She nodded, feeling those silver rings against her skin.
“He used to take me places like this. All over. Not that often—maybe once or twice a year, when he had time off—but it adds up, yeah? We lived in the city and he was paranoid about air pollution and all that. He had this idea that spending time in nature every so often could . . . I don’t know, clean you out.” Red chuckled.
Chloe squeezed his hand, her marshmallows forgotten. “What was his name?”
“Leo.” Just the word curved Red’s mouth into a smile, and she was struck by an odd, sudden certainty that Redford Morgan’s near-constant cheer had come from one man in particular. Leo.
“He sounds wonderful,” she murmured.
“Yeah. He was. Sometimes I wonder . . .”
He trailed off, but she thought she knew what he was going to say. She knew, because she knew him—not just the achingly cool, charming, handsome man who was quick to joke and quicker to help, but the not-so-shiny parts beneath that formed the foundation of who he was. The parts that some people might look away from because they were a little less easy to swallow. The parts that called to her just as much as his sweet smiles. “You wonder if he’d be disappointed in you.” The way Red, as she’d realized over these past weeks, was disappointed in himself. “Because of whatever it was that happened to you in London.”
He turned to look at her so fast, his hair flew around his face like a flame. “I—London was—” He sighed, his grip on her hand tightening. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I don’t know why I brought this up. Did I bring this up? Look, have a marshmallow.”
“Red,” she whispered. “You don’t always have to be okay.” She leaned closer and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He was still for a moment.
But then he looked at her, and smiled, and murmured, “I know. But I am okay, with you.” The moment shimmered with something beautiful and delicate, and it wasn’t broken when he turned away. It lingered, fine and lovely, under the surface. He pushed a marshmallow onto her skewer, and when she complained, he popped one into her mouth, too. Then he loaded up his own and showed her exactly how close to hold them to the fire, and for how long.
Then, when her mouth was full of the first hot, sticky, melting bite, he caught her gaze and said in the gravelly voice that rolled right over her clit, “Now, in the name of camping, bad decisions, and your list, you and me are gonna play a game.”
Chapter Nineteen
Red watched as the sympathy left Chloe’s dark gaze, replaced by something hotter than the campfire. Her lips curled, that familiar, uneven smile so sexy he felt it in his chest—and his balls.
“What kind of game?” she asked. Her tongue snaked out to catch a dripping blob of marshmallow, and every inch of his body snapped to attention. He hadn’t thought this whole “toasted marshmallow” thing through. He hadn’t considered how fucking irresistible she’d look licking up gooey, white dessert, or how the light of the fire would make her skin glow like polished mahogany and her eyes light up like smoky amber. He hadn’t imagined something this innocent could make him want to suck sugar off her tongue and drag her into the tent.
He should’ve, though. He always wanted Chloe. In every possible way.
She was still waiting for a response, arching those winged eyebrows at him, so he cleared his throat and finally answered, “Twenty-one questions. It’s a time-honored camp tradition amongst people who’re trying to get into each other’s sleeping bags.”
She crossed her ankles and leaned closer, her shoulder bumping his. The simple touch shimmered through his core like a shot of molten gold. “I’m assuming you didn’t learn that from your granddad.”
He swallowed to clear the roughness in his throat. This whole experience was for her, and she seemed to be enjoying it, so he wasn’t going to grab her and make it all about his lust—at least, not yet. “I learned it the same place I learned about s’mores, smart-arse. You can’t deny, this game looks fun in films.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Isn’t it the game where a girl asks something useful like, What’s your favorite animal? and then a horny little monster—ahem, I mean a boy, uses his turn to ask if she’s ever had anal sex?”
Red’s lips twitched. “Maybe. Luckily I’m not a horny little monster”—lie—“so I’ll only be asking you very meaningful questions. But you can go first.”
She tapped her fingers against her lower lip. “I need more marshmallows to help me think.”
“Don’t start.” He nudged her shoulder. Must have caught her by surprise, because she almost toppled over in response, saved only by his hand on her arm.
“An attack!” she cried, all dramatic as if they were in a film.
“It’s not my fault your balance sucks.” He pulled her up again. Actually, he sort of . . . picked her up a bit, and settled her between his legs. Now his thighs bracketed hers, her back resting against his chest. She was close enough that he could smell the floral stuff she put in her hair over the smoky sweetness of toasted marshmallows, close enough that her body heat seared into him like a brand.
Perfect.
“All right,” he said, trying to sound authoritative. “Now, you start.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Were you teased at school about your name? And, you know, your hair and everything?”
“Yeah.” He wrapped his arms around her like he was a fucking koala and she was his forever tree. “I got some shit at school—who didn’t?—but it never bothered me. My mum gave me this name. She told me it’s a good one. And her hair’s a hell of a lot redder than mine, but I always thought she was the prettiest lady in the world, so I didn’t care what people said about the color.”
The crackling of the fire and the rustles of the forest reigned for a second; they even heard someone whooping in the distance. Then Chloe said with a smile in her voice, “Well, that’s incredibly sweet. I mean, I already knew you were a mama’s boy—”
“Whoa, now. I’m a what?”
