What was she doing? Just what in the hell was she doing? The question chanted through her mind as she bumped shoulders with Blake. He had an umbrella over them, its thin, waterproof fabric doing a surprisingly efficient job of keeping the snow from their heads. But there was nothing to be done about the puddles where snow had already melted.

She would have thought, of all the people in the world to own a car, Blake would be one of them. He did, after all, own a car repair shop. But, when they reached his house less than five minutes later, she conceded that it probably didn’t make sense to drive the whole half-a-mile to work each day.

“It was sunny this morning,” Blake said, as if in explanation, voice pitched loud over the drumming above their heads. “Didn’t think the weather would take a turn for the worse.”

Yeah. Just what she’d thought of her marriage, a few months ago. Elle snorted, but quietly, and tightened her grip around her shoulders. She was freezing, what with her earlier jaunt through the snow. Even this brief walk had dropped her core temperature by what felt like ten degrees.

Blake lived in a run-down duplex that looked out of place beside a crumbling book store and the blank wall of what could have been either a factory or a warehouse. And to think, two blocks up sat the Golden Goose and a bunch of corporate skyscrapers.

He opened the narrow door on the side of the building and waved her up.

The stairwell was dark and claustrophobic. About half-way up, Elle’s stomach began to tighten.

What the hell was she doing?

The footsteps behind her made it clear she couldn’t turn around. She could hear Blake breathing — a soft, unobtrusive sound — but it was too close, too personal. Why wasn’t she back at the hotel? Sam had at least had the decency to pay for that upfront for another day. She only had to check out tomorrow morning. The hotel had a shower. A bath, even, if she felt like a soak. All she had to do was turn around, call a taxi—

And admit defeat.

Being chivalrous didn’t work on a narrow stairwell. Blake had to maneuver around Elle to reach the door and unlock it. For a moment, they were squeezed tight against each other, Elle’s shoulders digging into the wall and Blake’s body hard and warm against her. He gave her an apologetic smile, unlocked the door, and held it open with his arm over her head. She sidled out from under him and stepped inside.

That slowly-building panic began to fade. The loft was clean, neat, bare. Most of one wall consisted of French-paned window panels that stretched from floor to ceiling.

No curtains.

Elle stepped closer, lifting her chin to peer past the glass and outside. There was no need for covering up the windows — they looked out on a vast expanse of empty roof, a narrow alley, and the brick wall of a shopping mall.

“More coffee? It’s better than the kind I have at work. Everyone’s forever helping themselves to it — was costing me a fortune.”

Strange, how downright chatty the man had become. Elle turned to him, managing a small smile and a nod of her head. There was only a strip of granite counter separating the kitchen from the bedroom. Blake’s bed — nothing but a mattress and a headboard — stood on a small, raised platform. But it was neatly made, the pillows plumped and perfectly positioned against that padded wood.

Elle’s eyes did another quick scan, taking in the single couch facing a disused-looking television set, two bookshelves almost overflowing with well-read paperbacks and a few sedentary hard covers, the frosted-cube enclosure which, she realized in sudden panic, was probably where the bathroom was.

Blake gave her a quizzical frown when he returned with two steaming cups of coffee. Elle tried, unsuccessfully, to hide the fact that she was scratching an itch on her stomach.

“Bathroom’s over there,” Blake said, waving to the aforementioned partition.

He looked at it then, perhaps as if seeing it for the first time. A flash of uncertainty crossed his face.

“Uh…”

“It’s fine. Thank you.” She set her coffee down on the table, paused, and then straightened.

Showering: not a problem. He probably wouldn’t be able to see anything except a blurry silhouette behind that frosted glass. But what… then she’d have to put her wet clothes back on again?

None of this made sense. She was being idiotic, impulsive, and downright childish. The hotel Sam had booked her into had to have warm, fluffy towels, interior heating, at least a damn robe for her to get into—

“Here.”

She jumped — when had he moved away? Had she seriously been staring so hard at that barely-concealed shower that she hadn’t noticed? She blushed, taking the surprisingly thick robe from Blake.

“Towels are inside, you can’t miss them.” He shrugged at her then, as if wondering if there was another reason she was just standing there, blushing at him.

Pushing back her shoulders, Elle gave him a nod. Then she soldiered her way into the enclosure, trying not to pause like a deer in new territory, wary for unexpected wolves, traps, or hunters.

She found more clean, minimalistic utilities behind the glass. No door — who needed a door in a loft where it was obvious only a single people could live — but a pristine toilet, a clean shower and a stack of towels piled on a small crate that doubled as a toilet-paper holder.

Lifting her head, Elle stared through the glass. Nothing but dark, smudgy shapes beyond.

Taking a deep breath that felt entirely too much like some kind of preparation, Elle began peeling off her wet clothes.