“But thanks, love. Really.” He knew what she was doing. The last time she’d tried to ignore his existence in front of a family member, he may have been mildly offended. But this was different. He already knew Chloe would hate to even hint at the fact that she now had a sex life, no matter who it was with.
“All right,” she said softly. “In that case, stay quiet!”
Before he could reply, she hurried out, pulling the door almost shut behind her. Because, he realized with a quiet laugh, his awkward, uptight Button was going to try and keep his presence a secret. Even though his shit was lying all over her flat for anyone to see.
She was adorable.
Shaking his head, he got out of bed and stretched his tired muscles. He was just wondering how to occupy himself in the bedroom of a woman who regularly used phrases like sleep hygiene when a voice drifted in from the hall. Even though it was technically indistinguishable from Chloe’s, he knew it didn’t belong to her. If he had to guess, he’d say it was Dani. “. . . isn’t a particularly believable explanation, sister mine. I do believe you’re up to something.” She managed to make the phrase as darkly ominous as Professor Snape.
“What could I possibly be up to?” Chloe asked, sounding almost bored, but not quite pulling it off. The fact that she was even trying made a laugh bubble up in his throat.
A third voice piped up. “I really couldn’t say, but I will point out that it’s catatonically impossible to believe—”
“Categorically, darling.”
“—that you went camping alone. Not even because of your fibro; we simply weren’t made for the outdoors. And you don’t look traumatized enough to have spent the night in a tent.”
Chloe replied with a thread of fondness in her voice that wrapped around him like silk. “It was a very, very nice tent. A wonderful tent. I will be leaving a five-star review online.”
Oh, he bet she would.
“Hmmm,” someone murmured—he couldn’t tell who. And then, “Do the tent’s wonderful qualities have anything to do with the massive pair of men’s boots by your front door?”
“Oh, those are—ah—I’m sorry, I don’t see—”
He cracked a grin as Chloe spluttered.
“I knew it!” someone cried. “You—”
“Be quiet! He’ll hear you!”
“He’s here?”
“Shut up!”
The conversation dissolved into a chorus of whisper-shrieks. He tried not to eavesdrop, but the walls were bloody thin, and Chloe’s voice was impossible to ignore. Still, he tried. But then he heard a murmur, sharp with amusement, that shattered all his good intentions.
“Maybe I’ll owe you fifty pounds after all, Evie-bean. Meaningless sex and camping were the two items I didn’t think she’d manage to cross off.”
Red frowned. Meaningless sex? That wasn’t on the list.
Then, slow as the blood draining from his face, he remembered: the list he’d seen was incomplete. But, clearly, Chloe had shown her sisters the real thing.
A strange ringing sound filled his ears. His stomach tightened, as if a pound of lead suddenly lined his gut. Was he—did Chloe—?
No. No. He wasn’t going to assume the worst based on an overheard, throwaway comment. How could he? Chloe wasn’t like that. He loved her. And she might not love him yet, but she couldn’t treat him the way she did—couldn’t be so sweet—if she secretly saw him as . . .
Nothing. No one. That’s who you are.
Panic crept over Red’s skin, slimy and cold. He dragged a hand roughly through his hair, searched for an anchor, and found one: the sticky note he’d left Chloe on Friday morning, now taped to her desk. Taped, like she loved it, like it was there to stay. He focused on that sight as he grabbed his crawling, anxious memories by the throat. He wasn’t nothing, not to Chloe or anyone else who mattered, and definitely not to himself.
And then, as if to back him up, he heard her voice. “Meaningless sex is off the list.”
“You mean you changed it?”
“I did.”
His exhale was a rush of dizzy relief. He sagged against the bed as his numb limbs tingled back to life.
“I think that should affect the terms of the bet. She’s making it easier for herself.”
Chloe snorted. “I am not!”
“Fewer items is easier.”
“I replaced it,” Chloe said hotly. “I put Red on there.”
Something strange happened then. His organs just . . . just up and rearranged themselves. Shifted around like they were trying to make room at a full table. His heart was in his stomach. His stomach was lodged in his throat. His skin was tight, like it wanted to turn inside out. His eyes burned. His limbs went numb again. The ringing sound was back. His right hand ached. He couldn’t breathe.
That was a bad fucking sign, wasn’t it? He forced himself to inhale, gulping down air, but he barely felt it in his lungs and his head was light. The kaleidoscope of color that had surrounded him since last night leeched away until his world was gray. He was panicking and he needed to stop but he couldn’t. Fucking. Breathe. He clutched the bedsheets to remind himself of where he was, but all he felt was naked and ridiculous and fooled a-fucking-gain—
“It can’t be what it sounds like,” he murmured to himself, because his brain was rebelling but his mouth was still his.
Then his mind showed him a memory, like a convenient flashback in a badly made film: that first ride on his bike, with Chloe. Back when she’d mentioned her plan to get a life, and he’d assumed it was some kind of bad-girl bucket list. That she was chasing a thrill and trying to slum it, the same way Pippa would.
Only, Chloe was nothing like Pippa. Nothing like Pippa. There was no way she’d use him just to feel alive again. No way she’d see him as an item to cross off a list.
. . . Or a specimen to study through a window.
Fuck.
Chapter Twenty-One
After far too long, Chloe’s sisters took pity on her and left her to her “obvious sex fest.” Her cheeks were still burning when she finally returned to the bedroom. “Sorry about that,” she said. “They—Red, are you okay?”
He didn’t look okay.
He was sitting on the edge of her bed, his fingers white-knuckling the sheets, his chest heaving with each breath. His eyes were flat and lifeless. He stared at the plain, gray carpet with a focus so intense, she wondered if he could see things she didn’t.
That focus didn’t waver when he replied, his voice rough and uneven. “Yeah.”
The single word wrenched at something deep in her chest. He sounded wrong, wrong, wrong. “Are you sure? You seem—”
He stood, sharper than a knife. “I need some clothes.”
Anxiety churned in Chloe’s gut. Her skin prickled hot and cold all over. Something was going on, and she needed to find out what, but she couldn’t ask right now—not when he strode to the living room as if it was an effort not to run. He was upset, and he wanted to get dressed so they could discuss the problem like reasonable adults. That was all. Obviously that was all. She told herself that to stave off the old, terrifying panic that rose as he dragged on his clothes. His movements were jerky and desperate and frantic.
As if he couldn’t wait to leave.