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 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.

Maybe 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 repairs 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 cheery 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 it had a bone to pick with Elle Georgia. Somewhere, some-fucking-how, Elle had pissed it 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 — 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 because there was nothing funny about this.

“You walk under any ladders lately? Broke a couple of mirrors, perhaps?” 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 with an imperious flick of her fingers. “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 dryly. “Please, I beg you. Rip off my skirt.”

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 entrance, 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 away her skin.

“Thanks,” she said.

“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.