“That’s bullshit,” Red said. “She’s being polite. She thinks you’re obnoxious and your eyes are too small. Tell him, Chloe.”

“You have lovely eyes,” she said to Julian, quite sincerely.

“I told you, she’s a lady. She can’t insult you to your face, but she’s thinking it. Anyway, we’re in a rush. I just popped in. We have to go.”

Julian snorted. “So soon?”

“We’ve got a hot date at McDonald’s. Don’t want to miss it. She gets pissy without regular carbs.”

Well, that was technically true.

“Wait a moment,” Julian said, and produced his card, smooth as silk. “Since you apparently lost my number …”

Red looked slightly guilty as he stuffed the glossy rectangle into his jeans pocket. “Yeah, sorry about that, mate. I’ll ring you.”

“It doesn’t have to be about work. I want to know how you’ve been.”

Red paused, then said again, “I’ll ring you.” Because it hadn’t been true the first time. He dragged Julian into a one-armed hug, then caught Chloe’s hand and led her out of the room the same way he’d led her in: with too much determination to resist. They passed Turtleneck Tom on the way out and Red actually growled at the poor man. He growled! Chloe tried not to be thrilled, but it happened anyway.

They broke out into the crisp dark and he didn’t let go of her hand.

“So,” she said. “You know the owner.”

Red shrugged his massive shoulders, speaking simply, a restrained energy she couldn’t name winding through each word. “Used to spend a lot of time in there, looking around, wondering how it all worked. Had no one to tell me. Then his dad—that was Julian Bishop the Second. His dad’s the first. His dad asked me one day if I had any questions. He helped me a lot.”

“That’s lovely,” she murmured as they wandered up the cobbled alleyway. Ahead, she saw a glimpse of city lights glinting like jewels in the dark. The rain had become moisture hanging in the air, and the cool, wet scent of it cleared her head. But even without the buzz of alcohol, she felt brave. Funny, that. “Julian Junior seemed rather nice.”

“He’s a twat,” Red muttered. “Kissing your fucking hand.”

“Why shouldn’t he kiss my hand?” she asked, because she was an attention-seeking little monster, hunting gleefully for evidence of jealousy.

He snorted, his breath a white cloud in the cold air. “First time I shook your hand,” he said, “you acted like I’d electrocuted you.”

Ah. He’d noticed. Well, subtlety had never been her strength. “I felt as if you had,” she admitted.

He turned to look at her. He was shadowy, his hair catching most of the low light, his eyes difficult to see. But she felt them burning into her, impossible to escape. “Did you, now?”

“Don’t take that the wrong way,” Chloe told him quickly.

Red would love to take it the right way. The same way he suddenly wanted to take her: all the way to bed. A sparkling energy had hummed between them all night, too powerful to ignore—lust and chemistry turned intoxicating by delicate, newborn trust.

He was almost positive Chloe wanted him the way he wanted her, but that didn’t mean she intended to do a damned thing about it. In fact, she definitely didn’t; she kept making that clear. And he wouldn’t push. He couldn’t be that guy. So he let her comment pass, changing the subject, resisting the bait she hadn’t meant to throw out.

He cleared his throat and asked, “Are you drunk?” because she wasn’t wobbling anymore, and because it was as unsexy a subject as he could think of.

She flashed him a smile that was both grateful and embarrassed, then cocked her head as if testing herself. “I don’t think so.”

“Good.” When they emerged from the alley, he pulled her toward the Day Cross, a random stone monument to no-one-knew-what, tucked beside the old cathedral. “You want to sit down before we walk back?” He had no idea how long she could comfortably stand, but he wanted to talk for a while, and he kept remembering the little chair in her kitchen. She seemed fine, but then, she seemed fine all the time … and yet she was in pain all the time, too. When it came to looking after Chloe, that pretty face of hers couldn’t be trusted.

She was suspicious, as if his offering a seat on a local monument was all part of some evil plan. “On the steps?”

“Oh, sorry. For a second there, I forgot you were classy as fuck.” He wasn’t being sarcastic.

“Actually, I got over my aversion to sitting on the ground a couple of years after I got sick. Needs must, and all that. But, er … you don’t mind?”

He fought a frown that wasn’t for her, but for whoever had made her feel like sitting in the street with a friend was some big sacrifice rather than just another thing people did. “No, Chloe. I don’t mind.” But he did remember, now, how shitty her old friends had been. How shitty a lot of people must be to her, the way she acted sometimes. He’d seen how people treated his mum, after all, because she was diabetic. Like being unwell was a crime or a scam or a self-indulgence.

Whether she admitted it or not, what Chloe really needed was a decent fucking friend. And what Red really wanted, badly enough to surprise himself, was to give her that. To show her every kindness she should take for granted. To make her smile and laugh and feel like herself.

The way she did for him.

They sat down, and everything around them seemed to slow, grow quiet, fade away. This side of the monument faced another narrow, cobbled street, not quite an alley but as poorly lit as one. The churchyard was behind them, and farther up were the old Galleries of Justice. In the day, this street would be full of schoolkids on trips and historically minded tourists, but right now it was deserted. They were alone in the center of the city, like a heart that didn’t know who it beat for.

Quietly, Chloe said, “I think Julian would exhibit your work.”

He shrugged. Pushed his hair out of his eyes. Drummed his fingers against his thigh. The knee of his jeans was wearing out again.

“Do you disagree?” she asked.

“Nope.” The p popped like a gunshot. He sighed at himself and tried to sound like less of a miserable, defensive fuck. “I just … don’t think I want that.”

Her shiny shoes had ties that wrapped around her ankles. He watched the bows float up and down as she tapped her feet thoughtfully, her words coming slow but certain. “You don’t want anyone to exhibit you. You don’t want to be in galleries or museums at all, do you?”

It was a relief, like exhaling after months of holding his breath, to hear the way she said that. No incredulity in her voice, like he couldn’t possibly manage it. Just quiet interest, like she trusted him to do shit his own way.

He trusted himself to do shit his own way, too. That was a dizzying realization.

“I’m an independent artist,” he said with a faint smile. “You’re making me an online shop. I’ll work with collectives and all that. I don’t need places like Julian’s.”

“Anymore,” she finished.

If she asked about the past right now, he would tell her everything. It was on the tip of his tongue. She’d shown him hers, with the list and the fiancé and the filtering. Now it was his turn. And he didn’t even mind, because she felt like the kind of person you could say anything to.