Get a Life, Chloe Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  And yet . . . she couldn’t steal, especially not a pet, so she found herself standing by the building’s front doors, waiting for Annie to arrive. Chloe had suggested this location because her flat might be difficult to find, and also because she didn’t want to have to invite this woman in and engage in pleasant chitchat. It was difficult enough standing here, ignoring Smudge’s questioning miaows. She knew exactly what he was asking, of course: Why on earth have you put me in a box, you baffling woman?

  She couldn’t bring herself to reply.

  The woman was three minutes late, which only reinforced Chloe’s poor opinion of her. But then, at 11:04, she heard the slap of flat shoes against pavement and the jingle of what sounded like a large bunch of keys. A moment later, a tall, slim woman with honey-colored curls came into view, covered neck to shin by an oversized camo coat. Despite the odd outfit, she was pretty, with soft features, skin a few shades deeper than her hair, and eyes so bright, Chloe could see them from meters away.

  “Hi,” the woman said, hurrying over. “Chloe, right? Nightmare parking around here. Annie, by the way, I’m Annie. Oh, is that Perdy? Yeah, that’s Perdy. Hey, Perdy! Hi! Hi, baby!” She bent to poke a finger into the cat carrier, then straightened. “You are Chloe, right? I’m not getting your name wrong, am I? I forget names. I like your glasses.”

  Chloe intended to say, Yes, that’s me, hello, and thank you. What came out of her mouth, in clearly scornful tones, was “Perdy?”

  “Short for Perdita,” Annie said fondly. “You know, from 101 Dalmatians.”

  “But he’s not a dalmatian.”

  “She,” Annie said, and reached for the cat carrier. For one tense moment, Chloe worried her fingers wouldn’t release the plastic handle. But her subconscious behaved itself—for once—and she didn’t start a fight over a cat in the middle of the street.

  Of course, if she had, it wouldn’t be the most scandalous thing she’d done in the street recently.

  “He’s not even spotty,” Chloe insisted, ignoring the wild and unfounded claim that Smudge was, of all things, a girl.

  Annie gave her a strange look and said, “You’re funny. Want to go for a coffee?”

  “I . . . er . . . sorry?”

  “You’re funny. Bit strange. Want to go for a coffee? You are Chloe, aren’t you? Thanks for finding Perdy. My great-aunt Amy was supposed to be watching the girls while I was in Malmö—I’ve been in Malmö by the way, fabulous place, have you been?—but she got confused—my great-aunt—because I have quite a few cats and I suppose she is quite old. Also, there’s that one fox. Yes, in hindsight, it is quite confusing.”

  Somehow, through a haze of bafflement so thick it might as well have been a brick wall, Chloe managed to croak, “Pardon?”

  Annie gave her an indulgent smile, as if she was being an absolute ninny, and shoved a hand into a cavernous coat pocket. “Hmm, now, where is my . . . oh.” She produced a handful of debris. There was an empty Lindor wrapper, an enormous set of keys, what looked like a few foreign coins, a faded receipt, and . . . “Take my card. There. See it?”

  It really couldn’t be missed. It was hot pink and glittery. Chloe took it gingerly by the corner.

  “Give me a ring and we’ll go for a coffee. My treat! Because you found Perdy.”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” Chloe murmured, honestly enough, as she studied the card. It read: annie amande, knicker whisperer.

  What in the bloody hell?

  “Tea, then,” Annie said brightly. “Got to dash. I’m late. Come on, Perdy, let’s be having you, you great big wandering nitwit. Off we go, off we go, off we go.” She turned and hurried up the street again.

  Chloe stared after her, feeling slightly dazed. When Annie’s tall figure disappeared around a corner, Chloe looked at the card in her hand again: knicker whisperer? What could that possibly mean? There was a website, along with several social media links that would probably reveal all, but she didn’t want to go searching. Didn’t want to spend any more time dwelling on that odd woman and her strange invitation, because it would only remind her of one fact: Smudge was gone.

