“Okay, clearly you need this more than I do.”

She snapped out of her thoughts to see Seth holding out a beer bottle.

“Here,” he said gruffly. “This might make you feel better. I can see your brain working overtime. Thinking about the apartment, huh?”

She nodded. After a second, she accepted the bottle and brought it to her lips. As the cold liquid slid down her throat, she suddenly realized that Seth’s mouth had been on the lip of this bottle just seconds ago. Her heart beat a little bit faster. And faster still when the memory of their kiss flew into her head.

Oh God.

The kiss.

She’d tried blocking it from her mind all evening. She’d curled up with the twins on the comfy leather couch in Seth and Dylan’s living room. Laughed at the crazy antics of Shrek and the gang. Munched on the popcorn Dylan had brought out.

She’d hoped that if she pretended the kiss hadn’t happened, she might be able to erase it from her memory, but no such luck. She’d been excruciatingly aware of Seth’s presence all night, even though he’d barely said a word. He’d isolated himself on the sole recliner in the living room and spoke only when spoken to, but she’d felt his gaze burning into the side of her face for the entirety of both movies they’d ended up watching.

Now, that silvery gaze was glued to her again, knowing, mocking, a tad contemplative.

“You hungry?” he asked after the silence between them had dragged on.

She shook her head. “I’m still full from all that spaghetti we had for dinner. Did I even thank Dylan for cooking? I can’t remember if—”

“You thanked him,” Seth cut in. “Twice.”

“Right. Okay. Well.”

She fidgeted with the label of the beer bottle. The condensation had softened the paper, and she found herself slicing her fingernail underneath it and peeling away the corners. For some reason, she was feeling incredibly unsettled in Seth’s presence.

“Where’s Dylan?” she blurted out.

“In the shower.”

“Oh.”

“Should we sit in the living room?” Seth suggested.

“Um. Sure.”

Shit, she had to pull herself together. So what if she could still taste him on her lips? So what if his woodsy, masculine scent drugged her senses every time she inhaled?

So what if his powerful arms looked incredible in that wifebeater?

She trailed after him, clutching the beer bottle so tightly it was a miracle the glass didn’t shatter. Why was she so nervous all of a sudden? She’d been around Seth a hundred times over the past few months and she’d never had a problem before. She’d been perfectly capable of talking to him, interacting with him, sparring with him, shooting down his seductive propositions and resisting the attraction between them.

What had changed? Why did she suddenly feel tongue-tied around him?

The kiss, you idiot. It was the kiss.

“Have a seat. I’ll just grab another beer,” Seth said when they reached the living room.

Miranda settled on the far end of couch and brought both legs up, resting the beer bottle on one knee. She looked around the room, slightly bothered by its lack of…warmth. Judging by this room and the others she’d already seen, Seth and Dylan weren’t concerned with personalizing their surroundings. The furniture in the house was sparse, the white walls devoid of artwork or decoration. Everything served a purpose—couch, flat screen, kitchen table, chairs. It kind of bummed her out, especially when she thought of the painstaking effort she’d gone to in order to make her apartment a cozy place she and the kids could call home. And now it was probably all gone—the furniture and knickknacks and personal touches she’d tried to infuse the place with.

Sighing, she leaned her head against the arm of the sofa. When her shirt slid off her shoulder, she blushed, hoping Seth wouldn’t comment on the fact that she still wore his flannel shirt and track pants even though her clothing had come out of the dryer hours ago. Call her pathetic, but the clothes smelled like him and she liked being surrounded by his heady scent.

But when he walked back into the room a few minutes later, that scent she loved so much held the unmistakable hint of smoke.

“Sorry for taking so long,” he apologized, crossing the hardwood floor with an unopened beer in his hand. “I needed a nicotine fix.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You went outside in the storm?”

“Naah, just opened the sliding door and stood in the kitchen. The rain’s letting up, by the way. And it’s not as windy as it was earlier.”

Rather than sit at the other end of the couch, he plopped that big body on the center cushion, his muscular thigh mere inches from Miranda’s socked feet. Her heart skipped a beat. Crap. Why the heck did he have to sit so close?

She decided to focus on the one thing guaranteed not to turn her on—his smoking habit.

“So, how long have you been trying to give yourself cancer?” she asked politely.

Seth laughed, the husky sound sending a shiver up her spine. “Oh no, gee, please don’t hold back.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He shrugged. “You’re right. It’s a terrible habit. And to answer your question—since I was fourteen.”

“Ah, you rebelled young.” Miranda slanted her head. “I’m surprised Missy let you get away with it.”

“The one thing my mom hates to be called is a hypocrite. Seeing as she’s a chain-smoker herself, she’s not one to lecture her son for doing the same. After she caught me with a cigarette that first time, she yelled at me for all of two minutes, then bummed a smoke off me and lit up.”