She’d lasted three weeks before looking again.
The second time, she’d been hesitant, shocked by her own audacity, creeping toward the window in the dark and hiding behind almost-closed curtains. She’d peeked just long enough to answer her own questions: he was wearing jeans and not much else; he was holding a paintbrush; he was, of course, painting. Then she’d stared even longer, hypnotized by the sight. Afterward, she’d crossed Do something bad off her list and tried to feel good instead of guilty. It hadn’t worked.
And this time? The third time? The last time, she told herself firmly. What was her excuse now?
There was none. Clearly, she was a reprehensible human being.
He stopped, straightened, stepped back. She watched as he put down his paintbrush, stretched out his fingers in a way that meant he’d been working for hours. She was jealous of how far he could push himself, how long he could stand in one place without his body complaining, or suffering. Or punishing him. She twitched the curtain wider, her envious hands moving of their own accord, a little more light spilling into her shadowed guilt.
Red turned suddenly. He looked out of his window.
Right at her.
But she wasn’t there anymore; she had dropped the curtain back into place, spun away, slammed herself against the living room wall. Her pulse pounded so hard and so fast that it was almost painful at her throat. Her breaths were ragged gasps, as if she’d run a mile.
He hadn’t seen her. He hadn’t. He hadn’t.
Yet she couldn’t help but wonder—what might he do, if he had?
Chapter Two
Why would a woman who all but hated Red spend her evening watching him through a window?
He couldn’t say. There was no good reason. There were bad reasons, reasons involving fetishes and class lines and the shit certain people considered degrading, but he didn’t think those applied to Chloe Brown. Not because she was above lusting after a man she looked down on, but because she didn’t seem the type to lust at all. Lust couldn’t exist without vulnerability. Chloe, beneath her pretty exterior, was about as vulnerable as a bloody shark.
So maybe his eyes had deceived him. Maybe she hadn’t been watching him at all. But he knew what he’d seen, didn’t he? Thick, dark hair pulled into a soft bun; the sky-bright glint of those blue glasses; a lush figure in pink pin-striped pajamas with buttons marching up the front. Cute as a button, neat as a button, always dressed in buttons. He knew exactly who lived in the flat that faced his across the courtyard, and he knew—he knew—that he’d seen her last night. But why?
“Red,” his mum barked. “Stop slicing so loud. You’re ruining my nerves, you are.”
The distraction, ridiculous or not, came as a relief. He was sick of his own repetitive thoughts, a murky, khaki color in his mind. He turned to face his mother, who was perched at the table wedged into one corner of her tiny kitchen, right beside the window. “You want to complain about my chopping, woman? When I’m over here to make you lunch?”
“Don’t get cheeky,” she said, giving him the death stare. She was legally blind in one eye, but lack of sight didn’t stop her irises from stabbing him.
He tried to look innocent. She huffed grandly and turned back to the window, twitching the net curtains aside. She ruled her cul-de-sac with an iron fist and spent most of her time waiting for supplicants to arrive.
This time, the supplicant was Shameeka Israel, a doctor at the Queen’s Medical Center. When she came for Sunday lunch with the great-aunt who lived three doors down, Dr. Israel became Our Meeka, or alternatively, Little Gap. She arrived at the window with a pot of oxtail curry and said, “Here, Ms. Morgan. Auntie made you some for the cold.”
Mum’s glower softened at the sound of the doctor’s voice. “Gap. You’re a good girl. When are you going to marry my Redford?”
“Soon, Ms. Morgan. All right, Red?”
He winked at her through the window. “It’s a date.”
She grinned, flashing her gap teeth, then put the oxtail inside the windowsill and said her good-byes. As soon as her Lexus pulled out of the car park, Red whisked the pot away from his mother’s grasping hands. She’d already lifted the lid, stuck a finger into the curry, and sucked.
“Oi,” he scolded. “You’ll spoil your lunch. I’m making you pistou soup.”
“What in God’s name is that?”
“The balls off a badger. Steamed.”
She snorted, screwing her angular face into an expression of disgust. “Sounds about right.” Mrs. Conrad wasn’t the only drama queen in Red’s life. Add his mum and Vik to the mix, and he was practically drowning in them.
He was just about to tell her the actual ingredients of pistou soup when she leaned toward the window, her voice rising to the level of a low-flying airplane. “Oi, Mike! I can see you, you scumbag! Get over here.”
Mike was, essentially, Mum’s good-for-nothing boyfriend. This was how they flirted. Red took himself to the stove and stirred his pistou soup, pointedly ignoring the things Mike shouted back. The guy was in his seventies, drank like a fish, and was round the bookies every afternoon like clockwork. Red did not approve.
It wasn’t as if he could say anything about it, though. Not when Mum had warned him about his last girlfriend, Pippa, and he’d merrily ignored her to the bitter, bloody end. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Relationship Expert. But he wouldn’t think about Pippa, or London, or his countless mistakes, because it only pissed him off, and Red hated feeling pissed off. Chill and cheerful was more his speed.
He was just regaining his equilibrium, clearing the dishes after a decent lunch, when Mum approached his most sensitive subject with all the delicacy of a rampaging rhino.
“Back to selling any paintings yet?”
Ah, his favorite topic. “Not yet,” Red said calmly. A little too calmly, but Mum didn’t seem to notice.
“Gee up, babe. You’ve been messing about for years now.”
Years? “It’s only been eighteen months.”
“Don’t correct your mother.”
He really didn’t get enough credit for his boundless patience. Maybe he should make himself an award. To the Much-Put-Upon Redford Thomas Morgan, in Recognition of Endurance in the Face of Pointless Questions About Art. Something like that.
“You can’t let that nasty little rich girl destroy your career,” Mum went on.
Too late. Red squirted a liberal amount of washing-up liquid into the bowl.
“Don’t give me the silent treatment, Redford. Answer me. What’ve you been up to? You are working, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he sighed, because if he didn’t tell her something she’d nag until his ears bled. “Mainly freelance illustration. Building my portfolio.” Again. “I just finished these pen-and-ink drawings of a brain and a bottle of port.”
Mum looked at him as if his head had fallen off.