Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(45)

His expression was unreadable—but his cheeks were flushed. Her mind fixated on that because it seemed so impossibly vulnerable. Impossible full stop. Why would he be flushed? He was cool and confident and probably made women wet with a bit of hyper-sexy hand-holding a few times a week, just to keep himself sharp. Except, according to the kiss of crimson painting his high cheekbones, maybe he didn’t.

The sight of that flush—of the slightly glassy look in his eyes, of his soft, parted lips—filled her with reckless regret. She wanted to grab him by the hair and drag him back. She wanted to twine their fingers together again and ground herself in him. It was on her list, after all—meaningless sex. But some wise and protective instinct, hidden deep in the prehistoric part of her brain, warned her that nothing would be meaningless with someone like Red. And if it wasn’t meaningless, she didn’t want it. When it came to feelings, to relationships, to more, Chloe was off men.

He shut his eyes for one long moment, and when they opened again he looked a little more like himself and a little less like a creature sent from Planet Lust to sex her to death. Which was good. Very, very good.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, clearly concerned. “Did I … ?”

Gosh, he was sweet. She needed to get him out of here before she cracked completely.

“I’m fine,” she said brightly. Possibly a touch too brightly, but it was too late now; she was committed. “I’ll see you on Saturday, to continue with the list.” She sounded like a chipmunk on helium.

He hesitated, then said quietly, “Do you still want to do that? With me, I mean? It’s okay if you don’t.”

Oh, I want to do a lot with you.

She was going to have to start tapping herself on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. Her mind was out of control and needed training.

“Yes, I still want to do that. With you. I promise, everything’s fine.” She stood up and made vague, shooing motions in his direction. “Off you go, then.”

He stood, too, smiling now. “I wrote the details in your little book. I know you like plans.”

“Wonderful. Fabulous. Much appreciated.” She shoved him bodily out of the room.

His smile widened. “I take it you don’t want to talk about—?”

“Good-bye, Redford!” She herded him toward the hall.

“—about me kissing your—”

“Ah, ah!” She strode past him to unlock the front door, holding it open. “No more talk. I am a poor, disabled woman who is not to be harassed with unnecessary conversation.”

He burst out laughing.

She pushed him out of the door.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


Saturday evening had never been so fraught.

Two days—and a few too many flushed, forbidden daydreams—after that Very Professional Meeting with Red, Chloe sat with her laptop perched on her knees and her sparkly blue notebook in one hand. He had indeed written out the details for her, right down to the bars and nightclubs they would visit. And, as she passed the time until his arrival by researching those establishments online, she couldn’t help but notice that they were all very close together.

Close enough that walking from building to building probably wouldn’t tire her out.

She closed her browser window with a tut, still not sure if she was pleased by that discovery or if she found Red’s behavior presumptuous. She had a feeling it was the former, but she so wanted to believe the latter. It would make it considerably easier to resist feeling mushy things toward him. And, since escaping his intoxicating presence and remembering that men possessed less loyalty than the average flea and caused more emotional trouble than they were worth, Chloe had decided she must indeed resist.

It wasn’t that she assumed he’d leap at the chance to become the next fiancé to abandon her. But, whatever their relationship, he would leave her life eventually—everyone did, in the end—and it would be easier to watch him go if they kept the kissing to a minimum. It would probably be easier if they kept the funny, flirty emails to a minimum, too, but he’d kept sending those, and … well. Ignoring him would be rude. Plus, he took her mind off of certain things. Somewhat.

On the coffee table, Smudge was delicately licking his own arsehole in flagrant convention of the established house rules—a sight that, bizarrely, plucked at something sad beneath Chloe’s breastbone. Beside him sat Chloe’s phone, and from the speakers a familiar voice was emanating. It had not stopped emanating, in fact, for the last ten bloody minutes.

“You’re very grumpy today, darling,” Gigi said. “Are you feeling delicate?”

“No,” Chloe said, the word both flat and honest. She was physically passable; her misery was 100 percent emotional today. Being unhappy made her irritable. Even more irritable than severe back pain.

“Well, whatever is the matter, then?” Gigi asked.

Redford-based confusion and Saturday-night anxiety aside, Smudge was the matter. Chloe had finally taken him to the vet’s yesterday, and what had she discovered? Why, that he had an owner, of course. An owner who’d put a chip in him like he was some sort of computer. The vet assured her that chips were both humane and safety conscious, but since Smudge’s chip meant that she absolutely could not keep him, she found herself violently opposed to the concept.