Get a Life, Chloe Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  He bit back a smile and took her to his bedroom. Then he wondered what the fuck he’d been thinking. Did blue balls lower intelligence? Maybe. It was the only reasonable explanation for him setting Chloe loose in his room, also known as the scene of his almost orgasm. He couldn’t look at her. He also couldn’t look at the bed, but he knew the blankets were rumpled where he’d lain, and . . .

  Well. He’d rather not think about it, to be honest.

  “This isn’t very artistic,” she said wryly, her eyes everywhere. She stared for a long time at the art history books stacked on his dresser. He found himself wanting to check that he’d closed his underwear drawer.

  “What were you expecting? Finger paintings on the walls?”

  “Is that your area of expertise? Finger painting?” She looked down at his hands. His palms tingled with the false memory of touching her.

  He curled his hands into fists and shook his head. “Figurative. Acrylic. I—never mind. I’ll have to show you, won’t I? For the website?”

  “Yes,” she said faintly. “For the website.”

  Red grabbed the armchair he kept in the corner of the room and shoved it closer to the bed. Chloe sank gracefully into its tattered, tartan depths. She crossed her legs, which probably made her skirt ride up a little bit, but Red wouldn’t know, because he absolutely was not looking. He had firmly instructed his eyes to focus only on her ears (which, while cute, weren’t especially arousing) or her nose (ditto) or the wall behind her. So far, things were going okay-ish.

  Once she was settled, he went and grabbed a piece to show her, something he’d finished just last week. After all, there was no use in showing her what he used to do, how it had all been lucid and bright and hopeful. He wasn’t the same anymore, and that was that.

  But when Red returned with the canvas, he found himself hesitating before his bedroom door. Something uncomfortable tightened in his stomach, making the back of his neck prickle. Nerves. He was absolutely shitting it, which was how he’d felt the last few hundred times he’d tried to show someone his art. Ever since it had changed, that is. Ever since he’d fucked almost everything up, and the bits of his life that he hadn’t messed with had been fucked on his behalf. But this, he decided, was the perfect way to get over his weird performance anxiety, because he didn’t actually care about Chloe’s opinion.

  The thought clanged in his head like a lie, but he stepped into the room before he could figure out what that meant.

  “Here,” he said gruffly, handing her the canvas and perching on the edge of his mattress. She was silent as she accepted the piece, studying it for long moments while he looked anywhere but her.

  Then the quiet stretched so far that his attempt to remain cool wore thin, wavered, snapped. He gave in and looked, needing to see her reaction, even though he absolutely did not care.

  The awed expression on her face gave Red the shock of his fucking life. Really. It was a near-violent jolt of power to his system, one that left his blood pumping harder and his vision clearer, sharper. A slow smile of surprise tugged at his lips. Surprise, and dizzying, hard-exhale relief.

  Chloe was . . . delighted. That was the only word for it. She stared at the eerie, blood-toned landscape with its impossible hues and fantastical proportions as if she knew exactly how he’d felt when he painted it. As if every emotion he’d poured onto the canvas had remained like a little slice of leftover soul, and now that slice was slapping her in the face. Energy. Exuberance. Mystery. Strength. Giddy satisfaction with your own bad behavior. That was what Red had shoved into his paint on the night he’d created this piece, Neverland, and that was what he saw reflected in her eyes.

  Finally, she cleared her throat, seemed to school her expression, and said, “You’re very talented. Not that I know what I’m talking about.”

  Her words were measured and polite, but it was too late. He’d seen. He’d seen, and it had touched something deep and wild in him that was probably best left undisturbed. Something that made him feel more firmly settled in his own skin. He wanted to touch her, just to see if things felt different now. Now that he knew she saw something the same way he did.

  But if he went around grabbing her for reasons he could barely explain, she’d probably whack him over the head, and she’d be well within her rights. So he curled his suddenly curious hands into harmless fists and told himself that the air didn’t taste like reassurance or renaissance or redemption. He’d always been dramatic when it came to things like this. He was a puppy and someone loving his art was a killer scratch behind the ears. That was really it.

