“How d’you know the cat doesn’t belong to someone?”
“No collar.”
“Still, it—good God, woman, what are you doing? This branch. This one.”
“Don’t get snippy,” she muttered.
“Are you trying to break your neck?”
“So dramatic. I’d break an arm at most. Of course, it has occurred to me that if I landed poorly, I could break my neck at any height. Especially since, as I’m holding a cat, I’d probably twist to avoid squashing the poor thing to death.” She paused, considered. “But that’s a worst-case scenario. I’m sure we don’t need to worry about it.”
Red halted his steady descent to stare at her. Then, from out of nowhere, he burst into laughter. It was a short, bright sound accompanied by a stunning smile, and she enjoyed it an unhealthy amount. She decided to ignore him and focus on studying the branches below. When she craned her neck a touch too vigorously, her body responded with a stab of pain through her shoulder blade. He, being a certified nuisance, noticed her slight wince and abruptly stopped laughing. Those sharp eyes excavated her expression. She’d seen him look at one of his paintings just like this, shortly before picking it up and throwing it against a wall.
He said, “Something’s wrong with you.”
She flinched. Her chest cracked wide open. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You sure you didn’t hurt yourself? Seems like you’re in pain.”
Oh. Of course. She shook her head, avoiding his gaze, her tension easing away. “It’s nothing.”
After a slight pause, he continued their descent. “You know,” he said conversationally, “I think we’re about the same age. I, too, enjoyed the era of Xena: Warrior Princess and Captain Janeway.”
“How nice for you.”
“And just because I’m rescuing you—”
“Incorrect.”
“—like a proper knight in shining armor, don’t mean I think you’re all . . . you know. Damsel-in-distress-like.”
Chloe huffed out a breath, a cloud of air pluming from her nostrils. Definitely more dragon that damsel. “Point?”
“Point is, if you’ve hurt yourself, I’m not gonna be a prick about it.”
“Oh?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“Yeah. Like I won’t insist you come back to mine so I can have a look at you.”
“Good.”
“But I will suggest that you let me see you home and get you settled. And make you a cuppa. To warm you up.” Before she could quite get her head around that, he said, “Here we are, then,” and jumped down. When his booted feet hit the ground, she realized they’d done it. They’d finished. Well, almost. She was crouched awkwardly on the last branch.
She wondered how badly the landing would hurt her already-screaming bones.
Red smiled up at her. It was the kind of sweet and effortlessly handsome smile that heartthrobs deployed in rom-coms, and she didn’t trust it an inch. “Want me to catch you?”
“I’d rather die.”
He shrugged, put his hands in his pockets, and started humming “Devil Woman.”
She clutched the cat against her chest and jumped. Coincidentally, landing felt a little bit like dying. Her body had become a giant bruise. She swallowed a thousand curses, breathed through the urge to vomit, and felt like the silliest woman on earth. Why in God’s name had she done this to herself? The cat licked the hollow of her throat, its sandpaper tongue warming her shriveled heart. Ah, yes. She’d done this because she was a pathetic ninny.
Red didn’t bother to hide his concern. “You okay?”
For once, the apartment building’s sweetheart was turning his nice-guy brand of nosiness her way. It might’ve been satisfying if she’d actually wanted his attention.
With great effort, she straightened up and attempted to smile. It felt more like a grimace. He winced at the sight as if horrified. She stopped. “I’m fine. Good-bye.”
With that 100 percent believable lie expertly deployed, she made her escape. It was slow and steady, with little dignity, great pain, and greater determination. Being rescued from trees was all well and good, but she didn’t need a rescue from herself.
Chapter Four
Red let Chloe limp off to her flat with a cat stuffed down her jacket. Then he found the motorbike he’d dumped shortly after spotting her, parked it, and settled in for a thrilling evening of minding his own damn business. He lasted about five minutes before grabbing his ring of master keys, turning up at her door, and knocking.
