Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(46)

“Darling,” Gigi murmured, “are you growling?”

Chloe gave herself a little shake. “Absolutely not. Why would I ever do such a thing?”

Gigi sighed fondly. “Such strange granddaughters I have. I’m so proud. Your father is depressingly ordinary.”

Chloe’s dad was a financial analyst with zero inclination toward the outrageous, which disappointed Gigi no end. He never took off his herringbone coat, and speed-walked everywhere, and said things like “Bear with me a moment, please.” He’d spent Chloe’s entire school career slipping encouraging notes into her book bag because he knew how much she hated English class. If Martin Brown was ordinary, she wished everyone else would be. But she didn’t bother saying any of that, because Gigi would roll her eyes and call his tie choices utterly uninspired.

“I’m not strange.”

“You are, darling. Not as strange as Danika, I’ll grant you, but still. Now, what have you been up to today, my sweet little onion?”

Onion was not the weirdest thing Chloe had ever been called by her grandmother. “I took my stray cat to the vet and discovered that he belongs to a control freak with no respect for the sanctity of the feline body. Her name is Annie.”

“Annie? Outrageous. I despise her already.”

“She is on holiday, if you believe it,” Chloe said acidly. “Her cat is missing, and she has gone abroad!”

“Thoroughly shocking,” murmured Gigi, who had once gone on a cruise of the Mediterranean while her third husband remained at home with a shattered femur. Of course, as she had informed all who questioned her decision: “I did not tell the fool to shatter his femur during a perfectly lovely July.”

“When she returns,” Chloe bit out, “she will phone me, and I will be expected to hop to it and give back her cat. Well, I don’t know if she’s fit to own a cat. I found Smudge in mortal peril!”

A reasonable person might have pointed out that no cat had ever died of falling from a tree, and also that cats were uncontrollable creatures, but luckily, Gigi wasn’t reasonable. She said in soothing tones, “The woman is an unfit mother. I’m sure of it.”

“So am I! Do you know—” Chloe was cut off by a knock at the door. Her middle melted like chocolate fudge cake. She hadn’t realized the time. It was Red. The skin over her collarbone tingled, as if he’d marked her with his heated gaze.

“Are you there, darling?” Gigi nudged.

Chloe cleared her throat and locked her inappropriate thoughts away. Back in the vault you go. “I have to go. Someone’s at the door.”

“Someone, hm?” Gigi said gleefully. “Why, darling. Whoever could it be? You sound flustered.”

“I’m not flustered. And I don’t know who it is.”

“You sound,” Gigi murmured, “as though you are telling fibs.”

How could she tell? She could always tell. It must be a grandmotherly superpower. “We’ll talk about this later,” Chloe squeaked. “Got to dash love you bye!” She ended the call, huffed out a breath, then patted her robe self-consciously. Between worrying about tonight and worrying about Smudge, she’d somehow managed to lose all sense of time—and now Red was here, and she was barely dressed, and oh, God, this was all going horribly. She grabbed Smudge for good luck and rushed to get the door.

Still, she felt oddly buoyant—almost giddy—as she went.

Redford was big and broad on her welcome mat, his smile almost tentative, his hair spilling over his shoulders like liquid fire. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose forearms ridged with fine veins and thick tendons, and sprinkled with barely visible, golden hair. Not that she was staring, or anything.

“Evening,” he said, his voice low and rich. And calm. Always calm. Clearly, he was not at all bothered by the fact that the last time they’d seen each other, he’d slid his tongue over her ear.

Well, if he wasn’t bothered, then neither was she. “I’m very sorry,” she said, holding Smudge against her chest. “I’m afraid I’m going to make us late.”



Chloe’s email that afternoon had been short and to the point, but Red must have learned her language these past few days, because he’d known straightaway she was upset.

Took Smudge to the vet. He’s chipped. Has owner.



Oh, yeah. She was upset. But she obviously didn’t want to talk about it, so he hadn’t planned on bringing it up.

Then she answered the door with that apologetic frown, her lip caught between her teeth and Smudge held against her chest, and he couldn’t have kept his mouth shut for all the money on earth. “Are you okay?” he asked, completely ignoring what she’d just said, because apparently he was that kind of guy now.

She raised her eyebrows, that divine, Rococo face as striking as ever. “I’m in a mood, but then, I usually am. Why?”

“I got your message about Smudge, and—”

“I don’t want to talk about Smudge,” she said, her voice sharp.

Not so long ago, that sharpness would’ve jabbed him like a thorn. Now it popped his heart like a balloon, because he knew it meant that she was hurting, and hiding, and dealing with her feelings all alone.

Women who saved cats and wrote ridiculous lists and took deals painfully seriously shouldn’t deal with their feelings alone. No one should.