  She handed him the canvas and he tossed it onto the bed and returned to his earlier tactic of looking anywhere but her face. It didn’t help. He’d almost managed to forget that he wanted her, but the raw emotion he’d just seen had brought the need right back. He knew he was supposed to say something, but his scattered brain couldn’t quite remember what.

  Oh. Yeah. She’d complimented his work. So this was the part where he said . . .

  “Thanks.” He tried not to wince at his own voice. Too low, too rough, too obviously affected.

  She pursed her lips and looked down at her knees, her dark lashes fluttering behind her glasses. She wasn’t cursed with translucent skin like his, but he could’ve sworn she was blushing. Probably because he’d been so obviously grateful for the slightest compliment.

  Feeling the need to explain, he said, “I haven’t shown anyone my new stuff in a while.”

  “I know,” she said, then looked up with wide eyes and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  He arched an eyebrow, smiled at the Oh, shit expression on her face. “You know, huh?”

  “For goodness’ sake,” she murmured.

  “What’s that?”

  “Forget I said anything.”

  “No, thanks.” He leaned forward. “Explain that, please.”

  She looked tortured as fuck. It was great. “I—well—I had some time free over the past few days, and so, in the name of preliminary research and everything, I, erm, googled you.”

  Ah. Why was he not surprised? “You know,” he drawled, “for a woman who called me nosy about a thousand times the other day, you have a bad habit of peeping through windows.”

  She froze. Stuttered, “What—what do you mean?”

  He smiled easily and felt evil. “Turn of phrase.”

  “Oh.” The tension flooded out of her so fast, she deflated through sheer relief. If he’d had any doubt that her spying had been intentional, rather than a passing glimpse at her weird, shirtless neighbor . . . well, that doubt was officially dead. Chloe had watched him, and she felt guilty about it. He wondered when she’d confess.

  Because she would confess. She had no filter, as most of the building had already learned.

  She shifted uncomfortably and said, her voice brisk, “As an artist, you should really be on Instagram.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Are you nosy with everyone, or just me?”

  “I could link the feed to your website,” she said desperately. “People do that. It’s very pretty.”

  Instagram? Throwing his work up, not just for people to see, but on an app literally designed to display your fucking approval rating? The whole concept of internet likes had always unsettled Red, even when he’d been more confident in his abilities. “I’ll think about it.” Lie. “We’re still talking about you.”

  “We are not.” She looked horrified, so he had to keep going.

  “You like to research everything,” he guessed. “No; you like to know everything. You’re one of those ‘knowledge is power’ people.”

  “Knowledge is power,” she shot back.

  “I bet you were a massive teacher’s pet at school.” He was grinning. Hard.

  “I bet you were an aimless slacker,” she said archly.

  “I bet you always file your taxes on time.”

  She was clearly scandalized. “Who doesn’t file their taxes on time?”

  He burst out l
aughing. “Oh, Chloe. You’re cute as fuck, you know that?” He had no idea how any of those words had slipped out, but he couldn’t exactly snatch them back. And he didn’t quite regret setting them free.

  “Cute?” She wrinkled her nose. “No. No, I’m not.”

  She shouldn’t be. “You are.”

  Primly, she threw his own words back at him. “You don’t know me, Red.”

  Which was when he realized that he had upset her earlier, when he’d said exactly the same thing. That bothered him. A lot. He said, “I’d like to know you,” then realized it came off like the world’s worst chat-up line. Quickly, he added, “If I’m gonna let you on my bike, I need to know you’re good people.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough to discern. I saved a cat the other day, remember?”

  He shrugged and leaned back, resting his weight on his hands. Slowly, reluctantly, he realized that he was comfortable around her—which made about as much sense as a toothless shark. “I remember. But I don’t know if I care. I’m not a fan of cats.”