If she didn’t answer, he’d assume she’d fainted or some shit and let himself in.
He was only checking on her because she was a tenant. Making sure she hadn’t hurt herself was his job. The fact that she’d climbed up a tree to save a cat, and bantered with him in a weird, stuck-up, posh-girl kind of way, meant absolutely nothing. She was an unrepentant snob who’d possibly spied on him last night. He didn’t give a fuck about her sarcastic sense of humor, or the cute little cardigans she wore, or her fantastic bloody face. But on a regular human-concerned-about-another-human level, he really wished she’d answer the door.
He knocked one more time, raked a hand through his hair, and started worrying. When she’d left, her mouth had been tight, her skin gray beneath a sheen of sweat. Her words had grown rushed, strained, even sharper than usual. She’d moved stiffly, her body hunched with something more than cold. It was obvious she had some tree-related injury and didn’t want to admit it, but Red was not above bullying it out of her. He had plenty of practice bullying his mother, after all.
He was reaching for his key when the door finally opened a crack. A large, dark eye peered suspiciously out at him.
Red arched an eyebrow. “Where are your glasses?”
“You’re a very nosy man,” she said. “What do you want?”
“Word on the street is, you’ve got a cat in there.”
She looked him right in the eye and said, “Mr. Morgan. Would I ever?”
His lips twitched into a smile he didn’t want to give. “I think I’ll check, if you don’t mind.”
“I mind awfully.”
“Still, though.”
With a sigh gustier than a hurricane, she let him in.
Chloe was one of those women who always looked tidy. Even up a tree, she’d been in color-coordinated walking gear that could only be called appropriate. So the state of her home made him stop in his tracks.
She didn’t appear to notice. She was too busy shuffling down the hall, dodging empty bottles of water lined up like bowling skittles and what seemed to be countless Amazon Prime delivery boxes. He picked his way through the chaos and followed her into an equally disordered living room, where fancy furniture was covered with pillows, books, empty mugs, and video-game cases that said PS4 on the front.
Oh, and then there was the cat.
It lay stretched across the glass coffee table, surrounded by a rainbow of prescription medication. Chloe picked up the boxes of pills, ignored the cat, and asked, “Happy?”
He stared. “The cat’s right there.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She hesitated, then took a nervous little breath. He wondered if she was about to confess to murder. Instead, she said, “I don’t suppose you’d make some tea? Lavender for me, please.”
He stared. Had she just—? Did she really think he would—? Well, holy fuck. The balls on this woman. “Used to servants, are you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said.
It took him three solid seconds and one aborted scowl to realize that she was joking. Chloe Brown had just made yet another joke in that deadpan, oddly self-deprecating way of hers, which she really had to stop doing because he was starting to enjoy it.
She turned to leave the room while he questioned his grip on reality. “If you hear any ominous bangs,” she called, “knock. If I don’t respond, you can rush in to my rescue.”
“. . . Knock?” he echoed blankly.
“On the bath
room door,” she told him, as if he was being particularly thick. “I’ve decided to use your presence as supervision.”
“Super—?” Too late. She’d disappeared, mountain of medication in hand. “All right then,” Red said to the empty living room.
The cat miaowed.
“Shut it, you. If she’s hurt herself, you’re to blame.”
The cat was blatantly unrepentant.
Red went to make the tea.
The kitchen was comparatively tidy and reasonably clean. It had a few additions to the standard outfit, too: most notably a dishwasher, sleek and quietly efficient, which he had not authorized. She also had a plush little seat, the kind found at fancy bars, placed randomly by the oven. Odd. She had countless different flavors of tea, plus some PG Tips—thank Christ—all in the usual place. No milk in the fridge, but there was an army of juice cartons in there, plus a ton of stacked-up Tupperware boxes. Those boxes were filled with salad, chicken, tuna, sliced cheese, and more. Like a little pre-chopped buffet.