  She shoved the card into her pocket and strode back into the building, driven by an urgent need to get home. It took her a moment to realize that the odd wetness sliding down her cheek was a tear. Oh, how mortifying. She was crying over a cat she’d had for only a couple of weeks, and in public, too. Worse than that, she actually felt . . . sad. More than sad. Devastated. As if someone had ripped a hole in her chest.

  The only thing that could possibly make this situation worse would be bumping into Red. She would hate that. It would be awful, horrible, the end of the world, so she was glad when she made it to her flat without seeing him.

  Very glad indeed.

  * * *

  When someone knocked on Chloe’s door the next day, it never occurred to her that it might be Red. She had gotten used to the weight of his absence. She’d closed her curtains because she refused to accidentally spy on him. She was giving him space, damn it.

  But there he was, on her doorstep, only four days after she’d ruined everything.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She swallowed, which hurt. Right now, everything hurt. He couldn’t have shown up at a worse time if he’d tried. She felt like bird poop and she looked under the weather, which was a phrase her cognitive therapist had told her to use instead of calling herself hideous. But really, sometimes, human beings just looked hideous. There was no shame in it. Or at least there wouldn’t be if Red weren’t standing there on her doorstep looking delicious.

  She opened her mouth to croak a startled hello, but he held up a hand to cut her off. He was unusually smile free, severe and serious in a way that made her nervous—not because he was upset with her, but because he was upset at all.

  Redford Morgan should always be smiling.

  He raked a hand through his hair and said, “I just want to make it clear that I’m incredibly pissed at you. But . . .” He cleared his throat, looking slightly unsure. “But I don’t think you meant to—to say what you said. I’m still pissed, though. And I’ll be pissed until I’m ready to stop.”

  She nodded slowly, not entirely sure why he was explaining the mechanics of human anger, but quite certain that it was important to him. “Okay.”

  For a moment, he seemed almost painfully relieved. Then his eyes narrowed at her faint, raspy voice, and he said accusingly, “You’re sick.”

  She supposed she should be flattered he couldn’t tell by sight alone. But something about that speech he’d just made, and the look on his face, was nagging at her brain. “It’s nothing. You know you’re allowed to be angry, don’t you? In general, I mean. And at me. You are allowed to be angry at me.”

  He faltered for a moment. “Of course I know. I just said all that, didn’t I?”

  Suddenly, she realized what was bothering her. He had just said as much—but he’d spoken as if he was trying something new and he wasn’t entirely sure that it would work.

  “You need to lie down,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Don’t be silly. This happens all the time.” Although, she would love to lie back down. In fact, she might just . . . sit. Red wouldn’t make her feel like some kind of freak because her body was giving out on her and spoons were a distant memory. She leaned against the wall, then started to slide down it, just a little.

  He frowned. “Are you passing out right now?”

  “That’s usually much more sudden,” she said absently. “I’m just going to sit right here . . .”

  “Or we could do this.” He stepped into the flat and picked her up.

  “Oh. Um. What are you doing?”

  “Carrying you. Work with me, here.” Presumably, he meant that she should stop kicking her legs around awkwardly. Since she was very, very tired, and since walking felt like being stabbed in the lower back, she did. He nudged the door shut and said, “Where d’you wanna go?”

  “I’ve been in the living
room. Red, I’m really, really, super, eternally sorry about—”

  “You should stop talking. You got tonsillitis or something?”

  “Or something. But it’ll pass soon. This is just what happens when I get too tired or I don’t eat right—”

  “Or you step on the cracks in the pavement.” He put her down gently in the little nest she’d made on the sofa, then knelt on the floor beside her. “You know, for such a funny-sounding word, fibromyalgia is—”

  “A motherfucker.”

  “Chloe! Did you just swear? You never swear.” He paused. “That was fun. Do it again.”

  “No,” she said primly.