  “And why not?”

  “They’re judgmental.”

  “I had no idea that it was such a reprehensible trait. I expect to see you on the news soon, protesting the judiciary.”

  He snorted and tried again. “Cats are snooty.”

  “Or perhaps,” she said wryly, “you’re simply projecting your expectations.”

  “Perhaps,” he replied, mocking her crisp words, “I prefer pets who aren’t afraid to get dirty and don’t lounge around looking down on people like the queen of bloody Sheba.”

  “Actually, Smudge would be the king of Sheba.”

  Red smiled despite himself. “Named him, have you?”

  “Clearly.”

  “Took him to the vet’s yet?”

  “I’ve been indisposed.”

  He was going to have to buy a bloody dictionary to keep up with her vocab, but he could read between the lines. “All right. So, Smudge. Has he been . . . ?” Red trailed off politely.

  Her eyebrows rose in question, one winging higher than the other. He felt that delicate, uneven arch in his gut. She really was beautiful.

  And he really was easily distracted, staring at her like this. He cleared his throat, gave her a significant look, and said, “Smudge. Have they . . . You know.”

  Judging by her frown of confusion, she did not.

  Give him fucking strength. No way was he saying this plain to a woman like her. She’d get it eventually.

  Only, she didn’t. He raised his eyebrows. He cocked his head, clicked his tongue, and looked down. Nothing worked. Chloe remained blank as a computer with no power. In the end, he gave up on subtlety and blurted, “Someone got rid of his knackers yet?”

  She blinked, looking completely unoffended by his choice of words—while he, for some reason, could feel heat creeping up his neck. Irritating, irritating, irritating. Cool as anything, she told him, “I have no idea.” Like it was ludicrous to think she would.

  “No idea?” he echoed.

  “I haven’t looked.” She wasn’t looking at him, either. Her eyes wandered around the room with the sort of interest aliens and androids showed in sci-fi films when they came to earth for the first time. Meanwhile, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Great.

  Probably sounding more annoyed than he should during a conversation about a stray cat’s bits and bobs, he demanded, “How’d you know he’s a boy, then?”

  She arranged her skirt over her legs, an action he saw in his peripheral vision but absolutely refused to focus on. He was focusing on her ear, and that was that. But the smooth, inviting sound the fabric made, like she was running her palms over it, pressing it tight . . . Maybe she secretly knew he was developing a minor obsession with her thighs, and this was her subtle and ingenious torture. Yeah. That sounded likely.

  He was so busy thinking ridiculous thoughts, he almost missed her baffling explanation. Calmly, she told him, “We know Smudge is a boy because Dani decided he was.”

  He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was almost afraid to ask. “And how did she do that?”

  “Do you know,” Chloe said, apparently confused, “I’m not sure I understand your obsession with genitals, Red.”

  His eyes, which had been doing so well, slid from the safe zone of her left ear to the decidedly un-safe zone of her skirt-covered lap. You and me both, love.

  “Why do you ask, anyway?”

  He jerked his eyes back north. “If he’d had the chop, that’d suggest owners.”

  “You don’t need to worry, you know. I am going to take him to the vet. I’d hate to steal someone else’s pet.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll come with you. Just to make sure.”

  She gave him a look. He saw humor dancing in her eyes, a bright sparkle that matched the strange fizzing in his own chest. “You’re a very rude man,” she said.

  “I’m rude?” He snorted out a laugh. “God almighty, that’s rich, coming from you.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Sorry, I thought I was being obvious. It means you’re rude as fuck.”

  Apparently, she was actually shocked by that information. She gaped at him as if he’d started speaking in tongues, and then she made an odd little wheezing sound. Finally, she said, “Well, I never.”

  “What? No one’s ever told you that before?”

  “Of course they have! But I’ve been on my best behavior with you.”

  He couldn’t stop grinning. “Seriously? You’re serious. Seriously.”

  “Well, this week, at least.”

