“Hey,” he said.
She swallowed, which hurt. Right now, everything hurt. He couldn’t have shown up at a worse time if he’d tried. She felt like bird poop and she looked under the weather, which was a phrase her cognitive therapist had told her to use instead of calling herself hideous. But really, sometimes, human beings just looked hideous. There was no shame in it. Or at least there wouldn’t be if Red weren’t standing there on her doorstep looking delicious.
She opened her mouth to croak a startled hello, but he held up a hand to cut her off. He was unusually smile free, severe and serious in a way that made her nervous—not because he was upset with her, but because he was upset at all.
Redford Morgan should always be smiling.
He raked a hand through his hair and said, “I just want to make it clear that I’m incredibly pissed at you. But . . .” He cleared his throat, looking slightly unsure. “But I don’t think you meant to—to say what you said. I’m still pissed, though. And I’ll be pissed until I’m ready to stop.”
She nodded slowly, not entirely sure why he was explaining the mechanics of human anger, but quite certain that it was important to him. “Okay.”
For a moment, he seemed almost painfully relieved. Then his eyes narrowed at her faint, raspy voice, and he said accusingly, “You’re sick.”
She supposed she should be flattered he couldn’t tell by sight alone. But something about that speech he’d just made, and the look on his face, was nagging at her brain. “It’s nothing. You know you’re allowed to be angry, don’t you? In general, I mean. And at me. You are allowed to be angry at me.”
He faltered for a moment. “Of course I know. I just said all that, didn’t I?”
Suddenly, she realized what was bothering her. He had just said as much—but he’d spoken as if he was trying something new and he wasn’t entirely sure that it would work.
“You need to lie down,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Don’t be silly. This happens all the time.” Although, she would love to lie back down. In fact, she might just . . . sit. Red wouldn’t make her feel like some kind of freak because her body was giving out on her and spoons were a distant memory. She leaned against the wall, then started to slide down it, just a little.
He frowned. “Are you passing out right now?”
“That’s usually much more sudden,” she said absently. “I’m just going to sit right here . . .”
“Or we could do this.” He stepped into the flat and picked her up.
“Oh. Um. What are you doing?”
“Carrying you. Work with me, here.” Presumably, he meant that she should stop kicking her legs around awkwardly. Since she was very, very tired, and since walking felt like being stabbed in the lower back, she did. He nudged the door shut and said, “Where d’you wanna go?”
“I’ve been in the living room. Red, I’m really, really, super, eternally sorry about—”
“You should stop talking. You got tonsillitis or something?”
“Or something. But it’ll pass soon. This is just what happens when I get too tired or I don’t eat right—”
“Or you step on the cracks in the pavement.” He put her down gently in the little nest she’d made on the sofa, then knelt on the floor beside her. “You know, for such a funny-sounding word, fibromyalgia is—”
“A motherfucker.”
“Chloe! Did you just swear? You never swear.” He paused. “That was fun. Do it again.”
“No,” she said primly.
He chuckled, shook his head, and she’d missed him so much her heart cracked open like an egg. Sticky emotion spilled out. The remnants of her protective shell were scattered around in tiny shards.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. An explanation, a real one, was necessary, but she couldn’t bear to look at him as she did it. If she focused on her knees, Chloe decided sensibly, Red wouldn’t be able to see the truth of her feelings in her eyes. “That night,” she sighed. “I know you said it wasn’t complicated, but it complicated things for me. I suppose that’s just how I am. As soon as you stopped touching me, reality kicked in, and I started panicking about what it meant and what you wanted, or didn’t want, and—well. In short, I overthought everything and made several colossal mistakes, and I’m sorry.”
“Chloe. Look at me.”
Her first instinct was to refuse, like a toddler rejecting vegetables. But that wouldn’t be very mature, and immaturity had gotten her into a mess just last weekend, so she made herself face him.
He was running his knuckles over his lips thoughtfully, studying her with those three little lines between his eyebrows. Like he didn’t know what to make of her. Finally, he said, “So it complicated things, huh?”
She swallowed hard, his pale gaze freezing her in place. He was endlessly hypnotic. Her voice a thready whisper, she confirmed, “Yes.”
Quietly, he said, “Complicated things for me, too. It’s funny—you’re so smart. And I feel so fucking obvious. But you don’t seem to know what I want from you.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t.” Or maybe I do and I’m too afraid to face it.
As if he’d heard the echo of her thoughts, he leaned closer, raising a hand to her cheek. “I should show you.” His fingertips traced the curves of her face, her jaw, her throat, his eyes following the movement as if he were mapping her out. His focus was so formidable, it stilled the earth and stopped time. It made her feel . . .
But that was it. That was all. Red’s focus simply made her feel.
She released a shuddering breath. Her heart thudded a bruising rhythm against her chest. She supposed he’d kiss her now, and she’d succumb to his sexual onslaught, or something along those lines—only, she realized with a wince, she didn’t quite feel up to it. Sitting this close to him made her skin feel like shivering silk, but arousal was a whimper beneath the scream of her body’s aches, pains, and sheer exhaustion. Abruptly, she remembered nights with Henry, nights when he’d turned away from her with disgusted mutters after failed seductions that only embarrassed them both. If you didn’t want to, you should’ve just said.
She had said. She’d said, Henry, I’m sick, and he’d thought the power of his bloody penis would make it all better.
Well, she wasn’t about to go through that again—not even with Red, no matter how much she liked him. Chloe stiffened under his featherlight touch, and he faltered, concern softening his gaze. Not anger. Just worry. Good. Perhaps he wouldn’t react badly at all. Her breaths came a little bit easier.
Firmly, she told him, “You should know that I want you, but tonight I don’t feel particularly—”