Someone was looking after her. Or she did all this herself because she was proper anal. Red looked out at her tornado of a living room and decided that the first option seemed more likely. Now, why would someone look after Chloe Brown? Maybe she was a spoiled brat. Maybe she needed the help sometimes. Maybe he should mind his own business and make the fucking tea.
He made it, helped himself to the biscuit tin as payment, enjoyed what appeared to be a homemade gingersnap, and grabbed a couple more. In the living room, he spotted empty packets of fancy chocolate among all the rubble. If he was going to bring Chloe Brown food, which he would never do, he’d bring something sweet. She seemed like a sweet sort of woman.
And he seemed like he’d lost his mind.
He made space for the tea on the table, between rubbish and cats, and perched on the sofa beside a PlayStation controller and a spray of shiny business cards. The cat didn’t seem particularly interested in the tea, but Red kept half an eye out even as he studied the cards.
Sublime Design Online
Web design, SEO, social media branding, and more
Chloe’s details were on the back.
Huh. Fancy that. He needed a website; apparently, she made them. Not that he’d ever hire her. Ideally, he’d prefer a web designer he didn’t want to strangle.
“Nosy, nosy, nosy,” Chloe said.
He looked up to find her leaning against the doorway, not in a casually charming sort of way, but in a can’t-stand-up-straight sort of way. He leaped to his feet. “Are you all right?”
“Absolutely. Are you eating my biscuits?”
He shoved the last one in his mouth and mumbled, “Nah.”
“I saw you.”
“I see the cat.”
“Point taken.” Her walk toward him was slow and painful to watch. She moved like someone who’d taken a beating. If he hadn’t helped her safely down that tree himself, he’d assume she’d fallen. She was wearing her glasses now, at least, along with an enormous pink dressing gown and a pair of equally enormous bunny-ear slippers. The slippers surprised him until he remembered that Chloe used cuteness to disguise her inner evil. Sort of like Professor Umbridge.
Except he couldn’t imagine Professor Umbridge saving a cat from a tree. Never mind. He’d think about that later.
Her eyes seemed a little too bright and unfocused. Her hair was down, floating around her face in fluffy waves that reminded him of thunder clouds. She patted at it self-consciously with hands that . . . shook? For fuck’s sake. He barely resisted the urge to pick her up and carry her off to bed. Didn’t want her to take it the wrong way. He also didn’t want to care about her problems, but he knew himself well enough to realize that he’d care for a great white shark if given half the chance. He helped. Always. He just couldn’t help himself.
“You shouldn’t barge into people’s homes,” she said, “if you can’t cope with a minor state of undress.”
He sat down, realizing that he’d been staring. She seemed embarrassed by the scrutiny. “Sorry. I’m fine. I’m an intrepid home barger. Don’t worry about me.”
“I wasn’t.” She collapsed onto the mammoth sofa like a sack of potatoes, surrounding him with a cloud of soft, floral scent. “Give me the tea, would you?”
He gave her the tea. She cradled it like a baby and sipped with obvious relief. He watched her as closely as he could, which was pretty fucking close. And Red noticed things. Like the faint V between her eyebrows, the grimace she couldn’t quite fight. The moisture that gleamed on her throat and collarbone, maybe left over from the shower, as if she hadn’t dried off fully. The bare curve of her calves, visible beneath the hem of her dressing gown. That last part wasn’t relevant to his suspicions, so he didn’t know why his mind got stuck on it. Whatever.
Finally, he asked, “Are you going to admit that you’re hurt?”
“I am not hurt,” she said, “I am in pain.” Her voice was bright in a dangerous sort of way, like a knife flashing in the sunlight. Like she was ten seconds and one irritating question away from skewering him.
He used his most patient, judgment-free tone. “Difference being . . . ?”
“I’m always in pain, Mr. Morgan. Especially when I do ridiculous things like climb trees for ungrateful cats.”
“Red,” he corrected absently, while puzzle pieces slotted together in his mind. “Chronic pain?”
