“I’m supposed to be the boring one. You’re supposed to cure me.”
Was that what she thought? His chest tightened, his frown automatic. Chloe Brown was the furthest thing from boring on this planet. He didn’t say that, though, because she wouldn’t hear it. “This definitely won’t cure you.”
“Oh.” She pouted. He tensed every muscle in his body to stop himself from leaning down and biting that plump lower lip. Then she stopped walking, cocked her head, and murmured, “Let me guess. We’re here?”
He looked up with a start, and shit, she was right. He hadn’t even noticed. She split time into something endless and wonderful, like crystal splitting light into rainbows. Or maybe he was so fucking hungry for her he was slowly losing his grip on reality. One of those.
“Yep,” he confirmed. “We’re here.”
In a tucked-away section of the city, the kind lined with boutiques where only the rich bothered to window-shop, there was an alleyway. It was the kind of alleyway that would look suspicious and possibly dangerous in any other part of town, but here it just seemed mysterious. It helped that they could see light twinkling at the other end, and hear raucous nightlife a few streets over. It also helped that the alleyway itself was lined with art, fairy lights wrapped around the easels.
The first piece was an abstract vinyl print that, when you squinted just right, looked like a huge, pale, flower petal. When you squinted just wrong, it looked like dead skin. The second was a stark, stylized oil painting of a panda on acid. The third canvas, the last dropped bread crumb, looked like Roy Lichtenstein had taken on Klimt. He didn’t hate it, exactly.
“Random art in an alley,” Chloe said. “Is this really what you do for fun?”
He tensed a little, wondering if she’d say something that stripped him painfully to bloodied flesh, like Pippa would have. But then he remembered that Chloe was nothing like Pippa, which was why he’d brought her here. Because watching her chase what she wanted made him realize it was time. Because this would be easier with her than it would be alone. Because she’d asked him to show her something honest, whether she realized it or not, and this was as honest as he knew how to be.
And because she was too careful, too sweet, too cautiously loving to ever smash anyone’s heart to pieces for a laugh.
“Yep,” he said finally. “This is what I do for fun.”
They were a few paces from the open doorway that was his goal. A distressed sign hung over it that read julian bishop art gallery.
“Adorable,” she murmured.
Sounded like she was talking about him, but she couldn’t be. He looked at her. She was. He started to speak, but his voice came out a little too rough, so he stopped, cleared his throat, tried again. “You calling me cute, Chlo?”
“I am. You giant, blushing art nerd.”
Well, if he hadn’t been blushing before, he surely was now.
Stepping over the threshold after avoiding this world for so long was like getting something pierced. He’d had his nose done when he was twenty-one, which had been a mistake on a face like his, and now he remembered the sudden, sharp push and watering eyes. He felt half a second of panic before deciding he couldn’t be arsed to make a big deal out of this, even inside his own head. He was here. It was done.
Because of Chloe. Strange, that.
The gallery’s entryway was tiny, housing a flight of spiral stairs. “You all right with those?” he asked.
“If I said no, would you give me a piggyback?”
His lips twitched. “Yeah.”
“Good to know,” she murmured wryly. “But don’t worry, I’ll manage.” She turned, studying the little space around them. It was sparse and pretentious, which was all part of the fun. The white paint on the walls flaked horribly and the floors would probably give your bare feet splinters, but the paintings left to stand in the street had price tags in the low thousands. The stuff upstairs would be even more expensive.
Artists were all a lost cause, he thought, himself included.
The only interesting thing in this cramped space was the pink-painted garden chair jammed into a corner. A sign was tied to its seat with clashing red silk: don’t sit on me, i’m famous.
Chloe arched a brow. “Gosh. A chair that reminds me of my grandmother. I feel so at home.”
Here was something he hadn’t considered: how hilarious Chloe’s sarcasm would be in a place like this.
“Always wondered what the chair’s famous for,” he said.
She flashed him a look. “You don’t know?” Her face took on the faintly bored, slightly amused expression he’d seen on countless classy women in galleries fancier than this one. He’d never been in on the joke, even when his girlfriend was leading the jokes, but Chloe was about to bring him in. “Madame Chair comes from money, of course.”
“Oh, of course. I remember now. She was on Celebrity Big Brother.”
Chloe arched an eyebrow, bit down on her growing smile. He could almost see the laughter trapped in her throat, but she refused to let it out. “Was she, indeed? And how did she do?”
“Not great,” he sighed. “Long story short, Madame Chair got into an argument with a Hollyoaks actress about the ingredients of fast food. Ended up stuffing a frozen chicken nugget down the poor girl’s throat live on national TV.”
Chloe choked, coughed, wheezed. Red patted her helpfully on the back. Apparently that knocked the last of her control loose, because she dissolved into helpless laughter. He stood there and watched as she bent double, clutching his jacket and gasping for air, completely carefree and unrestrained. Watching her made his heart feel oddly warm and . . . glowy. Like he could stand here and soak up her happiness forever.
That sounded a little bit like heaven.
After long, joy-filled moments, she straightened, dabbing at her eyes beneath her glasses. Her voice slightly hoarse, she said, “Now, then. Shall we go up, or did you bring me just to see the chair?”
Chapter Thirteen
Despite the poky hallway downstairs, Chloe wasn’t surprised to find that the gallery itself was a loft space with cavernous ceilings, bright, clean lights, and scarred, white walls that gave the space an ancient sort of quiet. There was an exhibit, and people with champagne glasses wandered around muttering seriously to each other. Red ignored every curious and censorious stare aimed his way, leading her inexorably toward his destination.
Because there had been a destination all along. She realized that when he stopped in front of a trio of paintings and nodded at the little plaque beside them. It said, joanna hex-riley, courtesy of the wrathford art institute. He said with a happy exhalation, “Joanie.”
“Do you know her?”
“Met her in London. We were friends. Heard this was here a little while back.”
“London?” she asked, and his face closed off like she’d yanked out his plug. She wet her lips and tried again. “What happened with your friend?”