“Red,” she said patiently, “you have the word MUM tattooed on your hand.”
He grinned and ran that hand through his hair. “Yeah, well. You don’t have any questionable tattoos? No, of course you don’t.”
“I don’t like pain, remember?”
“And you don’t make fucked-up decisions like me.” When she twisted her head to frown up at him, he winked and kissed her cheek.
It didn’t change the frown. “You don’t make messed-up decisions,” she told him sternly.
“Chlo, we just went over this.” He waggled his tattooed fingers and raised his eyebrows. When she laughed, the sudden tightness in his chest faded. He was all light again. “Okay, now it’s my turn. What do I want to ask?” he murmured thoughtfully, as if he wasn’t fucking bursting with questions about this woman. As if he couldn’t spend hours lost in a Chloe rabbit hole of wondering. “Since we’re talking about awkward childhood moments . . . when was your first kiss?”
She laughed. “Who says I was a child? Maybe my first kiss was at twenty.”
“Was it?”
“No.” Her voice was bright and glittering now. He could hear her smile even if he couldn’t see it, his gaze too busy alternating between marshmallow watch and the electric-soft texture of her hair. Then her head dropped back against his shoulder, and he got a front-seat view of her carefree smile and the sparkle in her eyes. Everything turned Button-pink like Cupid had just shot him in the arse. “I was sixteen, at a house party with one of my friends. We played truth or dare and someone was dared to kiss me. It went quite well, I suppose, because I spent the rest of the night with my tongue down his throat.”
“See, this is where I’m going wrong. I’ve got you answering questions when I should’ve been offering dares.”
She slapped his thigh. “You don’t need to dare me to kiss you.”
“Well, in that case,” he murmured. He put his hand on her belly for no reason other than he liked its warmth and its curve and the fact that it was Chlo
e. He bent his head, brushed his lips over her cheek, and the feel of her was like the sweetest possible punch to the gut. This was all it took; one taste, and his hard-on was probably jabbing her lower back. But she didn’t seem to mind, because she tangled her fingers in his hair, yanked him closer, and pressed her lips to his. For precious, perfect seconds, her tongue slid, tentative but demanding, into his mouth. Everything was as intense as her midnight eyes, delicious as her thighs, urgent as the way he needed her.
Then she pulled away, and said, “My turn.”
Slightly dazed, he murmured, “Uh. Right. Yeah.”
“Do you like your website?”
He blinked, then burst out laughing. “What do you mean, do I like it? Didn’t you see my seventy fucking texts?”
She’d sent him a link to preview the current design just yesterday, during their day-long virtual conversation. And, even though there was apparently still technical shit for her to do, he thought everything looked perfect. Just . . . perfect. So much so that if he thought about it for too long, his chest got tight and all his hope and gratitude made a lump of not-so-impossible dreams in his throat.
“There weren’t seventy texts,” she said. “More like five. But I know you’d hate to hurt my feelings, and texts are easy to lie over, so—”
“Hey.” He held her tight, gathering her closer against his chest, nudging her chin until she met his gaze. “I don’t lie to you. Okay? I just don’t.”
She rolled her lips inward, but that couldn’t hide her smile. “Okay.”
“I love it.”
“Okay. Can I ask another question?”
He arched an eyebrow. “I thought we were taking turns?”
Her expression turned pensive. “Maybe this question isn’t part of the game. I wanted to know . . .” She seemed to gather up her courage in a single breath. “I wanted to know what happened to you in London. What happened to your career.”
Ah. He looked up at the canopy of trees and the night being born above them, stars glowing into view like a thousand bright-white candles.
“Marshmallow’s burning,” she said softly.
“Oh, shit.” He came back down to earth, yanked the latest marshmallow out of the fire and stared at the smoldering blob. “Uh—”
“It’s fine. I’ll still eat it. Will you answer me? You don’t have to.”
But he would, because he loved her.
The thought froze him for a second before he sank into it like a feather bed. Before it became the comfort that helped him figure out how to speak. He loved Chloe. He loved Chloe like a blank canvas and a finished piece and all the exhilarating, painful, stop-and-start moments in between. He loved Chloe like tearing through the night on his Triumph, feeling alive in motion when he couldn’t feel alive inside. He loved Chloe like every glare she shot him was a kiss and every kiss she gave him was a breadcrumb-sized piece of her heart in his hands.
He pushed the length of her braid aside and kissed the back of her neck, soft and vulnerable. The last time he’d put his mouth on her, all of five minutes ago, he hadn’t known he was in love. He wondered if she’d feel the difference. Probably not. Because he had a feeling he’d been kissing her with love for a while, even if he hadn’t noticed until now.
“Red,” she murmured, regret chiming sharp, because she thought she’d hurt him.
“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s fine.” And it was. If he ripped off the bandage like a big boy, it would be done, and he’d be able to enjoy the fact that she’d asked, that she wanted to know about the hidden parts of him, the parts that didn’t help anyone or make people smile. The parts that weren’t fit for exhibition.