She looked up at him, clearly surprised.
“What? I know things.”
Her eye roll could only be described as epic. “How wonderful for you.”
That, apparently, was the end of that. She didn’t seem inclined to explain further, and if she wasn’t hiding some urgent injury, the whole thing was none of his business. He told himself that very firmly: None of my business. None of my business. None of my fucking business. She’d have people to call when she needed them, the way his mum called him when she fucked up her insulin. There was no reason for him to hang around any longer.
But he should finish his tea, shouldn’t he? It wouldn’t be polite to leave it.
He sat and stared out of the window, sipping his almost-cold brew. Beside him, Chloe did the same. He could see his own window through hers, across the narrow courtyard. Could see his abandoned easel and even a few naked canvases piled around the room. Prime spying position, this was.
He gulped down the last of his tea and looked over to find that her eyes were closed, her face slack.
“You want me to bugger off so you can sleep?”
“I’m not tired,” she said instantly. “I’m just resting my eyes.”
Since that was clearly bullshit, he should leave. Yet he found himself hanging around and blurting out pointless crap like “So you’re a web designer.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
She was so quiet, her usual snap-crackle-flame extinguished, that he found himself wanting to bring it back any way he could. Even if that meant pissing her off. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d bother with a job. What with your family being loaded and all.”
It worked, kind of. She cracked open one eye like a sunbathing lizard and managed to look haughty while doing it. “You don’t know my family is wealthy.”
He snorted. “You gonna tell me they’re not?”
She closed the eye.
“So why do you work?” he asked, not because he was genuinely curious, but because he wanted to keep her lively. That was all.
She sighed. “Perhaps the monthly amount I receive from the trust is not enough to keep me in sea-salt chocolate and tea. Or maybe I am addicted to ordering antique Beanie Babies for thousands from eBay. It is possible that all my clothes have tiny diamonds sewn into the seams.”
He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “You’re so fucking . . .” So fucking unexpected. Like maybe she wasn’t the vicious snob he’d once assumed. Like maybe she was just an awkward, sarcastic grump, and he should stop losing his temper around her.
Christ, he didn’t even have a temper unles
s he was around her. And he’d learned the hard way that letting a woman fuck with his contentment was a stepping stone on the way to bad shit.
Maybe that was why he found himself saying, “Just so happens that I need a website.”
“Really?” Her tone was dry as sandpaper, but somehow, he could tell that she was interested.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
“You’re probably one of the posher designers, right? Bet you charge out the arsehole.”
“Indeed I do.” She opened her eyes, and something zipped up his spine when their gazes met. It was hot and cold all at once, unexpected and unexplainable. He was still trying to figure it out when she added, “Since you’re being so decent about the cat, I might give you a discount.”
Red arched an eyebrow. “What cat?”
The tilt of her lips was so tiny, it could barely be called a smile. If he did decide to call it a smile, well—it would be the first time she’d ever smiled at him. Not that he’d been keeping track.
“This is only until we find the owners, mind,” he added quickly.
Her not-smile widened like a waxing moon. “It has no collar.”
“Don’t look like a stray to me, though. It’ll be chipped.”
“I’ll find out,” she said.
“Good. And keep it inside, yeah?”
“I’ll see if one of my sisters has time for an emergency kitty litter run.”
Red sighed, resigned to the pitfalls of his own nature. “I’ll do it.”
She gave him one of her usual looks, all irritated and snooty. He was trying not to bristle when she followed up with actual words, words he really hadn’t expected. “You’re so lovely,” she scowled. “I don’t think I can stand it.”
He blinked, an unsettling warmth creeping up the back of his neck. Which meant—bugger this skin of his—that he must be flushing like a teenager. He looked away and shoved his fingers through his hair. His voice was gruff when he said, “It’s nothing.”
There was a pause before she laughed, the sound low and disbelieving. “Oh, my goodness. You blush.”
“Nope.” He knew full well his face was bright red, but he lied anyway.