Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(55)

Her shiny shoes had ties that wrapped around her ankles. He watched the bows float up and down as she tapped her feet thoughtfully, her words coming slow but certain. “You don’t want anyone to exhibit you. You don’t want to be in galleries or museums at all, do you?”

It was a relief, like exhaling after months of holding his breath, to hear the way she said that. No incredulity in her voice, like he couldn’t possibly manage it. Just quiet interest, like she trusted him to do shit his own way.

He trusted himself to do shit his own way, too. That was a dizzying realization.

“I’m an independent artist,” he said with a faint smile. “You’re making me an online shop. I’ll work with collectives and all that. I don’t need places like Julian’s.”

“Anymore,” she finished.

If she asked about the past right now, he would tell her everything. It was on the tip of his tongue. She’d shown him hers, with the list and the fiancé and the filtering. Now it was his turn. And he didn’t even mind, because she felt like the kind of person you could say anything to.

He wished she didn’t think she was boring.

“You disappeared,” she murmured. “You disappeared, and your work changed, and you don’t want the same things anymore.”

He nodded.

“And you only ever seem to paint at night.”

He stiffened before she did. Realized what she’d just admitted before she did. It took her a moment to freeze, to flick a nervous glance at him, to stutter, “Um … ah …”

This was the part where he said, How do you know I only paint at night? After all, he’d just been perilously close to revealing every one of his secret scars. He should be dying for a subject change. Instead, he was dying for …

She took a breath, sat up straight, and said, “I have a confession to make.”

Her voice was soft and wavering. He found her hand, flat on the cold stone, and laced their fingers together. Hand-holding had never been his thing, exactly, but it felt natural—or necessary—with Chloe. Like an anchor.

“All right,” he said, as if he didn’t already know. “So confess.”

“I don’t know if I should. No, no—I have to. Especially because we’re friends. You said that, didn’t you, Red?”

“Yeah. We’re friends.” Although he’d never wanted to kiss his other friends’ wrists just to feel their pulse racing under his lips. For example. But still, friends.

“All right.” She smiled, but it was a nervous sort of smile. “Well, you know the list I showed you is … censored, I suppose. And there’s an item you haven’t seen that, um, that you’ve already helped me cross off.”

His eyebrows rose. This wasn’t going where he’d expected it to. “Okay?”

“I wanted to do something bad.” She sounded tortured.

He found himself smiling. “Uh-huh?”

“So I … well, I … Oh God.”

“Just spit it out, Chlo. You’re killing me.”

She spat it out, all right. “Imighthavemaybekindofspiedonyoualittlebitlikethroughthewindow?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I spied on you.” Her voice was clearer this time, since it was a banshee-level wail. “Like a weirdo. I mean, the first time was an accident, and I only did it twice after that, but that’s twice too many, and you were basically naked—which is not why I did it—”

“So why did you do it?”

She bit her lip, her eyes widening slightly. Probably because he’d asked like it was fucking life or death. He held his breath, wondering if her answer would ruin this. Ruin everything.

It didn’t.

“I watched because … when you paint,” she said softly, “you seem so vital. It was addictive. It felt like coming to life.”

Something in his chest, sort of … skipped. Pleasure rolled through him the way fire warmed cold hands: slow and intense and so sharp you weren’t quite sure if it hurt, but didn’t mind either way. He didn’t realize he’d been staring at her in silence until she begged, “Oh my God, say something.”

The nerves in her voice squeezed at his heart. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I already knew.”

Her jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

“About the spying, I mean,” he clarified. “Not about the, er … coming to life part.” He was grinning as he said it.

She set her jaw and stared at her knees. “I shouldn’t have said that. And how did you already know?” She had the nerve to sound irritated with him, which, for some reason, he liked. He liked a lot of things about her, in fact, with a summer-sky-blue intensity that almost made him want to look away.

“Rule of thumb,” he told her. “If you can see someone, they’ll probably see you.”

“But …” She spluttered helplessly. “It was dark outside!”

“Your lights were on. My lights were on. Do you know how windows work?”

“Oh, shut up.” All at once, her indignation faded. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. You should hate me.”

He’d expected to. He’d thought her reasons would drag him back to dark places—that she’d been consuming him for her own amusement, that maybe she’d been watching him the way she’d watch animals at the zoo. But she hadn’t been. Her explanation was nothing like he’d once expected. It was … sweet, as if she’d put a hand on his heart for a moment. And really, he didn’t actually care who saw him painting—hence why he did it in front of a bloody window.