She gave him a delighted, if faintly exhausted, smile. “That’s wonderful. That’s fantastic.”
“Uh, thanks. So, do you want more juice, or not?”
The smile became a narrow glare. “I can get my own juice.”
“But why would you do that when you have a willing servant?”
She rolled her eyes. He knew why she hesitated. Considering the way her so-called friends and fiancé had dropped her, she was sensitive about letting people get close. When she finally closed her eyes and said, “Continue, if you must,” he felt like he’d climbed a fucking mountain.
When he returned to the living room, she sat up for the juice without wincing and he said, “Is it me, or do you seem better than you were ten minutes ago?”
“You’re right.” She took a sip. “The power of your company has cured me. The doctors were right about natural endorphins all along.”
“Uh . . .”
“It’s because the buprenorphine patch I put on finally started pulling its weight. I am drugged to high heaven. It’s delightful.”
“Oh. Good.”
“I should have powered through,” she told him, “since it’s my strongest painkiller and I’m not supposed to build up an immunity to opiates in my thirties, but I was fed up with feeling my joints scrape together inside me like knives, so I have no regrets.”
He stared. “You really are a badass.”
She waggled her bunny slippers. “Yes.”
“Have you eaten?”
She shrugged, sipped her juice some more, and said in a suspiciously casual tone, “Not yet.”
Ah. She was one of those. He should’ve known. “I’ll put that another way: When did you last eat?”
Chloe’s face took on the shiftiest expression ever made by a human being in the history of the world. She hid guilt about as well as the average family dog. “I’m not sure.” As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. She looked down irritably and muttered, “Et tu?”
“Today?” he nudged.
She shrugged.
Oh, for God’s sake. “You haven’t eaten today? Are you serious?”
“I couldn’t be bothered,” she snapped.
“Right, sure. You’re too lazy to feed yourself. It’s not because you feel like shit or anything.”
“Oh, be quiet.”
He stood, and she looked up at him, something bleak and resigned in her gaze. In the second before she schooled her expression, he realized that she thought he was leaving. His heart constricted. He wanted to find every friend who’d ever ditched her, and especially her fucking fiancé, and force them all to walk barefoot across a room full of Legos for the rest of their lives. Not that he’d been thinking much about punishments.
“What do you want to eat?” he asked briskly, hoping she wouldn’t hear the emotion rumbling beneath his voice.
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “You—I don’t—”
“You like stir-fry?”
She shot him a mutinous glare, like he’d offered to piss on her PlayStation or something. “Red—”
“I mean, who doesn’t like stir-fry? Weirdos, that’s who.” He headed for the kitchen.
It took a second or two, but she stumbled after him, her blanket wrapped around her like a cape. Cutest, prissiest Batman he’d ever seen. When she said, “Red, you’re not cooking for me,” he smiled to himself, just a bit.
* * *
The flat’s little kitchen, all tiles and steel, always seemed cold to Chloe—but today, the air vibrated with sultry heat even before the stove was turned on. That was Red’s fault. He stood in front of the fridge looking horribly sexy in his usual T-shirt and jeans, bending over at an angle that should be illegal for men who had backsides like his. She sat in her comfortable little kitchen chair and fiddled with the neckline of her pajamas. Maybe her current haze, partly feverish fatigue and partly the patch on her back pumping drugs through her skin, was a blessing in disguise. If she weren’t feeling so rubbish it would be much, much harder to ignore how pretty he was.
“Who does all this food prep?” he asked, popping up from the fridge door with far too many boxes balanced in his arms. What was he making, gourmet chow mein?
“Eve.”
“The rainbow girl? Really? She’s . . .” He put the boxes down and waved his hand in a way that conveyed Eve’s chaotic vibe perfectly. “If I’d had to guess one of your sisters, I would’ve said—what’s her name, Danielle?”
“Danika,” she corrected automatically. Being around him was so incredibly easy, she forgot how strange their relationship was sometimes. How he didn’t know basic things about her, like her sister’s full name, but he knew she loved Smudge and didn’t trust and wanted to be brave.
