Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(62)
She couldn’t bring herself to reply.
The woman was three minutes late, which only reinforced Chloe’s poor opinion of her. But then, at 11:04, she heard the slap of flat shoes against pavement and the jingle of what sounded like a large bunch of keys. A moment later, a tall, slim woman with honey-colored curls came into view, covered neck to shin by an oversized camo coat. Despite the odd outfit, she was pretty, with soft features, skin a few shades deeper than her hair, and eyes so bright, Chloe could see them from meters away.
“Hi,” the woman said, hurrying over. “Chloe, right? Nightmare parking around here. Annie, by the way, I’m Annie. Oh, is that Perdy? Yeah, that’s Perdy. Hey, Perdy! Hi! Hi, baby!” She bent to poke a finger into the cat carrier, then straightened. “You are Chloe, right? I’m not getting your name wrong, am I? I forget names. I like your glasses.”
Chloe intended to say, Yes, that’s me, hello, and thank you. What came out of her mouth, in clearly scornful tones, was “Perdy?”
“Short for Perdita,” Annie said fondly. “You know, from 101 Dalmatians.”
“But he’s not a dalmatian.”
“She,” Annie said, and reached for the cat carrier. For one tense moment, Chloe worried her fingers wouldn’t release the plastic handle. But her subconscious behaved itself—for once—and she didn’t start a fight over a cat in the middle of the street.
Of course, if she had, it wouldn’t be the most scandalous thing she’d done in the street recently.
“He’s not even spotty,” Chloe insisted, ignoring the wild and unfounded claim that Smudge was, of all things, a girl.
Annie gave her a strange look and said, “You’re funny. Want to go for a coffee?”
“I … er … sorry?”
“You’re funny. Bit strange. Want to go for a coffee? You are Chloe, aren’t you? Thanks for finding Perdy. My great-aunt Amy was supposed to be watching the girls while I was in Malm?—I’ve been in Malm? by the way, fabulous place, have you been?—but she got confused—my great-aunt—because I have quite a few cats and I suppose she is quite old. Also, there’s that one fox. Yes, in hindsight, it is quite confusing.”
Somehow, through a haze of bafflement so thick it might as well have been a brick wall, Chloe managed to croak, “Pardon?”
Annie gave her an indulgent smile, as if she was being an absolute ninny, and shoved a hand into a cavernous coat pocket. “Hmm, now, where is my … oh.” She produced a handful of debris. There was an empty Lindor wrapper, an enormous set of keys, what looked like a few foreign coins, a faded receipt, and … “Take my card. There. See it?”
It really couldn’t be missed. It was hot pink and glittery. Chloe took it gingerly by the corner.
“Give me a ring and we’ll go for a coffee. My treat! Because you found Perdy.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” Chloe murmured, honestly enough, as she studied the card. It read: ANNIE AMANDE, KNICKER WHISPERER.
What in the bloody hell?
“Tea, then,” Annie said brightly. “Got to dash. I’m late. Come on, Perdy, let’s be having you, you great big wandering nitwit. Off we go, off we go, off we go.” She turned and hurried up the street again.
Chloe stared after her, feeling slightly dazed. When Annie’s tall figure disappeared around a corner, Chloe looked at the card in her hand again: KNICKER WHISPERER? What could that possibly mean? There was a website, along with several social media links that would probably reveal all, but she didn’t want to go searching. Didn’t want to spend any more time dwelling on that odd woman and her strange invitation, because it would only remind her of one fact: Smudge was gone.
She shoved the card into her pocket and strode back into the building, driven by an urgent need to get home. It took her a moment to realize that the odd wetness sliding down her cheek was a tear. Oh, how mortifying. She was crying over a cat she’d had for only a couple of weeks, and in public, too. Worse than that, she actually felt … sad. More than sad. Devastated. As if someone had ripped a hole in her chest.
The only thing that could possibly make this situation worse would be bumping into Red. She would hate that. It would be awful, horrible, the end of the world, so she was glad when she made it to her flat without seeing him.
Very glad indeed.
When someone knocked on Chloe’s door the next day, it never occurred to her that it might be Red. She had gotten used to the weight of his absence. She’d closed her curtains because she refused to accidentally spy on him. She was giving him space, damn it.
But there he was, on her doorstep, only four days after she’d ruined everything.
“Hey,” he said.
She swallowed, which hurt. Right now, everything hurt. He couldn’t have shown up at a worse time if he’d tried. She felt like bird poop and she looked under the weather, which was a phrase her cognitive therapist had told her to use instead of calling herself hideous. But really, sometimes, human beings just looked hideous. There was no shame in it. Or at least there wouldn’t be if Red weren’t standing there on her doorstep looking delicious.
She opened her mouth to croak a startled hello, but he held up a hand to cut her off. He was unusually smile free, severe and serious in a way that made her nervous—not because he was upset with her, but because he was upset at all.