“I never know where they are,” she admitted. Except for the one currently in her hair, which she tugged free and handed to him.
“Thanks.” Bright blue paint stained some of his nails. His fingertips grazed hers. Her body lit up inside, reacting as if he’d offered to rip off her clothes and do her on the counter—not that she wanted him to, because she really wasn’t feeling very well, and it would be murder on her lower back. She sternly informed her nipples of these pertinent facts, but they gestured rudely at her and continued to tingle like a pair of slutty batteries.
Meanwhile, Red somehow managed to remain gorgeous while wearing a man bun.
When the kitchen filled with the sharp sizzle of cooking food, she spoke again. “So, you like to cook?”
“I like to cook for other people,” he said. “Cooking for myself is okay, but it’s not exactly the same.”
Something about that revelation filled her with equal parts relief and disappointment. “I see.”
Though his focus was on the food, he arched an eyebrow, amusement dancing over his expression. “What do you see, Button?”
“You run around making dinner for everyone.” She’d meant that to sound teasing, but it came out a little bit . . . not.
His smile widened as he shot her a look. “Jealous?”
She snorted. “Pardon me? Of course I’m not jealous.” When had she become such a shameless liar? Her dad would be so disappointed in her new habit of casual deceit.
“That’s good. Be weird if you were jealous of my mother.”
And now she was mortified. She wrapped her blanket tighter around herself, as if she could disappear inside it. This was what came of liking men: rampant idiocy. She opened her mouth and searched for a way to dig herself out of that particular hole.
But Red didn’t seem to think it was necessary. When he looked at her again, his obvious amusement was replaced by curiosity. “Hey,” he asked, as though it had just occurred to him. “Where’s Smudge?”
Her heart lurched. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Gone.”
Red stilled. “Gone?”
“Annie came back a few days ago. She was in Malm?.” Chloe narrowed her eyes. “She calls Smudge Perdita, which would be an excellent name—I love 101 Dalmatians—except that Smudge isn’t a dalmatian, so it’s ludicrous.”
For some reason, Red didn’t agree with her on the name. He didn’t comment on the name at all. He abandoned his post at the stove and before she knew it, he was standing in front of her. He sank his hands into the tangled mess of her hair. He kissed her head and she almost fainted dead away. He said gravely, “I’m sorry, Button.”
“I don’t care,” she mumbled, breathing deep. Not because he smelled like fresh sheets and warmth and blueberry shampoo; she was just breathing. “Smudge wasn’t even my cat.”
“I’d get you a new one, but you know the rules.”
“I don’t want a new one.”
He smiled down at her. “Did you cry?”
“I . . .” Say no. Say no. Say no. “Only a little bit.”
Red seemed satisfied. “As long as you cried, you’ll be okay. That’s what my mum always says.” He went back to the wok and her head felt cold without his hands cradling it.
Since she was saying things she shouldn’t tonight, she murmured, “I’d quite like to meet your mother. I mean,” she added quickly, “I’d be interested to see what she’s like, because you’re so . . .”
He arched an eyebrow. “I’m so?”
“Infuriating.”
“Right. Don’t know how you put up with me.” He chuckled. Shot her a knowing look that made her cheeks burn hotter than the sun.
“She gave me her card,” Chloe blurted. “Annie, I mean. And do you know what it says?”
“Something shit,” he guessed, “because we hate her.”
“It says ‘Knicker Whisperer.’”
Red’s lips twitched. “That’s . . . interesting. I mean—weird. Very weird.”
“I know it’s funny,” Chloe sighed. “It’s brilliant. Unique and intriguing and catchy, and the card is beautifully designed, and I bet if I go to her mysterious knicker-whispering website, that’ll be great too.” She huffed and glared at nothing in particular. “What is that woman’s game? What is her angle?”
“Why’d she give you the card?”
“She says we should have coffee. I don’t believe it. I’ll turn up and she’ll text and say, so sorry, she’s in Venice.”
Red ignored almost everything she’d said, which was both irritating and hilarious. “So she wants to be friends?”
Chloe stared at him. “I don’t see why she would. We spoke for all of five minutes.”
“But she made a big impression.”
“She took my cat.” The man had lost his marbles, clearly.
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Maybe you made an impression on her, too.”
“What about me could possibly make an impression?” Chloe demanded.
Red stared at her for a little too long. She bit her lip. He smiled. “Look, all I’m saying is, Annie might like you. And you might like her, if you gave it a chance. You have similar taste in cats.”
“You are not funny.”
“I want you to make a friend.”
“You’re my friend,” she snapped. “New topic. When are you setting up that Instagram account?”
“I don’t know.” He tried to run a hand through his hair, failed because it was tied up, and tutted.
Now a slow smile curved her lips. “I can do it for you, if you’re busy.” In all fairness, he was often busy, tending to old ladies and feeding street urchins and painting magical masterpieces like a patron saint of goodness and art. But she didn’t think that was the problem.
“You don’t need to do that,” he said. “I’ll . . .” She’d bet money that he was trying to say, I’ll do it, but couldn’t quite make himself.
“Funny,” she murmured. “I didn’t notice before.”
He gave her a suspicious look. “Notice what?”
“That you’re scared of social media.”
“Scared?” He scowled, turning to face her. “Chloe. I’m not—it’s—you’re winding me up again, aren’t you?”
“I’m simply acknowledging your obvious aversion to—”
He pointed a stern finger at her. “Stop trying to confuse me. I’m not saying shit.” He was blushing, slashes of pink high on his cheekbones. His ears, too, which she’d never seen before, since his hair was usually down.
Something in her chest softened like a marshmallow, which couldn’t be healthy. “I’m serious,” she said. “I’ll do it for you. I’ll manage it for you. You wouldn’t even have to look at it unless you wanted to.” She didn’t know why he felt this way, when once upon a time his work had been everywhere. But she didn’t need to know. She’d take care of this, to give him space to take care of himself.
He looked at her for a long moment before taking his phone out of his pocket. She watched with a frown as he tapped at the screen, his embarrassed flush barely fading, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, just as her understanding dawned, he came over and held out the phone.
“There,” he said, showing her the log-in screen. “I downloaded Instagram.”
She stared. “I—Red—I didn’t mean to pressure you.”