She wished he knew more. Wished he knew everything. Wished she could share it all with him. That wasn’t a desire Chloe felt often, or at all, but he made everything . . .
Safe.
“Christ, woman,” he spluttered, interrupting her thoughts and bringing a smile to her lips. “Why do you have a kitchen drawer full of fancy pens?” He shut the offending drawer in disgust and turned toward another. “Where are your spoons?”
“Red. Don’t. I don’t want you to cook for me. And that’s not—”
Too late. He’d opened the next drawer, which was full of her spare medication. But he didn’t gawk at the countless colorful boxes, old painkillers she’d abandoned because they made her mouth too dry to talk, or because she’d gotten used to them and upgraded like an addict grown accustomed to the hit. He didn’t ask about them, either, or slam the drawer shut and give her a part-pitying, part-worried look like her mother would. Instead he shook his head and said, “You got everything in this kitchen but cutlery, Chlo.” Then he turned to the next drawer, discovered the spoons, and carried on as if nothing had happened.
Funny. Chloe was used to seeing her life and her illness as normal, but she wasn’t used to other people acting the same way.
“Now,” he said, popping the lid off one of the boxes and grabbing pre-sliced peppers. “If you really don’t want stir-fry—because, let’s face it, you are a weirdo—this is your last chance to tell me.”
“You are not cooking for me.” There; that sounded firm, reasonable, and mature. Kind of.
“Why not?” he asked just as reasonably while he rifled through her cupboards.
“Because you’re not a bloody home helper!”
He turned to look at her. “Chloe. Language.”
“Oh, for—”
He interrupted, his tone serious, his words quiet. “Stop worrying, okay?” His search of the cupboards abandoned, he crossed his arms over his broad chest. Her gaze absolutely did not catch on the shift of his biceps or the raised veins on his strong forearms. Well, it did, but only for a second. “You think this is a big deal because, no offense, you’ve had a lot of people in your life who claimed to care about you but didn’t act like it. That’s not me. I can cook, and right now, you can’t. So I’m doing it for you because that’s how people should behave; they should fill in each other’s gaps. Don’t think about it too hard.”
She nodded slowly, staring at her clasped hands for a minute as inconvenient, mushy emotions flooded her. Then she released a slow, shaky breath and finally said what she’d wanted to say for a while, but hadn’t been able to force past her clenched teeth. “Thank you.”
“No worries,” he said easily. And she didn’t even wonder if he meant it. There was no doubt in her mind that he did.
Red found a wok and opened more boxes; poured oil into the pan and yanked out what seemed to be every seasoning she owned. Then he ran a hand through his hair, rolled his eyes as if at himself, and said, “You got a hair tie?”
“I never know where they are,” she admitted. Except for the one currently in her hair, which she tugged free and handed to him.
“Thanks.” Bright blue paint stained some of his nails. His fingertips grazed hers. Her body lit up inside, reacting as if he’d offered to ri
p off her clothes and do her on the counter—not that she wanted him to, because she really wasn’t feeling very well, and it would be murder on her lower back. She sternly informed her nipples of these pertinent facts, but they gestured rudely at her and continued to tingle like a pair of slutty batteries.
Meanwhile, Red somehow managed to remain gorgeous while wearing a man bun.
When the kitchen filled with the sharp sizzle of cooking food, she spoke again. “So, you like to cook?”
“I like to cook for other people,” he said. “Cooking for myself is okay, but it’s not exactly the same.”
Something about that revelation filled her with equal parts relief and disappointment. “I see.”
Though his focus was on the food, he arched an eyebrow, amusement dancing over his expression. “What do you see, Button?”
“You run around making dinner for everyone.” She’d meant that to sound teasing, but it came out a little bit . . . not.
His smile widened as he shot her a look. “Jealous?”
She snorted. “Pardon me? Of course I’m not jealous.” When had she become such a shameless liar? Her dad would be so disappointed in her new habit of casual deceit.
“That’s good. Be weird if you were jealous of my mother.”
