A doorbell chimed. Well, it didn’t exactly chime — it clanged and clonked like a drunk bellfounder’s idea of a practical joke. 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 doesn’t really 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.

Admittedly, it wasn’t like she’d seen any action for over a month. Sam had been busy…well, busy banging his secretary, and she’d been trying to summon up the courage to leave him because of it. There wasn’t a whole lot of friskiness going on during pity parties, now was there?

“Got it?” Blake asked.

“Sure,” she managed.

Turning, Elle’s back stiffened.

There, in the middle of the floor, lay a Penthouse. She ran forward, kicked it under the couch with surprising accuracy, and spun around to face Blake.

And then realised it wasn’t the one she’d been paging through.

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.