Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(5)

If either of them had taken flat 1D five weeks ago, that would’ve been just fine. But no—it had to be Chloe. Had to be the sister who made him feel like a rough, scary monster. Had to be the uptight princess who’d decided he was dangerous simply because of where he came from. Why she even lived here, in a cheerfully middle-class block of flats, was a fucking mystery; she was obviously loaded. After Pippa, he could spot the gloss of a wealthy woman from miles away.

But he wouldn’t think about Pippa. Nothing good ever came of it.

“I’m fine,” he choked out, blinking his watery eyes.

“See?” Chloe said quickly. “He’s fine. Let’s be off.”

God, she irritated him. The woman had just cut off his fucking oxygen and she still couldn’t show him common courtesy. Absolutely unbelievable. “Nice to see you’re still sweetness and light,” he muttered. “Teach those manners at finishing school, do they?”

He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. She was a tenant. He was the superintendent, by the grace of God and his best mate. He was supposed to be polite to her no matter what. But he’d figured out weeks ago that his good nature, his filters, and his common sense all disappeared around Chloe Brown. Honestly, he was shocked she hadn’t reported him already.

That was the weirdest thing about her, actually. She snapped at him, she sneered down her nose at him, but she never, ever reported him. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

Right now, her heavy-lidded eyes flashed midnight fire, narrowing behind her bright blue glasses. He enjoyed the sight on an aesthetic level and hated himself for it, just a little bit. High up on the list of annoying things about Chloe Brown was her beautiful bloody face. She had the kind of brilliant, decadent, Rococo beauty that made his fingers itch to grab a pencil or a paintbrush. It was ridiculously over the top: gleaming brown skin, winged eyebrows with a slightly sarcastic tilt, a mouth you could sink into like a feather bed. She had no business looking like that. None at all.

But he knew he’d mix a million earth shades to paint her and add a splash of ultramarine for the square frames of her glasses. The thick, chestnut hair piled on top of her head? He’d take that down. Sometimes, he stared at nothing and thought about the way it would frame her face. Most times, he thought about how he shouldn’t be thinking about her. Ever. At all.

Each word deliberate as a gunshot, she told him, “I’m so awfully sorry, Redford.” She sounded about as sorry as a wasp did for stinging. As always, her lips and tongue said one thing, but her eyes said murder. He was generally considered an easygoing guy, but Red knew his eyes were saying murder right back.

“No worries,” he lied. “My fault.”

She gave a one-shouldered shrug that he knew from experience was rich-people speak for Whatever. Then she left without another word, because their verbal battles were never actually that verbal, beyond the first few passive-aggressive jabs.

He watched her spin away, her poofy skirt swishing around her calves. He saw her sisters follow, and waved a hand when they sent him concerned, backward glances. He heard their footsteps fade, and he pulled himself together, and he went to Mrs. Conrad’s flat and ate her awful casserole.

But he didn’t think about Chloe Brown again. Not once. Not at all.



Some people might say that writing a list of items to change one’s life after a brush with death was ludicrous—but those people, Chloe had decided, simply lacked the necessary imagination and commitment to planning. She gave a sigh of pure contentment as she settled deeper into her mountain of sofa cushions.

It was Saturday night, and she was glad to be alone. Her back pain was as excruciating today as it had been yesterday, her legs were numb and aching, but even those issues couldn’t ruin this peace. When she’d put pen to paper in her quest to get a life, finding her own home had been the first entry she’d written. She’d met that goal, and—unnerving superintendents aside—she had nothing but good to show for it.

Through the slight gap in her living room window’s curtains, she caught a glimpse of the September sun’s evening rays. That warm, orange glow rose above the hulking shadow of her apartment building’s west side, making the courtyard nestled at the center of the building all shadowy and peaceful, its blooming autumnal shades rich as earth and blood. Her flat was similarly soothing to the nerves: cool and silent, but for the gentle whirr of her laptop and the steady tap of her fingers against the keyboard.

Happiness, independence, true solitude. Sweeter than oxygen. She breathed it in. This was, in a word, bliss.

It was also the moment her phone blared to life, shattering her calm like glass.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Chloe allowed herself precisely three seconds to wallow in exasperation before grabbing her phone and checking the display. Eve. Her little sister. Which meant that she couldn’t simply switch off the ringer and shove her mobile into a drawer.

Drat.

She hit Accept. “I’m working.”

“Well, that simply won’t do,” Eve said cheerfully. “Thank goodness I called.”

Chloe enjoyed being irritated—grumpiness was high on her list of hobbies—but she also enjoyed everything about her silly youngest sister. Fighting the curve of her own lips, she asked, “What do you want, Evie-Bean?”

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked.”