Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(25)

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.