Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(26)

“What’s that?”

“Forget I said anything.”

“No, thanks.” He leaned forward. “Explain that, please.”

She looked tortured as fuck. It was great. “I—well—I had some time free over the past few days, and so, in the name of preliminary research and everything, I, erm, googled you.”

Ah. Why was he not surprised? “You know,” he drawled, “for a woman who called me nosy about a thousand times the other day, you have a bad habit of peeping through windows.”

She froze. Stuttered, “What—what do you mean?”

He smiled easily and felt evil. “Turn of phrase.”

“Oh.” The tension flooded out of her so fast, she deflated through sheer relief. If he’d had any doubt that her spying had been intentional, rather than a passing glimpse at her weird, shirtless neighbor … well, that doubt was officially dead. Chloe had watched him, and she felt guilty about it. He wondered when she’d confess.

Because she would confess. She had no filter, as most of the building had already learned.

She shifted uncomfortably and said, her voice brisk, “As an artist, you should really be on Instagram.”

“Don’t change the subject. Are you nosy with everyone, or just me?”

“I could link the feed to your website,” she said desperately. “People do that. It’s very pretty.”

Instagram? Throwing his work up, not just for people to see, but on an app literally designed to display your fucking approval rating? The whole concept of internet likes had always unsettled Red, even when he’d been more confident in his abilities. “I’ll think about it.” Lie. “We’re still talking about you.”

“We are not.” She looked horrified, so he had to keep going.

“You like to research everything,” he guessed. “No; you like to know everything. You’re one of those ‘knowledge is power’ people.”

“Knowledge is power,” she shot back.

“I bet you were a massive teacher’s pet at school.” He was grinning. Hard.

“I bet you were an aimless slacker,” she said archly.

“I bet you always file your taxes on time.”

She was clearly scandalized. “Who doesn’t file their taxes on time?”

He burst out laughing. “Oh, Chloe. You’re cute as fuck, you know that?” He had no idea how any of those words had slipped out, but he couldn’t exactly snatch them back. And he didn’t quite regret setting them free.

“Cute?” She wrinkled her nose. “No. No, I’m not.”

She shouldn’t be. “You are.”

Primly, she threw his own words back at him. “You don’t know me, Red.”

Which was when he realized that he had upset her earlier, when he’d said exactly the same thing. That bothered him. A lot. He said, “I’d like to know you,” then realized it came off like the world’s worst chat-up line. Quickly, he added, “If I’m gonna let you on my bike, I need to know you’re good people.”

“Well, that’s easy enough to discern. I saved a cat the other day, remember?”

He shrugged and leaned back, resting his weight on his hands. Slowly, reluctantly, he realized that he was comfortable around her—which made about as much sense as a toothless shark. “I remember. But I don’t know if I care. I’m not a fan of cats.”

“And why not?”

“They’re judgmental.”

“I had no idea that it was such a reprehensible trait. I expect to see you on the news soon, protesting the judiciary.”

He snorted and tried again. “Cats are snooty.”

“Or perhaps,” she said wryly, “you’re simply projecting your expectations.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, mocking her crisp words, “I prefer pets who aren’t afraid to get dirty and don’t lounge around looking down on people like the queen of bloody Sheba.”

“Actually, Smudge would be the king of Sheba.”

Red smiled despite himself. “Named him, have you?”

“Clearly.”

“Took him to the vet’s yet?”

“I’ve been indisposed.”

He was going to have to buy a bloody dictionary to keep up with her vocab, but he could read between the lines. “All right. So, Smudge. Has he been … ?” Red trailed off politely.

Her eyebrows rose in question, one winging higher than the other. He felt that delicate, uneven arch in his gut. She really was beautiful.

And he really was easily distracted, staring at her like this. He cleared his throat, gave her a significant look, and said, “Smudge. Have they … You know.”

Judging by her frown of confusion, she did not.

Give him fucking strength. No way was he saying this plain to a woman like her. She’d get it eventually.

Only, she didn’t. He raised his eyebrows. He cocked his head, clicked his tongue, and looked down. Nothing worked. Chloe remained blank as a computer with no power. In the end, he gave up on subtlety and blurted, “Someone got rid of his knackers yet?”

She blinked, looking completely unoffended by his choice of words—while he, for some reason, could feel heat creeping up his neck. Irritating, irritating, irritating. Cool as anything, she told him, “I have no idea.” Like it was ludicrous to think she would.