Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(17)

“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 unless 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?”