Dear Chloe,
You might have heard that I’m quitting my job. That probably seems like I’m leaving you, but I’m not. I gave notice the day before our camping trip because being with you and being your superintendent seemed like a bad idea. This job was safe for me, but I want you more than I want that safety. And anyway, partly because of you, I don’t think I need that safety anymore.
You’ve done a lot for me, and the fact that all I’ve done in return is hurt you . . . well, it makes me feel like shit on a basic level, but then I feel extra shit, because oh my God, Chloe, I love you so fucking bad. I’ve been wondering if I should say it like this, after what happened. But this might be the only chance I get, and I need you to know because it’s the truest thing about me. Chloe Sophia Brown, I am so in love with you. And I want to prove it, because that’s what you deserve. I want you to trust me again. I want to make you smile until you forget how it feels to cry. I want you to know I’m not going anywhere.
And, since you’re the expert planner, I decided to take a leaf out of your book. I made a list.
Get Chloe Back
Lure her with food and presents.
Wait outside Annie’s house; nick Smudge.
Learn how to use a PlayStation. ?
Paint in front of windows, shirtless. Maybe naked. Might traumatize residents/get arrested, but I think she’d like it.
Take charge of all buttons so she can wear real cardigans if she wants to.
Use my bloody Instagram account. ?
Continue therapy. ?
Love her, always, no matter what. ?
I already started on some. I’m hoping if I work through the list, eventually I’ll get you back. If it’s all wrong or you want something else or you have this burning desire to tell me what a dick I am, feel free. Call me. Come over. Open your curtains and give me the bird. Please. I miss you.
We can do this. If you don’t trust me on that, trust yourself. Because you must know you can do anything you set your mind to.
Yours,
Red
Chloe read the letter three times. Only when one of her tears plopped onto the page, drowning the d at the end of his name, did she rip herself away from the words. She looked up at her curtains, drawn tight as a shield, and her eyes narrowed. Bright, glittering power surged through her, and for the first time in a while, she felt alive. Impatient. Determined. Demanding. She stalked over, ripped them open, and winter darkness appeared before her.
Winter darkness and a stubborn square of light.
A familiar figure stood behind the window across the courtyard, his sunset hair hanging over his face, his chest bare to reveal corded muscle, bold ink, vulnerable skin, and vitality. He was bent over a canvas, as always, but a second after she opened the curtains, he stilled. Then slowly, slowly, turned.
She didn’t hide.
The distance between them made it difficult to see that feline, springtime gaze, but she felt the moment their eyes met. An electrifying shiver rushed through her body. He faced the window fully, put his hand against the glass, and she had the oddest feeling that this was one of those moments in life that could amount to everything or nothing. Could be a transformation or a regret. This was the sort of moment that reckless, exciting women experienced—
No. No. This was the sort of moment she experienced, lists, worries, razor-sharp shyness and all. Bravery wasn’t an identity so much as a choice.
She chose him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Red used to think that fucking up was his specialty—but after fucking up with Chloe, he hadn’t let himself think that anymore. Because if it was true, he’d lost her forever. And if he’d lost her forever . . .
No. Not an option.
So Red had decided that his new specialty was fixing things. After all, he’d known from the moment love hit him like a truck that he couldn’t shove it at her and hope for the best. He’d known she’d need more, that he’d have to make her understand everything in his heart, that he’d have to give her a reason to trust him. And so, he formulated his plan and he wrote his list. Then, since he’d handed in his notice to Vik and time was flying, he’d pulled himself together and gotten down to business.
Not just with Chloe. With everything.
Every morning he woke up, checked his window, and found her curtains shut tight. He let himself sit with sick, acidic fear for a few moments, breathing deep, wanting her, missing her. And then he got his shit together. He planned for next month, when he’d be leaving this building behind and plunging headfirst into the unknown again. He studied his savings in spreadsheets that would give Chloe a hard-on, checking and double-checking that he could afford the risk. He researched his business, reached out to old friends, and figured out his new website by reading Chloe’s instructions, even if hearing her voice through the words twisted his heart.
He was going to be okay. He knew that. But he’d be so much better with Chloe. Only, the days passed, and her curtains remained closed, and each morning he lost a little bit of hope.
Or maybe a lot of hope. So much that when she did open the curtains—when he caught that flutter of movement and spill of light from the corner of his eye—he thought for a moment he was imagining things.
But then he turned, and he saw her, and he knew that not even his desperate memories could recreate that heavy, midnight gaze.
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.”