  He chuckled, shook his head, and she’d missed him so much her heart cracked open like an egg. Sticky emotion spilled out. The remnants of her protective shell were scattered around in tiny shards.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. An explanation, a real one, was necessary, but she couldn’t bear to look at him as she did it. If she focused on her knees, Chloe decided sensibly, Red wouldn’t be able to see the truth of her feelings in her eyes. “That night,” she sighed. “I know you said it wasn’t complicated, but it complicated things for me. I suppose that’s just how I am. As soon as you stopped touching me, reality kicked in, and I started panicking about what it meant and what you wanted, or didn’t want, and—well. In short, I overthought everything and made several colossal mistakes, and I’m sorry.”

  “Chloe. Look at me.”

  Her first instinct was to refuse, like a toddler rejecting vegetables. But that wouldn’t be very mature, and immaturity had gotten her into a mess just last weekend, so she made herself face him.

  He was running his knuckles over his lips thoughtfully, studying her with those three little lines between his eyebrows. Like he didn’t know what to make of her. Finally, he said, “So it complicated things, huh?”

  She swallowed hard, his pale gaze freezing her in place. He was endlessly hypnotic. Her voice a thready whisper, she confirmed, “Yes.”

  Quietly, he said, “Complicated things for me, too. It’s funny—you’re so smart. And I feel so fucking obvious. But you don’t seem to know what I want from you.”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t.” Or maybe I do and I’m too afraid to face it.

  As if he’d heard the echo of her thoughts, he leaned closer, raising a hand to her cheek. “I should show you.” His fingertips traced the curves of her face, her jaw, her throat, his eyes following the movement as if he were mapping her out. His focus was so formidable, it stilled the earth and stopped time. It made her feel . . .

  But that was it. That was all. Red’s focus simply made her feel.

  She released a shuddering breath. Her heart thudded a bruising rhythm against her chest. She supposed he’d kiss her now, and she’d succumb to his sexual onslaught, or something along those lines—only, she realized with a wince, she didn’t quite feel up to it. Sitting this close to him made her skin feel like shivering silk, but arousal was a whimper beneath the scream of her body’s aches, pains, and sheer exhaustion. Abruptly, she remembered nights with Henry, nights when he’d turned away from her with disgusted mutters after failed seductions that only embarrassed them both. If you didn’t want to, you should’ve just said.

  She had said. She’d said, Henry, I’m sick, and he’d thought the power of his bloody penis would make it all better.

  Well, she wasn’t about to go through that again—not even with Red, no matter how much she liked him. Chloe stiffened under his featherlight touch, and he faltered, concern softening his gaze. Not anger. Just worry. Good. Perhaps he wouldn’t react badly at all. Her breaths came a little bit easier.

  Firmly, she told him, “You should know that I want you, but tonight I don’t feel particularly—”

  “Chloe,” he interrupted softly, his frown back in place. “Sweetheart. You really don’t know what I want, do you?” He caught her hand, pressing his lips to the slice of her palm framed by her wrist support’s Velcro straps. After a moment, he said carefully, “I’d like to stick around tonight. Just to hang out. That okay?”

  She felt dizzy with relief. He wouldn’t make things difficult and he wouldn’t make her push him away. Thank goodness, because, for once, Chloe really didn’t feel like pushing anyone away. “Oh. Right. Yes. That’s fine.” Apparently, she’d lost the ability to form complex sentences.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Nice to know you want me, though.”

  “Oh, God.” Heat flooded her cheeks even as a rueful smile curved her own lips. “Don’t be awful.”

  “Can’t help it. And, just so you know, it’s mutual.” His gaze darkened. “But we’ll talk about that another time.”

  For a second, the promise of that other time—of that conversation and all it might mean—hung hot and heavy between them. Rather how she imagined his body might feel covering hers.

  But then she remembered why a conversation like that could be difficult—because if Red wanted more than just touches in the dark, if he wanted what she wanted . . . Chloe might be too afraid to reach out and take it. The promise of more with him glittered like broken glass, beautiful but potentially deadly. Good things usually hurt in the end.