“I went to London because I thought I had to. I spent years there, trying to break into a world that wasn’t exactly welcoming. I worked as a laborer to support myself and at night I’d run around crashing galleries and handing out my card, which was actually made of paper because—” He laughed, because this was funny, though at the time he’d been embarrassed. “Because I made them myself on the library computer, you know, using Word? And I’d print eight on a page, then cut them out.” He shook his head. “I never could wrap my head around online networking, but it would’ve made life a lot easier.”
“You are a technophobe,” she said triumphantly. “I knew it!”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Maybe just a little bit.”
“Well, you’re lucky you have me to keep your website updated,” she said smugly. And he was struck by happiness like a bolt of lightning because he was pretty sure—pretty fucking sure—that she didn’t just mean that in an I look after all my clients long-term sort of way. His mind focused on three words, blew them up, and made them flash a thousand different colors: you have me.
Did she know that she had him, too, no matter what? She was skittish about things like this. If he told her just how much feeling burned inside his chest, it might freak her out.
He’d have to show her first. Get her used to the idea. He wanted to squeeze her to him and tell her that she had him, and that she could drag him along on all her wild schemes forever and ever, amen. Instead, he kissed her temple and went on with the story.
“My old-fashioned ways did work, in the end—or at least I thought they did. One night, I met a woman on her way out of some glamorous party. Her name was Pippa. She wanted to look at my stuff. I asked where she worked, and she laughed and told me she didn’t work. But I let her look anyway because she was confident and I was desperate.”
He felt Chloe tense as if she was worried about what came next. God, he wanted to kiss her again. But it was too easy to hide in the comfort she offered, so he squashed the urge and kept talking.
“Long story short, me and her got together. Turned out, her dad was an art dealer, and he liked my stuff. She took me places, and instead of sneering at me or throwing me out, people listened when I talked. I finally started making money, enough that I could quit laboring and focus on my work. Everything was great. Everything was perfect. Except Pippa. She was . . . well, she was abusive.”
Chloe twisted round to look at him. “What?”
“She was abusive,” he said simply. “Not that I realized at the time. I thought she was just bratty. I mean, she was so little; it’s not like it hurt when she hit me. And when she treated me like shit or fucked with my head . . . somehow she always managed to convince me it was just a disagreement, and I was being sensitive. But after a while, that got old. I remember she tried to stop me going home to see Mum. I used to visit once a month, then once a fortnight when I got more money. I brought Pippa once, but, ah, Mum didn’t like her.”
Understatement of the fucking century.
“She told me Pippa wasn’t treating me right. Hearing it from someone else made it easier to hold on to. And then when Pippa tried to stop me visiting again, I started to realize what was going on. Maybe it would’ve taken me longer to leave her, only she got pissed and stabbed me with a fork.”
“She did what?” Chloe thundered, and he realized he’d never seen her angry before. She was angry now. She scrambled onto her knees and looked down at him like an avenging god. Her voice came out like thick, choking smoke just before a volcanic eruption. “What the fuck?”
He held up his right hand and wondered if she’d see the four tiny scars under his knuckles. “Lucky I’m a lefty.”
She grabbed the hand and studied it for a second before pressing a kiss to the marks. “Wow. Wow. So this is what murderous intent feels like.”
He smiled despite himself. “It’s fine. I’m over it. Healed fast.”
“You might be over it, but it is not fine.” The words were sharp, but her voice cracked and her breath hitched.
“Hey, no, Chloe.” Heart breaking, he cupped her face, met her shining eyes. “Don’t cry, love. It’s okay.”
“It most certainly is not! It is not. You’re not. You can’t even talk about London, and—”
“That’s not why I don’t talk about London,” he said.
>
She blinked up at him. “What?”
“I mean, the whole relationship was a fucking nightmare, and I’m still . . .” He grimaced. “Well, you know. But I haven’t finished.”
She looked horrified. “What else happened?”
“Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she turned and sat again. Back where she belonged, in his arms. He kissed the top of her head and kept going. “So I broke up with Pippa, and kind of lost it. She told me . . . well, she told me I was nothing without her anyway and she’d been slumming it, and blah blah blah. She said that her dad had only promoted my work because I was with her. And that people only bought it because she’d made me someone. I think she said she created a, uh, cultural moment around me. She was always saying shit like that.”
Chloe’s hand came to rest over his, and the soft, warm pressure jolted him out of the cold, hard place his words had dragged him into. He blinked at the realization that he’d been drifting away as he spoke, back into years of imposter syndrome and paranoia and constant, toxic whispers chipping away at him. Grateful for the touch, he squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.
He cleared his throat and said, “I think the success coming all at once after so many years of trying so hard, it fucked with my head. I didn’t think I deserved anything, so I believed her. I yanked my work from just about everywhere, shut down the website and social media I’d finally gotten set up. I cut off the friends I’d made in the art world—before and after her. Anyone. Everyone. Like Joanie, like Julian. I burned bridges and disappeared in a blaze of glory. ’Course, it didn’t feel so glorious when I finally stepped back enough to realize what I’d done, but . . . It was too late. I almost got somewhere, and then I took myself back to square one. And when I thought about trying to fix it, I just . . . froze. I spent over a year frozen.” He shrugged. “Bad choices and fucked-up decisions. That’s me.”