And now she was mortified. She wrapped her blanket tighter around herself, as if she could disappear inside it. This was what came of liking men: rampant idiocy. She opened her mouth and searched for a way to dig herself out of that particular hole.
But Red didn’t seem to think it was necessary. When he looked at her again, his obvious amusement was replaced by curiosity. “Hey,” he asked, as though it had just occurred to him. “Where’s Smudge?”
Her heart lurched. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Gone.”
Red stilled. “Gone?”
“Annie came back a few days ago. She was in Malmö.” Chloe narrowed her eyes. “She calls Smudge Perdita, which would be an excellent name—I love 101 Dalmatians—except that Smudge isn’t a dalmatian, so it’s ludicrous.”
For some reason, Red didn’t agree with her on the name. He didn’t comment on the name at all. He abandoned his post at the stove and before she knew it, he was standing in front of her. He sank his hands into the tangled mess of her hair. He kissed her head and she almost fainted dead away. He said gravely, “I’m sorry, Button.”
“I don’t care,” she mumbled, breathing deep. Not because he smelled like fresh sheets and warmth and blueberry shampoo; she was just breathing. “Smudge wasn’t even my cat.”
“I’d get you a new one, but you know the rules.”
“I don’t want a new one.”
He smiled down at her. “Did you cry?”
“I . . .” Say no. Say no. Say no. “Only a little bit.”
Red seemed satisfied. “As long as you cried, you’ll be okay. That’s what my mum always says.” He went back to the wok and her head felt cold without his hands cradling it.
Since she was saying things she shouldn’t tonight, she murmured, “I’d quite like to meet your mother. I mean,” she added quickly, “I’d be interested to see what she’s like, because you’re so . . .”
He arched an eyebrow. “I’m so?”
“Infuriating.”
“Right. Don’t know how you put up with me.” He chuckled. Shot her a knowing look that made her cheeks burn hotter than the sun.
“She gave me her card,” Chloe blurted. “Annie, I mean. And do you know what it says?”
“Something shit,” he guessed, “because we hate her.”
“It says ‘Knicker Whisperer.’”
Red’s lips twitched. “That’s . . . interesting. I mean—weird. Very weird.”
“I know it’s funny,” Chloe sighed. “It’s brilliant. Unique and intriguing and catchy, and the card is beautifully designed, and I bet if I go to her mysterious knicker-whispering website, that’ll be great too.” She huffed and glared at nothing in particular. “What is that woman’s game? What is her angle?”
“Why’d she give you the card?”
“She says we should have coffee. I don’t believe it. I’ll turn up and she’ll text and say, so sorry, she’s in Venice.”
Red ignored almost everything she’d said, which was both irritating and hilarious. “So she wants to be friends?”
Chloe stared at him. “I don’t see why she would. We spoke for all of five minutes.”
“But she made a big impression.”
“She took my cat.” The man had lost his marbles, clearly.
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Maybe you made an impression on her, too.”
“What about me could possibly make an impression?” Chloe demanded.
Red stared at her for a little too long. She bit her lip. He smiled. “Look, all I’m saying is, Annie might like you. And you might like her, if you gave it a chance. You have similar taste in cats.”
“You are not funny.”
“I want you to make a friend.”
“You’re my friend,” she snapped. “New topic. When are you setting up that Instagram account?”
“I don’t know.” He tried to run a hand through his hair, failed because it was tied up, and tutted.
Now a slow smile curved her lips. “I can do it for you, if you’re busy.” In all fairness, he was often busy, tending to old ladies and feeding street urchins and painting magical masterpieces like a patron saint of goodness and art. But she didn’t think that was the problem.
“You don’t need to do that,” he said. “I’ll . . .” She’d bet money that he was trying to say, I’ll do it, but couldn’t quite make himself.
“Funny,” she murmured. “I didn’t notice before.”
He gave her a suspicious look. “Notice what?”
“That you’re scared of social media.”
“Scared?” He scowled, turning to face her. “Chloe. I’m not—it’s—you’re winding me up again, aren’t you?”