  But she was being maudlin and getting ahead of herself and overthinking—which hadn’t served her well the last time. Brushing the ghost of her mistakes aside, Chloe sat up straighter—ignoring the stabs of pain sliding between her vertebrae—and asked, “You do forgive me, don’t you?”

  “I do.” He reached for her again, and her heart practically stopped beating. She remembered the warmth of his touch and the cold of those silver rings with hazy desperation, as if the last time had been a fever dream. But all he did was tap one of the buttons on the front of her pajamas and say, “You do know how to apologize, Button. I forgive you just fine.”

  Well, that was a relief, at least.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chloe wanted him. That’s what she’d said, loud and clear, in a way he’d never expected to hear—at least, not outside the bedroom. She struck Red as the sort of woman who’d only share her desires when she was already halfway to orgasm. Who’d whisper hot commands and sweet confessions in the dark. But she wanted him, and she’d said it out loud.

  She also didn’t know what he wanted—which, he supposed, was understandable. Because it was only here and now that his purest want—his need—had become fully clear to him. When it came to Chloe, it turned out Red’s ultimate goal was to make her happy. That was it. That was all. The realization jolted him like a thousand volts to the heart. He felt . . .

  He felt something she might not want him to feel. Something she seemed almost afraid of. Her gaze flickered away whenever his words were too intense or his voice too tender—he knew that. He’d noticed that. So he shoved the soft warmth in his chest aside; he’d examine it later.

  Chloe’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he drank in the sight of her. She was wearing pink, pinstriped pajamas with buttons down the front, the kind grumpy old men wore. She had a lot in common with grumpy old men, actually, except for the part where he was desperate to kiss her.

  Instead of her hair’s usual neat, shiny bun, it looked like she’d grabbed the dark waves with a fist, shoved a hair tie over them, and hoped for the best. It was what Red did with his own hair when he was working out. Judging by her small mountain of blankets and the mess strewn across her coffee table, it was what she did when she felt like shit. He was probably the worst kind of monster because Chloe was sick, but he still thought she was unbelievably sexy. Then he remembered that she was always sick, so maybe poor health wasn’t something that should de-sex a person.

  Definitely couldn’t de-sex Chloe.

  He cleared his throat and stood, looking around the room. The empty water bottles and cardboard boxes she left by her front door had reproduced like bunnies, creeping down the hall until they were visible from here. “You should call me when you need things recycled.”

&n
bsp; “Maybe,” she mumbled, snuggling deeper into her blankets.

  “Definitely. It’s my job.” Although a cautiously excited voice in his head whispered, Not for long. This idea he’d had about finding his own place, about trying again with his art . . . it wouldn’t let go. He rolled it around his mind like whiskey in his mouth while he gathered Chloe’s empty teacups and glasses of juice.

  “Don’t clean up,” she told him. “I can cope, you know.”

  “And I could cope without electricity, but why the fuck should I?”

  She tutted. “Surely you have better things to do with your evening.”

  Nothing I’d enjoy more than being here with you. The words flashed up in his mind without permission, but thankfully he controlled his mouth more easily than his thoughts. “You can’t get rid of me, Button. You’re mine tonight. I booked you.”

  “You booked . . . ?” Her eyes flew open. “Oh, my goodness. I completely forgot. Your website.”

  His lips quirked. “You forgot? You mean your brain is actually a squidgy gray thing and not a computer? I’ve been wondering.”

  She didn’t smile back. “I have done something, you know. I have the home-page design to show you, and I wanted to go through the shop’s functionalities, but we’ll have to move to my desk—” She sat up and winced. Just a tiny tightening of her features, but he felt like someone had ripped out his heart.

  “Sit your arse down. Relax. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Don’t you want—”

  “No,” he said firmly. Then, when she looked genuinely disappointed, he added, “Send me a link tomorrow. I’m—”

  She leapt on his hesitation, her eyebrows raised. “You’re . . . ?”

  Eager. “I’m starting to get excited about work again. That’s all.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t make him feel electrified. “So I’ll look tomorrow. If you’re feeling better.”