need to have it out of there by Thursday.” He heard the words, the cold tone of his voice, and felt a small stab of regret.
But, business was business. The woman hadn’t paid. She was in financial issues as it was. He had no guarantee that, if he did give her his car like he’d wanted to, that she would ever come back to him with the money. It wasn’t a ton of money, but it would mean coming up short end of the month. Which would mean he’d have to take out of his savings to pay the guys. The shop did good, but not good enough for him to be rolling in extra cash.
“Thursday,” Elle whispered, nodding and dropping her eyes to the floor. “Thursday’s fine.”
He knew it wasn’t, and he knew she knew it wasn’t. But he forced a frigid smile on his mouth and waved a hand to the door.
“Need me to call a cab for you?”
“What?” Elle had been walking toward the door, turned and almost bumped into him.
Blake stopped short, dropping his arms back to his side. He’d wanted to grab her, thinking he’d bowled her over.
“A taxi. Should I—”
“Oh, no. Thank you. You’ve done more than enough. You’ve been—” She plucked at his sweater. It looked good, molded over her breasts as it was. “You’ve been too kind.”
“Don’t mention it,” Blake said.
She went to the door, opened it, and turned back again when he was less than a foot behind her.
This time, he did walk into her. She just moved so damn fast — there hadn’t been time to stop or back up.
The woman rebounded from his chest, crashed into the side of the door frame, and hurtled back into him like the ball in a pin-ball machine.
Blake caught her. Gripped her arms. She made a small, helpless sound, her eyes wide.
“My handbag,” she said, her voice strangled.
“Of course.” Blake wanted to take a step back. Wanted to release her so she could fetch her bag and go.
But he didn’t.
Because he’d just realized it had been years since a woman had been inside his house. Years since anyone beside himself had worn that sweater. Those slacks. Years since he’d been this close to a woman.
And dammit, Fate owed him one.
Elle stiffened, staring up at Blake with wide eyes. He was trembling slightly, as if trying to stop himself. But from what? What the hell was he fighting? He was so warm against her. The shower had helped. The clothes too, of course. But she was still getting cold. Cold enough that, having the man pressed this close against her was delicious and infuriating and too much temptation to resist.
Was he going to kiss her? Shove his hand between her legs like he had in the bathroom — this time with more nefarious purpose? Or was he just going to step back and wave her out of his house again, like the stranger she was?
He didn’t do any of those things. Instead, his gaze darted to her mouth, and then back to her eyes again.
“I don’t know you,” he murmured.
Elle blinked at him, momentarily at a loss for words. “I… don’t know you either,” she said, just as quietly.
Blake’s lips parted, his words emerging slowly as if he was constructing the sentence word-by-word while waiting for the first indication of a negative response from her.
“I should never have invited you here. I don’t know what I was thinking. It seemed a good idea at the time but now…” his gaze dropped again, lifting an instant later. “Now I don’t know what to think anymore.”
