Shit.
“Just . . . hold on,” he ordered, jerking back to life. He rushed to the bathroom, his heart pounding. Hands were washed, uncomfortably warm cheeks were cooled with tap water and his overalls were buttoned up. Completely. To the very top. He had the strangest idea that his virtue wasn’t safe around her, which was the single weirdest thought he’d ever had. He pulled himself together—eventually—and went back to answer the door. And when he saw her, he understood why he hadn’t been able to get her off his mind.
His dreams couldn’t truly re-create her. Something about her was too striking to remember accurately, as if his brain didn’t have the right tools. She watched him with those endless eyes, folding her arms under her breasts—but he wouldn’t look at those—and arching her eyebrows. One, as always, winged higher than the other. Just like one corner of her lush mouth tilted a little higher, making her look as if she was smirking.
Actually, she was smirking. She cocked her head and asked, “What on earth has happened to you?”
Red looked down sharply, searching for whatever had given him away. The baggy cut of his clothes hid the fact that his cock was, for some reason, still hard. He stared at his own hands and found them unusually paint-free and, more important, come-free. Because he hadn’t actually come. Which was key information. He met her gaze and said, as calmly as he could manage, “What do you mean?”
She studied him suspiciously. “You’re all flushed. Your hair is a mess. And . . .” She leaned forward, squinting at his chest. “I think you’ve done your buttons incorrectly.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. She knew. Somehow—perhaps because she was a witch who haunted his dreams—she knew. And now she’d hold it over his head, use it as a weapon, because that’s what people like her did. He knew it. He’d learned it well. He—
“Redford Morgan,” she said severely, “have you been sleeping on the job?”
He was so relieved, he almost passed the fuck out. He clutched the door frame and released a heavy breath, his hair hanging around his face as his head fell forward. Then he remembered that he was trying to seem normal, unsuspicious, and not at all like a man who wanked over women—tenants—he barely knew. He straightened and cleared his throat in what could only be described as the guiltiest move of all time. Chloe was eyeing him with obvious confusion.
“I was,” he lied. “I was taking a nap.”
“Hmm. I expect you’re one of those people who doesn’t respect the power of ten hours a night.”
“I thought it was eight?”
“Rubbish. It’s definitely ten.”
The glint in her eye said she was prepared to argue. He decided not to push it and searched for another subject. His gaze landed on the sturdy black case hanging from her shoulder. “Got something for me?”
“In a way. It’s my laptop. I thought I’d call round and see if you were free for the consultation.” She stepped forward. There was so much authority in that single step that he automatically stepped back. All of a sudden, she was in his flat. How the fuck had that happened? And how the hell was he going to get her out again?
He opened his mouth to say, Please go away, then remembered that he wasn’t a rude prick and closed it. Fact was, he couldn’t stand men who treated women differently because they were desirable. And really, the dream wasn’t that big a deal. He just needed a good shag, and she was undeniably gorgeous, and his subconscious had slammed both facts together. That was all.
Red shut the door and said, “Yeah. Now’s good.”
“Wonderful.” Her smile was small and impossibly sunny. Her skirt swirled around her legs as she turned to face him. It was a floofy sort of vintage skirt, white with bright red poppies creeping up from the bottom. He liked it. But then, he liked all the prissy shit she wore. Despite himself, he let his gaze drift to her legs. He could see her calves again today, and her ankles, circled by the leather straps of her shiny shoes. He drank in every detail like some sexually deprived Victorian bloke.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine.”
From behind the turquoise frames of her glasses, her gaze narrowed. “You really don’t seem like yourself.”
“You don’t know me.”
There was a pause before she admitted, “True.” Her shoulders were still thrown back and her nose was still firmly in the air, but for a moment she seemed . . . vulnerable. Like he’d upset her.
His first instinct was to apologize. Then he remembered that he’d told the truth, that he didn’t like her, and that she’d definitely spied on him. He shouldn’t care about her feelings. He was determined not to care about her feelings.
She followed him to the living room until, halfway down the hall, he remembered that he didn’t actually have a living room, since he’d turned it into a studio. He recalled the little chair in her kitchen, and how plush and cushioned it had been, with a proper back to it. He stopped. Scowled at nothing in particular, or maybe at himself, and said, “I don’t suppose you’d be too comfortable on a shitty wooden stool, would you?”
She gave the fastest, tiniest wince, but he saw it, somehow. Note to self: stop looking at Chloe so hard.
“Not comfortable, no,” she said awkwardly. Judging by the way she avoided his gaze, she didn’t quite know how to say, I absolutely cannot sit on a shitty wooden stool. He’d chalk that up to shyness, but he knew she wasn’t shy. So why wasn’t she making unselfconscious demands, like she had three days ago?
Maybe she’s uncomfortable because you’re being a broody twat.
Oh, yeah. Maybe. A slight glower had sneaked onto his face while he wasn’t looking. The air in the hall vibrated with tension that was all his. Guilt dragged at him. He, in turn, dragged a hand through his hair. “Listen . . . Sorry if I’m being a bit of a prick. I’m, er . . . still tired.”
She gave a tight smile and a shrug. “It’s all right if you’ve changed your mind, you know.”
He said, very intelligently, “What?”
“About our deal. A consultation for a ride?”
Not that kind of ride, he told his cock firmly.
“I’m aware that I browbeat you into it,” she went on. “I have a tendency to do that.”
He’d never have guessed.
“But if you’re having second thoughts, please feel free to say so. Don’t worry about my feelings. I have very few.”
He could tell by the tone of her voice that she was taking the piss with that last part. When Chloe joked, she sounded slightly more serious than when she was actually serious. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from protesting. “I’m sure you have more than a few.”
She shrugged again.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” he told her.
She smiled a little bit, and his heart stammered. She looked so quietly, secretly pleased, so impossibly sweet, and he just—he couldn’t—oh, for fuck’s sake.