“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Fine.”

From behind the turquoise frames of her glasses, her gaze narrowed. “You really don’t seem like yourself.”

“You don’t know me.”

There was a pause before she admitted, “True.” Her shoulders were still thrown back and her nose was still firmly in the air, but for a moment she seemed … vulnerable. Like he’d upset her.

His first instinct was to apologize. Then he remembered that he’d told the truth, that he didn’t like her, and that she’d definitely spied on him. He shouldn’t care about her feelings. He was determined not to care about her feelings.

She followed him to the living room until, halfway down the hall, he remembered that he didn’t actually have a living room, since he’d turned it into a studio. He recalled the little chair in her kitchen, and how plush and cushioned it had been, with a proper back to it. He stopped. Scowled at nothing in particular, or maybe at himself, and said, “I don’t suppose you’d be too comfortable on a shitty wooden stool, would you?”

She gave the fastest, tiniest wince, but he saw it, somehow. Note to self: stop looking at Chloe so hard.

“Not comfortable, no,” she said awkwardly. Judging by the way she avoided his gaze, she didn’t quite know how to say, I absolutely cannot sit on a shitty wooden stool. He’d chalk that up to shyness, but he knew she wasn’t shy. So why wasn’t she making unselfconscious demands, like she had three days ago?

Maybe she’s uncomfortable because you’re being a broody twat.

Oh, yeah. Maybe. A slight glower had sneaked onto his face while he wasn’t looking. The air in the hall vibrated with tension that was all his. Guilt dragged at him. He, in turn, dragged a hand through his hair. “Listen … Sorry if I’m being a bit of a prick. I’m, er … still tired.”

She gave a tight smile and a shrug. “It’s all right if you’ve changed your mind, you know.”

He said, very intelligently, “What?”

“About our deal. A consultation for a ride?”

Not that kind of ride, he told his cock firmly.

“I’m aware that I browbeat you into it,” she went on. “I have a tendency to do that.”

He’d never have guessed.

“But if you’re having second thoughts, please feel free to say so. Don’t worry about my feelings. I have very few.”

He could tell by the tone of her voice that she was taking the piss with that last part. When Chloe joked, she sounded slightly more serious than when she was actually serious. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from protesting. “I’m sure you have more than a few.”

She shrugged again.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he told her.

She smiled a little bit, and his heart stammered. She looked so quietly, secretly pleased, so impossibly sweet, and he just—he couldn’t—oh, for fuck’s sake.

“All right then,” she said, tentative warmth in her voice.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Even if she was rude and she made him feel like a monster of a man, he could not be a dick to Chloe Brown, not anymore. He accepted that fact and reassured himself that this wouldn’t be like the last time. He wouldn’t trip and stumble into the life-ruining black hole of making excuses for a seemingly perfect woman. He couldn’t. For one thing, he didn’t think Chloe was perfect at all. For another, they weren’t in a relationship and never would be. So there. He was safe.

They stood for a moment, staring at each other like a pair of tits. He cleared his throat and said, “Change of plans. Do you mind sitting in my room?”

Her lips didn’t smile but her eyes sparkled like diamonds. “I don’t know. You’re not going to ravish me, are you?”

He almost choked on his own tongue.

“Good Lord,” she laughed, while he caught his breath and his wits. “Don’t look so horrified!”

“I’m not—I mean—horrified is a strong word.”

She shook her head. “Really. I was only joking, Redford.”

“Red,” he corrected, because he had nothing else to say.

“I was only joking, Red.”

He cleared his throat. “Just to, ah, just to be clear, you’re not … horrifying.”

“Of course I’m not,” she said. “I’m extremely attractive. Now, shall we go and sit down?”

He bit back a smile and took her to his bedroom. Then he wondered what the fuck he’d been thinking. Did blue balls lower intelligence? Maybe. It was the only reasonable explanation for him setting Chloe loose in his room, also known as the scene of his almost orgasm. He couldn’t look at her. He also couldn’t look at the bed, but he knew the blankets were rumpled where he’d lain, and …

Well. He’d rather not think about it, to be honest.

“This isn’t very artistic,” she said wryly, her eyes everywhere. She stared for a long time at the art history books stacked on his dresser. He found himself wanting to check that he’d closed his underwear drawer.

“What were you expecting? Finger paintings on the walls?”

“Is that your area of expertise? Finger painting?” She looked down at his hands. His palms tingled with the false memory of touching her.

He curled his hands into fists and shook his head. “Figurative. Acrylic. I—never mind. I’ll have to show you, won’t I? For the website?”

“Yes,” she said faintly. “For the website.”

Red grabbed the armchair he kept in the corner of the room and shoved it closer to the bed. Chloe sank gracefully into its tattered, tartan depths. She crossed her legs, which probably made her skirt ride up a little bit, but Red wouldn’t know, because he absolutely was not looking. He had firmly instructed his eyes to focus only on her ears (which, while cute, weren’t especially arousing) or her nose (ditto) or the wall behind her. So far, things were going okay-ish.

Once she was settled, he went and grabbed a piece to show her, something he’d finished just last week. After all, there was no use in showing her what he used to do, how it had all been lucid and bright and hopeful. He wasn’t the same anymore, and that was that.

But when Red returned with the canvas, he found himself hesitating before his bedroom door. Something uncomfortable tightened in his stomach, making the back of his neck prickle. Nerves. He was absolutely shitting it, which was how he’d felt the last few hundred times he’d tried to show someone his art. Ever since it had changed, that is. Ever since he’d fucked almost everything up, and the bits of his life that he hadn’t messed with had been fucked on his behalf. But this, he decided, was the perfect way to get over his weird performance anxiety, because he didn’t actually care about Chloe’s opinion.

The thought clanged in his head like a lie, but he stepped into the room before he could figure out what that meant.

“Here,” he said gruffly, handing her the canvas and perching on the edge of his mattress. She was silent as she accepted the piece, studying it for long moments while he looked anywhere but her.

Then the quiet stretched so far that his attempt to remain cool wore thin, wavered, snapped. He gave in and looked, needing to see her reaction, even though he absolutely did not care.