The awed expression on her face gave Red the shock of his fucking life. Really. It was a near-violent jolt of power to his system, one that left his blood pumping harder and his vision clearer, sharper. A slow smile of surprise tugged at his lips. Surprise, and dizzying, hard-exhale relief.

Chloe was … delighted. That was the only word for it. She stared at the eerie, blood-toned landscape with its impossible hues and fantastical proportions as if she knew exactly how he’d felt when he painted it. As if every emotion he’d poured onto the canvas had remained like a little slice of leftover soul, and now that slice was slapping her in the face. Energy. Exuberance. Mystery. Strength. Giddy satisfaction with your own bad behavior. That was what Red had shoved into his paint on the night he’d created this piece, Neverland, and that was what he saw reflected in her eyes.

Finally, she cleared her throat, seemed to school her expression, and said, “You’re very talented. Not that I know what I’m talking about.”

Her words were measured and polite, but it was too late. He’d seen. He’d seen, and it had touched something deep and wild in him that was probably best left undisturbed. Something that made him feel more firmly settled in his own skin. He wanted to touch her, just to see if things felt different now. Now that he knew she saw something the same way he did.

But if he went around grabbing her for reasons he could barely explain, she’d probably whack him over the head, and she’d be well within her rights. So he curled his suddenly curious hands into harmless fists and told himself that the air didn’t taste like reassurance or renaissance or redemption. He’d always been dramatic when it came to things like this. He was a puppy and someone loving his art was a killer scratch behind the ears. That was really it.

She handed him the canvas and he tossed it onto the bed and returned to his earlier tactic of looking anywhere but her face. It didn’t help. He’d almost managed to forget that he wanted her, but the raw emotion he’d just seen had brought the need right back. He knew he was supposed to say something, but his scattered brain couldn’t quite remember what.

Oh. Yeah. She’d complimented his work. So this was the part where he said …

“Thanks.” He tried not to wince at his own voice. Too low, too rough, too obviously affected.

She pursed her lips and looked down at her knees, her dark lashes fluttering behind her glasses. She wasn’t cursed with translucent skin like his, but he could’ve sworn she was blushing. Probably because he’d been so obviously grateful for the slightest compliment.

Feeling the need to explain, he said, “I haven’t shown anyone my new stuff in a while.”

“I know,” she said, then looked up with wide eyes and clapped a hand over her mouth.

He arched an eyebrow, smiled at the Oh, shit expression on her face. “You know, huh?”

“For goodness’ sake,” she murmured.

“What’s that?”

“Forget I said anything.”

“No, thanks.” He leaned forward. “Explain that, please.”

She looked tortured as fuck. It was great. “I—well—I had some time free over the past few days, and so, in the name of preliminary research and everything, I, erm, googled you.”

Ah. Why was he not surprised? “You know,” he drawled, “for a woman who called me nosy about a thousand times the other day, you have a bad habit of peeping through windows.”

She froze. Stuttered, “What—what do you mean?”

He smiled easily and felt evil. “Turn of phrase.”

“Oh.” The tension flooded out of her so fast, she deflated through sheer relief. If he’d had any doubt that her spying had been intentional, rather than a passing glimpse at her weird, shirtless neighbor … well, that doubt was officially dead. Chloe had watched him, and she felt guilty about it. He wondered when she’d confess.

Because she would confess. She had no filter, as most of the building had already learned.

She shifted uncomfortably and said, her voice brisk, “As an artist, you should really be on Instagram.”

“Don’t change the subject. Are you nosy with everyone, or just me?”

“I could link the feed to your website,” she said desperately. “People do that. It’s very pretty.”

Instagram? Throwing his work up, not just for people to see, but on an app literally designed to display your fucking approval rating? The whole concept of internet likes had always unsettled Red, even when he’d been more confident in his abilities. “I’ll think about it.” Lie. “We’re still talking about you.”

“We are not.” She looked horrified, so he had to keep going.

“You like to research everything,” he guessed. “No; you like to know everything. You’re one of those ‘knowledge is power’ people.”

“Knowledge is power,” she shot back.

“I bet you were a massive teacher’s pet at school.” He was grinning. Hard.

“I bet you were an aimless slacker,” she said archly.

“I bet you always file your taxes on time.”

She was clearly scandalized. “Who doesn’t file their taxes on time?”

He burst out laughing. “Oh, Chloe. You’re cute as fuck, you know that?” He had no idea how any of those words had slipped out, but he couldn’t exactly snatch them back. And he didn’t quite regret setting them free.

“Cute?” She wrinkled her nose. “No. No, I’m not.”

She shouldn’t be. “You are.”

Primly, she threw his own words back at him. “You don’t know me, Red.”

Which was when he realized that he had upset her earlier, when he’d said exactly the same thing. That bothered him. A lot. He said, “I’d like to know you,” then realized it came off like the world’s worst chat-up line. Quickly, he added, “If I’m gonna let you on my bike, I need to know you’re good people.”

“Well, that’s easy enough to discern. I saved a cat the other day, remember?”

He shrugged and leaned back, resting his weight on his hands. Slowly, reluctantly, he realized that he was comfortable around her—which made about as much sense as a toothless shark. “I remember. But I don’t know if I care. I’m not a fan of cats.”

“And why not?”

“They’re judgmental.”

“I had no idea that it was such a reprehensible trait. I expect to see you on the news soon, protesting the judiciary.”

He snorted and tried again. “Cats are snooty.”

“Or perhaps,” she said wryly, “you’re simply projecting your expectations.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, mocking her crisp words, “I prefer pets who aren’t afraid to get dirty and don’t lounge around looking down on people like the queen of bloody Sheba.”

“Actually, Smudge would be the king of Sheba.”

Red smiled despite himself. “Named him, have you?”

“Clearly.”

“Took him to the vet’s yet?”

“I’ve been indisposed.”

He was going to have to buy a bloody dictionary to keep up with her vocab, but he could read between the lines. “All right. So, Smudge. Has he been … ?” Red trailed off politely.