Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(33)

Her face lit up, then closed down as she wrestled it under control. She was the queen of deadpan, after all. “Do you think?” she asked in a tone that said, I don’t give a shit, but go on.

“I do,” he said, and she gave in and smiled. She might as well have stabbed him in his dignity, the way his body responded to a measly curve of those full lips. He’d always thought she was beautiful, but she seemed to get prettier every time they spoke, which was bloody inconvenient. He cleared his throat and said, “So … you want my help with your adventure list.”

Although, going out for a drink didn’t seem like an adventure. More like a Friday night.

“My Get a Life list,” she corrected.

He frowned. “What—?”

“And in return,” she cut in, “I’ll build your site. It’s a fair trade. Trust me.”

Trust her? He didn’t. These days, he barely trusted himself. And the way she talked about this list … it wasn’t sitting quite right with him. He should say no. He opened his mouth to do just that, but a question came out instead. “How did something as ordinary as camping end up on the same list as traveling the world?”

She shrugged, wandering over to the wall opposite his. And then she was leaning, just like him, like they were mirror images. “Life experience tends to start small and build up, doesn’t it? You might camp as a child and end up traveling in your twenties. But mine didn’t build up, exactly, for all sorts of reasons. I have these different levels to catch up with. I chose the ones that seemed important, and I suppose I …” She shrugged, let out a self-conscious little laugh. “Well, I suppose I shoved them all together. Is that silly?”

Say yes. “No. Do you need to sit down? Shall we go inside?”

“I would love to sit down,” she said, “because I happen to be happiest when curled up on something soft. But I don’t strictly need to sit down, not yet, so I will push myself a little.”

Push herself. Sounded like she pushed herself a lot, in a lot of different ways. He should find out why. Better yet, he should avoid getting tangled up in her mysterious list, because he knew himself, and he knew it would lead to getting tangled up in her.

Red was trying to avoid tangles right now. He had enough in his own head, and they’d happened because he’d been here before. Because he’d felt this same urge to get swept up by a pretty, posh girl’s charming quirks, and it really hadn’t ended well. He’d rather ride naked through Trinity Square than get himself wrapped up in yet another mess. He’d rather eat a damned rock. He’d rather—

“So,” she asked softly, “will you help me?”

And he, Mister Shit for Brains, said, “Yeah.”





CHAPTER EIGHT


He still didn’t know why he’d agreed. Why he’d jumped headfirst into the murky waters of someone else’s weirdness when his focus should be on his own issues. He was so completely pissed with himself that irritation kept him up all night, distracted him the next morning, and ate at the edges of his concentration while he made his way to Vik’s house.

Luckily, when he arrived, Vik was too busy eating some foodie salad to notice anything was up. The guy was usually sharp as a tack, his big, dark eyes like CCTV cameras, but stick some grub in front of him and he lost track of every fuck he’d ever had to give.

After letting Red into his fancy three-story town house, Vik jerked his thick head of curls toward the stairs and said around a mouthful of bright leaves and white cheese, “You still want to paint that view?”

“No,” Red said dryly, hefting the art supplies slung over his shoulder. “I’m just here to flirt with Alisha.”

“Yeah, well, she’s out. I knew you were coming.”

Red snorted, kicked off his shoes, and made his own way up the stairs. Vik followed like a lanky shadow, face still buried in his bowl. Every now and then, as they climbed to the attic floor, he’d give a disturbingly orgasmic groan and mumble, “You really have to try this.”

“What is it?”

“Spinach, pomegranate seeds, feta cheese, balsamic—”

“I’ll have the recipe for Mum.” When they reached the attic, Red peered into the mysterious bowl, surprisingly drawn to the colors, the textures. Deep, gleaming pink that reminded him of biting kisses. Soft, creamy white, like gasping murmurs of pleasure. The contrast made him think of other juxtapositions, like shiny shoes and velvet skin.

Christ, he was in a strange mood today.

He turned away from the surprisingly inspiring salad to survey the bare and slightly dusty attic space. Alisha hated what she called “tat,” so the Anand house was the tidiest, most streamlined space he’d ever seen, with no drawers full of crap or biscuit tins filled with thread, or spare rooms stuffed to the brim with old record players and books that would never be read. They had no use for the attic at the top of the house, and so it remained empty, the walls a neat, plain white and the floorboards pale blond. All of which made the play of light through the roof windows absolutely stunning at a certain time of day.

This time of day.

Red loved light. He craved it. Once upon a time, everything he’d created had been all space and glow and refracted rainbows through crystal. But these days, all he seemed to produce were vivid fever dreams that he occasionally liked, until he remembered what he’d been before.