She gave him a look. He saw humor dancing in her eyes, a bright sparkle that matched the strange fizzing in his own chest. “You’re a very rude man,” she said.
“I’m rude?” He snorted out a laugh. “God almighty, that’s rich, coming from you.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Sorry, I thought I was being obvious. It means you’re rude as fuck.”
Apparently, she was actually shocked by that information. She gaped at him as if he’d started speaking in tongues, and then she made an odd little wheezing sound. Finally, she said, “Well, I never.”
“What? No one’s ever told you that before?”
“Of course they have! But I’ve been on my best behavior with you.”
He couldn’t stop grinning. “Seriously? You’re serious. Seriously.”
“Well, this week, at least.”
He’d have loved to respond to the outrage in her voice, but he was laughing too hard.
“Stop that,” she commanded, but she was smiling wider than he’d ever seen before. Her cheeks plumped up and her eyes danced and goddamn, she was even prettier than usual. “Stop! It’s not that funny.”
But, for some reason, it was. It was fucking hysterical. His breath came in gasps and his belly felt tight and his laughter bounced around the room. Then she reached out and pushed him. Shoved him, really, her palm flat against his chest, sending an odd warmth through his body. He fell back against the bed, still laughing helplessly—but he grabbed her wrist as he went. And pulled.
And she came tumbling onto the bed with him.
Yeah. He stopped laughing then, that was for sure.
She landed almost on top of him. Her wrist felt oddly delicate, like the bones were made of china. Her palm still rested against his chest; her other hand was on the bed, holding most of her weight. Still, she was close enough that he could feel the swell of her tits against his ribs, the curve of her belly against his hip, the weight of her thighs over his. Red swallowed hard, gritted his teeth, and willed his cock not to embarrass him, even though it already was. In a last-ditch attempt to maintain control, he closed his eyes.
Which was a mistake.
“I—sorry,” she murmured. He felt her breath against his throat as she spoke and remembered a night they hadn’t shared. Fuck.
“My fault,” he replied. His voice was rough; his eyes still closed; his hand still curled around her wrist. He could feel her pulse racing. He could feel his own good sense flying out the window. The little demon that sat on his shoulder and whispered bright ideas like Drop out of college, and Let your mate tattoo you in his kitchen, and Follow your heart, said slyly that now was not the time for website consultations. Now, according to that demon, was the time to roll her over, push up her skirt, and make her beg.
Thankfully, he was old and wise enough to ignore that suggestion. He let go of her wrist, and she clambered off him. He sat up. They stared at each other. She straightened her glasses and tugged at the sleeve of her cardigan and gave a nervous little laugh.
The idea of mouthy, snotty Chloe Brown being nervous made him itch. Wasn’t right and it wasn’t natural. He needed to fix it. “How about we postpone the consultation?”
The subtlety of her expressions—the way she beat them down before they could fully form and shoved them into a box—wasn’t enough to fool him anymore. He saw the slight slump of her shoulders and the way she blinked too hard, and knew she was disappointed.
“Can’t seem to concentrate today,” he went on.
“All right,” she said briskly, bending to pick up her laptop. She hadn’t even got it out of the bag. “I quite understand. I’ll just—”
He ignored her. “Usually, when I get like this, I go for a ride.”
She looked at him, her eyes even wider than usual behind her glasses.
“Fancy it?”
There was that smile of hers. Like the rising sun.
Chapter Seven
The neat little car park was at the rear of the building. Its flat tarmac and faded white lines were brightened up by intermittently placed leafy things, as if the designers had some sort of greenery quota and had shoved in a few plants to meet requirements at the last minute. Red’s monster of a bike stood next to one of those plants, the shiny, electric-blue chrome a harsh contrast to the pale branches of the spindly birch sapling.
Chloe imagined that if the things in this car park were characters in an American high school movie, the motorbike would be a big old bully, and the poor little tree would be one of its victims. In its final year of compulsory education, that bike would be voted “Most Likely to End Up in Jail.” She didn’t think she should ride a school bully that was likely to end up in jail. She’d put this on her list because it seemed the epitome of reckless insouciance, but now that it might actually happen, she was feeling neither reckless nor insouciant.
But she took a deep breath and told herself sternly to buck up and get on with it. She would stick to her list, fear be damned, because people didn’t change their lives by meekly giving up at the first heart-pounding hurdle. She was ready for this. Actually, she wasn’t, but she’d do it anyway. She’d already agreed. She’d even made Red wait while she went home to put her laptop away. She couldn’t back down now, just because one little crash might result in her brain being decimated.
Although, she did rather need her brain. For things. And stuff.
“Chloe.” Red’s voice was loud in the deserted car park, so deep it almost made her jump out of her clothes. Wait, no: skin. She meant skin.
“Yes?” she squeaked, dragging her gaze from the enormous bike to the enormous man standing beside it.
His eyebrows were raised, his lips slightly tilted. That was his resting expression, the opposite of her chronic bitch face: happy, curious, open, friendly. Why did she even like him?
Wait a moment—did she like him?
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said brightly. “Just thinking about the potential likelihood of brain decimation.”
His smile widened at that, slow and steady and achingly handsome. Ridiculous man. Brain decimation was a serious business.
“You got any hard numbers on that?” he asked. “Odds, percentages?”
She scowled. “No, but if you’d give me a minute I could probably calculate some.” That would wipe the amusement off his face, guaranteed. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, because of course her vintage-replica swing skirt had pockets. There was a reason sartorial upheaval hadn’t been mentioned on her Get a Life list; Chloe was already the coolest dresser on the planet. “Where do you think I’ll find the most reliable crash statistics? Gov.uk?”
“Maybe,” he mused. “Or maybe, I don’t know . . . ScaredyCats.com?”
She looked up with a scowl, outraged. “What on earth is that supposed to—?”