She found the right notebook, a deep, glittering blue with black-edged pages, and turned to face him. “Since you haven’t actually called me that cursed name today, I think we can hold off on your punishment.”

His eyes caught hers, and he grinned in a flash of soft lips and white teeth. “I appreciate that, Button.”

She slapped the notebook against his chest, biting her lip so hard she was surprised she didn’t taste blood. “Shut up. Focus. We have a list to discuss.”

To her surprise, he actually obeyed, the humor in his gaze replaced by something calmer, more curious. He took the notebook, and for one breathless second his thumb brushed the side of her hand, just above the straps of her wrist support. Then he was opening the book, intent on the words she’d written inside, while she was left staring at her own hand like a ninny, wondering why it seemed to fizz.

“This it?” he asked, studying the first page—the only one she’d used. “Seems kind of short.”

“That isn’t the original version,” she told him, fiddling with the zip of her onesie. God, she was hot. “I wrote a new one that only includes the things you’ll be helping me with.”

Because she’d rather die than hand him the actual list, complete with item number five (meaningless sex) and the ticked-off item number seven (do something bad, e.g. spying on him). This safe, censored version only featured three things: riding a motorbike—which she’d included just to cross off, for the encouragement factor; a drunken night out; and camping.

“See?” she said, nodding over his shoulder. “Just like we discussed.”

“What about your traveling?” he asked, still studying the list. He had the most adorable frown of concentration, three vertical lines between his eyebrows. A tall middle one, and then two shorter ones on either side, like a hug.

Chloe blinked. She was losing her mind.

Clearing her throat, she said, “You can’t help me with traveling, so I didn’t include it.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I thought we should talk about that. I want to make sure you realize that traveling the world with hand luggage is basically backpacking.”

She shrugged, unzipping her onesie ever so slightly. A tiny bead of sweat had started to drip down her spine. “Well, I was envisioning a rucksack containing a large supply of clean knickers, painkillers, chocolate, and a toothbrush. If that’s what backpacking is—”

“Close enough,” he cut in dryly.

“Then a backpacker I shall be.” She had this wild idea that it would feel more like an adventure if she was missing most of the things she needed to survive. She’d be an intrepid lady version of Indiana Jones.

He looked up, and she swallowed. It turned out his concentration frown was even more arresting when it was aimed at her. “It just doesn’t seem like your thing. That’s all.”

“It isn’t. That’s the point.” She did want to travel, but the “only-hand-luggage” part was supposed to be a challenge. “Once I’ve completed the rest of the list,” she told him, “I’ll be so used to daring exploits that backpacking will seem completely manageable.”

He laughed, then realized she was serious. “Ah. Okay. But aren’t you worried about your—?”

“If you ask about my health I will strangle you.”

He choked down another laugh and nodded gravely. “Fair enough. You know what you’re doing.”

Debatable, but she was working on it.

“All right,” he said, with that abrupt firmness that usually indicated someone was ready to take action. “You got a pen?”

Her mind blanked with confusion for a second—she really wasn’t firing on all cylinders today—before she nodded and found one among the debris. Smudge had moved, at some point, from the PlayStation to the equally forbidden coffee table. She shot him a warning glare, which he haughtily ignored, before handing Red the pen. It was gold, with a clear little ball at the top filled with glitter and pink stars.

Red held the pen up to the light for a moment, staring at it with the oddest expression on his face—a sort of quiet, bone-deep pleasure, his smile slight and fond. He asked, “Where’d you get this?”

Of all possible interests they might share, she hadn’t expected pretty pens to be one of them. But she supposed an artist would like beautiful things. “A shop on Etsy. I can email you the page.”

“Yeah,” he said, shaking the pen, watching the glitter dance. “Thanks. Can I write in this?” He tapped the notebook.

“You can.” Although she really hadn’t expected him to.

“All right. Let’s see …” He flipped over to a clean page and wrote something down, those sharp eyes narrowed, his big, work-roughened, paint-spattered hand dwarfing the golden pen. “You free tomorrow night?”

“No. I promised my sister I’d watch My Fair Lady with her to make up for my lack of commitment to karaoke.”

Red looked up, his expression a cross between confusion and wry amusement. “Uh … what?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, waving a hand. Apparently, she overshared now. Wonderful. Very cool, extremely professional, everything was going swimmingly. Kill her now.

“Okay,” he said slowly, a knowing light in his eyes. “Babysitting Eve. Got it. Saturday?”

She didn’t ask how he’d known the sister in question was Eve. “I’m free on Saturday.”

“Great. I’ll take you out for drinks then.”

For some reason, it wasn’t until he said those words that she realized where he was going with his questions. Or rather, where he’d already gone. Her mouth dried up as if she were hungover in advance, and her onesie grew even warmer, like a furry torture chamber. “Saturday night,” she laughed nervously. “So … so soon.”

He looked up again, his three-line-frown back. “Is that okay?”

“Oh, yes. Why wouldn’t it be?” she squeaked. Saturday night, drinking and dancing, just as she’d planned. Lovely. Delightful. The stuff of dreams.

“Because,” Red said slowly, “if you don’t want to do it—”

She sniffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He ignored her. “—you could just … not do it.”

“Preposterous.”

“Since this is your list and all,” he finished gently.

She glowered. “The list is not up for debate. I look forward to Saturday, when we will go to various shady establishments and drink far too much alcohol together.”

“Yeah,” he said dryly, scribbling something on the page. “I bet. Anywhere in particular you want to go?”

She wracked her brain, trying to remember the places she and her friends used to visit—back when she’d had friends. But she’d been at university then, in another city. She had no idea what was good here, where was fun. She sat up straight, cleared her throat, and said calmly, “I shall leave all major decisions to you. Just—make it, you know. Edgy.”

He arched an eyebrow, scribbling a few more lines. “Edgy. Aye aye, Captain Button.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Next,” he said, “camping. Want me to handle that, too?”