“I’m simply acknowledging your obvious aversion to—”
He pointed a stern finger at her. “Stop trying to confuse me. I’m not saying shit.” He was blushing, slashes of pink high on his cheekbones. His ears, too, which she’d never seen before, since his hair was usually down.
Something in her chest softened like a marshmallow, which couldn’t be healthy. “I’m serious,” she said. “I’ll do it for you. I’ll manage it for you. You wouldn’t even have to look at it unless you wanted to.” She didn’t know why he felt this way, when once upon a time his work had been everywhere. But she didn’t need to know. She’d take care of this, to give him space to take care of himself.
He looked at her for a long moment before taking his phone out of his pocket. She watched with a frown as he tapped at the screen, his embarrassed flush barely fading, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, just as her understanding dawned, he came over and held out the phone.
“There,” he said, showing her the log-in screen. “I downloaded Instagram.”
She stared. “I—Red—I didn’t mean to pressure you.”
“You didn’t. I said I was going to do it, and I meant it. I’m serious about this. So, if your professional opinion is that I need one . . .”
“I’m not an expert,” she said quickly, suddenly self-conscious.
His gaze snared hers, so simply trusting, it burned all her hesitation away. “You’re a successful small business owner,” he said, “and you know computer shit.”
She snorted. “‘Computer shit’?”
“Be quiet. I’m concentrating.” He tapped some more, and before she knew it, he was showing her yet another screen—a blank account with his name on it. “That’s that,” he said, looking slightly surprised by himself. Then he blinked, cleared his throat, and his blush deepened. “Thing is, I really don’t know much about this stuff. So maybe, you could, uh . . . maybe you could help me?”
He was so sweet, she was in danger of losing a tooth. Soft warmth flooded her at the sig
ht of this huge man with his pink cheeks and hard jaw. Then came admiration, because he’d smashed through the brick wall of self-doubt like it was nothing. The same wall she often struggled to even approach.
“Whatever you want,” she told him, and she’d never meant anything more.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly. He caught her hand for one heart-stopping moment, and squeezed. Then he turned away, back to the wok. “Let’s get some food in you.”
* * *
Apparently, feeding Chloe made her sleepy. Very, very sleepy. Red washed up while she dozed on the sofa, then checked her biscuit tin for more of those homemade gingersnaps. He scored big time and munched on them while he made tea. Did Eve bake these as well as prepping all the food? Because if so, next time she flirted with him, maybe he should flirt back. It would be an amazing plan if he wasn’t completely hooked on her sister.
But he was.
He returned to the living room and sat beside Chloe as gently as he could. Since he was overgrown, his weight shifted the cushions a little too much, and she stirred.
Her lashes fluttered. Eyes opened. She’d taken off her glasses, so she looked at him without focusing and gave him a soft little smile. Maybe every single atom in his body imploded, re-formed, and exploded at the sight of that smile. Maybe. But he tried to keep that to himself.
“You should go to bed,” he told her.
“I won’t sleep. I can already tell.”
“Weren’t you just sleeping?”
“Nothing so satisfying as that, I assure you,” she muttered, and cradled the tea in both hands. “I don’t suppose you’d like to watch something over-the-top and faintly ridiculous. I feel like cowboys. Oh—space cowboys. Do you like space cowboys? You probably don’t.” The tangled waves of her hair were a dark cloud around her face. She gave him a sideways look through the wild chestnut strands, eyebrows raised, lips pursed at the edge of the mug.
He told her truthfully, “I love space cowboys.”
But they only got twenty minutes through an episode of Killjoys before Chloe’s eyelids drooped. Red turned off the TV, put her glasses safely on his head, and scooped her up in his arms. His heart beat brighter than it had before. She turned everything pink—pink like poofy skirts and pinstriped pajamas and the tip of her tongue when she tapped it against her teeth. Pink like he was fucking gone for her. Pink like the little decorative pillows on her bed. He nudged them off and laid her down, and she mumbled, “Red?”
Get a Life, Chloe Brown Page 20