  He’d have loved to respond to the outrage in her voice, but he was laughing too hard.

  “Stop that,” she commanded, but she was smiling wider than he’d ever seen before. Her cheeks plumped up and her eyes danced and goddamn, she was even prettier than usual. “Stop! It’s not that funny.”

  But, for some reason, it was. It was fucking hysterical. His breath came in gasps and his belly felt tight and his laughter bounced around the room. Then she reached out and pushed him. Shoved him, really, her palm flat against his chest, sending an odd warmth through his body. He fell back against the bed, still laughing helplessly—but he grabbed her wrist as he went. And pulled.

  And she came tumbling onto the bed with him.

  Yeah. He stopped laughing then, that was for sure.

  She landed almost on top of him. Her wrist felt oddly delicate, like the bones were made of china. Her palm still rested against his chest; her other hand was on the bed, holding most of her weight. Still, she was close enough that he could feel the swell of her tits against his ribs, the curve of her belly against his hip, the weight of her thighs over his. Red swallowed hard, gritted his teeth, and willed his cock not to embarrass him, even though it already was. In a last-ditch attempt to maintain control, he closed his eyes.

  Which was a mistake.

  “I—sorry,” she murmured. He felt her breath against his throat as she spoke and remembered a night they hadn’t shared. Fuck.

  “My fault,” he replied. His voice was rough; his eyes still closed; his hand still curled around her wrist. He could feel her pulse racing. He could feel his own good sense flying out the window. The little demon that sat on his shoulder and whispered bright ideas like Drop out of college, and Let your mate tattoo you in his kitchen, and Follow your heart, said slyly that now was not the time for website consultations. Now, according to that demon, was the time to roll her over, push up her skirt, and make her beg.

  Thankfully, he was old and wise enough to ignore that suggestion. He let go of her wrist, and she clambered off him. He sat up. They stared at each other. She straightened her glasses and tugged at the sleeve of her cardigan and gave a nervous little laugh.

  The idea of mouthy, snotty Chloe Brown being nervous made him itch. Wasn’t right and it wasn’t natural. He needed to fix it. “How about we postpone the consultation?”

  The subtlety of her expressions—the way sh
e beat them down before they could fully form and shoved them into a box—wasn’t enough to fool him anymore. He saw the slight slump of her shoulders and the way she blinked too hard, and knew she was disappointed.

  “Can’t seem to concentrate today,” he went on.

  “All right,” she said briskly, bending to pick up her laptop. She hadn’t even got it out of the bag. “I quite understand. I’ll just—”

  He ignored her. “Usually, when I get like this, I go for a ride.”

  She looked at him, her eyes even wider than usual behind her glasses.

  “Fancy it?”

  There was that smile of hers. Like the rising sun.

  Chapter Seven

  The neat little car park was at the rear of the building. Its flat tarmac and faded white lines were brightened up by intermittently placed leafy things, as if the designers had some sort of greenery quota and had shoved in a few plants to meet requirements at the last minute. Red’s monster of a bike stood next to one of those plants, the shiny, electric-blue chrome a harsh contrast to the pale branches of the spindly birch sapling.

  Chloe imagined that if the things in this car park were characters in an American high school movie, the motorbike would be a big old bully, and the poor little tree would be one of its victims. In its final year of compulsory education, that bike would be voted “Most Likely to End Up in Jail.” She didn’t think she should ride a school bully that was likely to end up in jail. She’d put this on her list because it seemed the epitome of reckless insouciance, but now that it might actually happen, she was feeling neither reckless nor insouciant.

  But she took a deep breath and told herself sternly to buck up and get on with it. She would stick to her list, fear be damned, because people didn’t change their lives by meekly giving up at the first heart-pounding hurdle. She was ready for this. Actually, she wasn’t, but she’d do it anyway. She’d already agreed. She’d even made Red wait while she went home to put her laptop away. She couldn’t back down now, just because one little crash might result in her brain being decimated.