Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(96)

Red stared and stared and stared. Drank her in. Started to worry about his Grand Prix–worthy pulse and his painfully pounding heart. He might be dying of fucking euphoria at the sight of her. That might just be okay.

Then she was gone in a flash of turquoise glasses and a swirl of her pink-and-white skirt. He felt like he’d been knocked over the head. Stood there, transfixed, with his paintbrush in his hand, blue acrylic threatening to drip onto the floor, and thought, Chloe, Chloe, Chloe like a broken record … until a knock came at the door.

He’d heard that knock once in his entire life, but he knew exactly who it belonged to. He dropped the paintbrush. Ran through the flat. Yanked the door open and there she was.

Chloe Brown. Beautiful with her hard stare and her hair contained by the polka-dot hair tie he’d bought her, and yes, he was looking that hard, and no, he would not stop. She sailed past him into the flat, and he forced his hands behind his back because dragging her into his arms and kissing the living daylights out of her would be bad, it would be very bloody bad—

“Here,” she said, holding something out to him. Her voice was husky fucking music. He wanted to eat it. He could put his mouth over hers and—wait, no, that was just kissing. No kissing. Not when she might be here to give him a chance.

He took the thing she held—a notebook—his palms sweating and hope swelling. “Chloe.”

“Red,” she said softly. “Read that for me.”

Heart in his mouth, he obeyed. He already knew what he’d find: Chloe’s list. The real one, full and uncensored. He took a breath and finally read the goals that had started all this.

The list was so neat and orderly and utterly her. Every goal was printed carefully in black ink, painstakingly perfect. Some of the entries he recognized, others he didn’t. Some were ticked off, some crossed out and replaced, all with so much care. His heart twisted. Why had he ever assumed that a spot on this list meant the worst? He should’ve known—he had known—that this was her path to the person she wanted to be.

Except he’d never really accepted that fact, because to him, she was already perfect.

He had the strongest fucking urge to throw this book across the room before he could find his own entry, except that would be a mistake, and he’d made enough of those already. He forced himself to look for his own name. Found it.

Keep Red.

He put the book down and looked at her. He wanted to say something. The right thing. He’d never managed it before, so he doubted he would now—but he tried. “I was wrong. I know I was wrong. I—”

“I read your letter,” she interrupted.

She’d only just read it? Was that good or bad? She seemed edgy, nervous, her soft lips pressed tight, those hypnotic eyes avoiding his. Suddenly the room seemed darker and the moment took on all the dread and finality of a grave. She didn’t want him. He’d failed. He’d lost her, really lost her.

But then she said, in a tone he couldn’t decipher, “I liked my presents.”

He laughed brokenly and ran a hand through his hair. Tried to make his fear a joke, because she wouldn’t appreciate him scattering the pieces of his broken heart over her like confetti. “Chloe. Baby. Just—put me out of my misery.”

She looked at him, finally, and he sucked in a breath. Couldn’t help it. God, she was so beautiful. God, she made his head spin. She frowned slightly, shook her head, rolled her eyes. Then she said, “All right.”

And kissed him.

He stumbled back into the wall, and she followed. Her hands slid into his hair and her body pressed tight against his, but her lips were petal soft. Searching. Tentative. As if she wasn’t sure how he’d react.

As it happened, he reacted like a starving animal.

He couldn’t silence the groan her touch teased from him, couldn’t stop himself from shaking, not when his blood surged with the knowledge that this was actually happening. His lips parted hers hungrily, and when she glided her tongue over his he gave a wounded, desperate growl that must’ve told her everything she could think to ask. I need you. I’m desperate for you. I’m something without you, and I’ll survive without you, but I don’t fucking want to, so Jesus, please don’t make me.

He dropped the notebook. His hands went to her waist, then her hips, then the row of buttons sewn down the front of her jumper. Her hair next, smoothed-out ripples under his fingers, then the gentle curve of her throat, and then her face. Everywhere, he was everywhere. Wasn’t enough.

She pulled back and panted, “I’m sorry.”

Carefully, he took off her glasses. Now she was young and vulnerable, giving him that soft focus. “For what, love?”

“For letting you go, and for how long it took me to come here. I should’ve been braver. Like you.”

“No,” he said firmly, fiercely. “You’re exactly as brave as you need to be. You’re the one who makes me better. You’re the bravest person I know.”

She grabbed the front of his T-shirt, dragged him close, kissed him again.

It was slower, this time, not as urgent. Talking touches. The sweet pressure of her mouth on his: I want you. The way she smoothed her hands over his chest: I missed you. And when he laced their fingers together? Puzzle pieces slotted into place. I’m yours. His world was marshmallow pink, electric white, chocolate and earth and tropical ocean. His world was good.