“Oh. Um. What are you doing?”

“Carrying you. Work with me, here.” Presumably, he meant that she should stop kicking her legs around awkwardly. Since she was very, very tired, and since walking felt like being stabbed in the lower back, she did. He nudged the door shut and said, “Where d’you wanna go?”

“I’ve been in the living room. Red, I’m really, really, super, eternally sorry about—”

“You should stop talking. You got tonsillitis or something?”

“Or something. But it’ll pass soon. This is just what happens when I get too tired or I don’t eat right—”

“Or you step on the cracks in the pavement.” He put her down gently in the little nest she’d made on the sofa, then knelt on the floor beside her. “You know, for such a funny-sounding word, fibromyalgia is—”

“A motherfucker.”

“Chloe! Did you just swear? You never swear.” He paused. “That was fun. Do it again.”

“No,” she said primly.

He chuckled, shook his head, and she’d missed him so much her heart cracked open like an egg. Sticky emotion spilled out. The remnants of her protective shell were scattered around in tiny shards.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. An explanation, a real one, was necessary, but she couldn’t bear to look at him as she did it. If she focused on her knees, Chloe decided sensibly, Red wouldn’t be able to see the truth of her feelings in her eyes. “That night,” she sighed. “I know you said it wasn’t complicated, but it complicated things for me. I suppose that’s just how I am. As soon as you stopped touching me, reality kicked in, and I started panicking about what it meant and what you wanted, or didn’t want, and—well. In short, I overthought everything and made several colossal mistakes, and I’m sorry.”

“Chloe. Look at me.”

Her first instinct was to refuse, like a toddler rejecting vegetables. But that wouldn’t be very mature, and immaturity had gotten her into a mess just last weekend, so she made herself face him.

He was running his knuckles over his lips thoughtfully, studying her with those three little lines between his eyebrows. Like he didn’t know what to make of her. Finally, he said, “So it complicated things, huh?”

She swallowed hard, his pale gaze freezing her in place. He was endlessly hypnotic. Her voice a thready whisper, she confirmed, “Yes.”

Quietly, he said, “Complicated things for me, too. It’s funny—you’re so smart. And I feel so fucking obvious. But you don’t seem to know what I want from you.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t.” Or maybe I do and I’m too afraid to face it.

As if he’d heard the echo of her thoughts, he leaned closer, raising a hand to her cheek. “I should show you.” His fingertips traced the curves of her face, her jaw, her throat, his eyes following the movement as if he were mapping her out. His focus was so formidable, it stilled the earth and stopped time. It made her feel …

But that was it. That was all. Red’s focus simply made her feel.

She released a shuddering breath. Her heart thudded a bruising rhythm against her chest. She supposed he’d kiss her now, and she’d succumb to his sexual onslaught, or something along those lines—only, she realized with a wince, she didn’t quite feel up to it. Sitting this close to him made her skin feel like shivering silk, but arousal was a whimper beneath the scream of her body’s aches, pains, and sheer exhaustion. Abruptly, she remembered nights with Henry, nights when he’d turned away from her with disgusted mutters after failed seductions that only embarrassed them both. If you didn’t want to, you should’ve just said.

She had said. She’d said, Henry, I’m sick, and he’d thought the power of his bloody penis would make it all better.

Well, she wasn’t about to go through that again—not even with Red, no matter how much she liked him. Chloe stiffened under his featherlight touch, and he faltered, concern softening his gaze. Not anger. Just worry. Good. Perhaps he wouldn’t react badly at all. Her breaths came a little bit easier.

Firmly, she told him, “You should know that I want you, but tonight I don’t feel particularly—”

“Chloe,” he interrupted softly, his frown back in place. “Sweetheart. You really don’t know what I want, do you?” He caught her hand, pressing his lips to the slice of her palm framed by her wrist support’s Velcro straps. After a moment, he said carefully, “I’d like to stick around tonight. Just to hang out. That okay?”

She felt dizzy with relief. He wouldn’t make things difficult and he wouldn’t make her push him away. Thank goodness, because, for once, Chloe really didn’t feel like pushing anyone away. “Oh. Right. Yes. That’s fine.” Apparently, she’d lost the ability to form complex sentences.

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Nice to know you want me, though.”

“Oh, God.” Heat flooded her cheeks even as a rueful smile curved her own lips. “Don’t be awful.”

“Can’t help it. And, just so you know, it’s mutual.” His gaze darkened. “But we’ll talk about that another time.”

For a second, the promise of that other time—of that conversation and all it might mean—hung hot and heavy between them. Rather how she imagined his body might feel covering hers.

But then she remembered why a conversation like that could be difficult—because if Red wanted more than just touches in the dark, if he wanted what she wanted … Chloe might be too afraid to reach out and take it. The promise of more with him glittered like broken glass, beautiful but potentially deadly. Good things usually hurt in the end.

But she was being maudlin and getting ahead of herself and overthinking—which hadn’t served her well the last time. Brushing the ghost of her mistakes aside, Chloe sat up straighter—ignoring the stabs of pain sliding between her vertebrae—and asked, “You do forgive me, don’t you?”

“I do.” He reached for her again, and her heart practically stopped beating. She remembered the warmth of his touch and the cold of those silver rings with hazy desperation, as if the last time had been a fever dream. But all he did was tap one of the buttons on the front of her pajamas and say, “You do know how to apologize, Button. I forgive you just fine.”

Well, that was a relief, at least.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Chloe wanted him. That’s what she’d said, loud and clear, in a way he’d never expected to hear—at least, not outside the bedroom. She struck Red as the sort of woman who’d only share her desires when she was already halfway to orgasm. Who’d whisper hot commands and sweet confessions in the dark. But she wanted him, and she’d said it out loud.

She also didn’t know what he wanted—which, he supposed, was understandable. Because it was only here and now that his purest want—his need—had become fully clear to him. When it came to Chloe, it turned out Red’s ultimate goal was to make her happy. That was it. That was all. The realization jolted him like a thousand volts to the heart. He felt …

He felt something she might not want him to feel. Something she seemed almost afraid of. Her gaze flickered away whenever his words were too intense or his voice too tender—he knew that. He’d noticed that. So he shoved the soft warmth in his chest aside; he’d examine it later.