Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(64)

She had said. She’d said, Henry, I’m sick, and he’d thought the power of his bloody penis would make it all better.

Well, she wasn’t about to go through that again—not even with Red, no matter how much she liked him. Chloe stiffened under his featherlight touch, and he faltered, concern softening his gaze. Not anger. Just worry. Good. Perhaps he wouldn’t react badly at all. Her breaths came a little bit easier.

Firmly, she told him, “You should know that I want you, but tonight I don’t feel particularly—”

“Chloe,” he interrupted softly, his frown back in place. “Sweetheart. You really don’t know what I want, do you?” He caught her hand, pressing his lips to the slice of her palm framed by her wrist support’s Velcro straps. After a moment, he said carefully, “I’d like to stick around tonight. Just to hang out. That okay?”

She felt dizzy with relief. He wouldn’t make things difficult and he wouldn’t make her push him away. Thank goodness, because, for once, Chloe really didn’t feel like pushing anyone away. “Oh. Right. Yes. That’s fine.” Apparently, she’d lost the ability to form complex sentences.

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Nice to know you want me, though.”

“Oh, God.” Heat flooded her cheeks even as a rueful smile curved her own lips. “Don’t be awful.”

“Can’t help it. And, just so you know, it’s mutual.” His gaze darkened. “But we’ll talk about that another time.”

For a second, the promise of that other time—of that conversation and all it might mean—hung hot and heavy between them. Rather how she imagined his body might feel covering hers.

But then she remembered why a conversation like that could be difficult—because if Red wanted more than just touches in the dark, if he wanted what she wanted … Chloe might be too afraid to reach out and take it. The promise of more with him glittered like broken glass, beautiful but potentially deadly. Good things usually hurt in the end.

But she was being maudlin and getting ahead of herself and overthinking—which hadn’t served her well the last time. Brushing the ghost of her mistakes aside, Chloe sat up straighter—ignoring the stabs of pain sliding between her vertebrae—and asked, “You do forgive me, don’t you?”

“I do.” He reached for her again, and her heart practically stopped beating. She remembered the warmth of his touch and the cold of those silver rings with hazy desperation, as if the last time had been a fever dream. But all he did was tap one of the buttons on the front of her pajamas and say, “You do know how to apologize, Button. I forgive you just fine.”

Well, that was a relief, at least.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Chloe wanted him. That’s what she’d said, loud and clear, in a way he’d never expected to hear—at least, not outside the bedroom. She struck Red as the sort of woman who’d only share her desires when she was already halfway to orgasm. Who’d whisper hot commands and sweet confessions in the dark. But she wanted him, and she’d said it out loud.

She also didn’t know what he wanted—which, he supposed, was understandable. Because it was only here and now that his purest want—his need—had become fully clear to him. When it came to Chloe, it turned out Red’s ultimate goal was to make her happy. That was it. That was all. The realization jolted him like a thousand volts to the heart. He felt …

He felt something she might not want him to feel. Something she seemed almost afraid of. Her gaze flickered away whenever his words were too intense or his voice too tender—he knew that. He’d noticed that. So he shoved the soft warmth in his chest aside; he’d examine it later.

Chloe’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he drank in the sight of her. She was wearing pink, pinstriped pajamas with buttons down the front, the kind grumpy old men wore. She had a lot in common with grumpy old men, actually, except for the part where he was desperate to kiss her.

Instead of her hair’s usual neat, shiny bun, it looked like she’d grabbed the dark waves with a fist, shoved a hair tie over them, and hoped for the best. It was what Red did with his own hair when he was working out. Judging by her small mountain of blankets and the mess strewn across her coffee table, it was what she did when she felt like shit. He was probably the worst kind of monster because Chloe was sick, but he still thought she was unbelievably sexy. Then he remembered that she was always sick, so maybe poor health wasn’t something that should de-sex a person.

Definitely couldn’t de-sex Chloe.

He cleared his throat and stood, looking around the room. The empty water bottles and cardboard boxes she left by her front door had reproduced like bunnies, creeping down the hall until they were visible from here. “You should call me when you need things recycled.”

“Maybe,” she mumbled, snuggling deeper into her blankets.

“Definitely. It’s my job.” Although a cautiously excited voice in his head whispered, Not for long. This idea he’d had about finding his own place, about trying again with his art … it wouldn’t let go. He rolled it around his mind like whiskey in his mouth while he gathered Chloe’s empty teacups and glasses of juice.

“Don’t clean up,” she told him. “I can cope, you know.”