Julian’s, of course. And Dr. Maddox’s.

The one in his hand right now, crisp and white and heavy as a brick, was the doctor’s.

His mother had given him this card six months ago and asked him to get therapy. He’d promised he would, but he hadn’t said when, and Maddox’s details had peeked out from behind his library card ever since, whispering that Red was a coward and a big baby and for God’s sake he needed to talk to someone. But he’d been coping fine without. Painting was his therapy and it always had been.

He looked to his right and his gaze fell on the canvas he’d essentially destroyed last night, vicious yellow-green worked into its surface so hard that it had ripped.

Maybe painting wasn’t doing the job anymore.

He raked his hands through his hair and laughed bitterly. All this, days of confusion and angry acrylic shades, because he couldn’t decide what to do about Chloe fucking Brown. He was supposed to see her this week, to check the progress on his website. They’d arranged the meeting last week, before everything had gone to shit. But then … well, everything had gone to shit. And now he was trapped in a familiar whirlpool of past and present, one he was starting to get really fucking bored with.

It went like this: first, he’d remember what Chloe had done. How she’d treated him like a dirty secret, like a giver of illicit orgasms—might as well borrow her words, since she’d put it so perfectly. And he’d feel sick.

But then he’d remember that she hadn’t looked pleased with her own knifelike phrase. She’d looked guilty. She’d looked miserable. She’d said instantly, unreservedly, I’m sorry, and when he thought about that, he was filled with the urge to give her a chance to explain.

Until Pippa forced her way into his head, with her tears and her clever words and her own gasping, weepy I’m sorrys, the ones that somehow turned him into the brute who’d started it all. The ones that always made him apologize for everything she’d done. His rational mind would say, It’s not the same. They’re not the same. That’s not even close to what Chloe was doing. But his chest would still feel tight and his hands would freeze when he tried to pick up the phone and call her.

All of which suggested it was time to pick up the phone and call Dr. Maddox instead.

He eyed the card suspiciously. Dr. Maddox’s first name was Lucinda. He used to live on the same street as a lady with a one-eyed mongrel called Lucinda. He’d really liked that dog. Maybe that was what people called a sign, or maybe he was being a twat.

He heaved out a sigh and put down the card, reaching for the canvas he’d ruined, running his fingers over the tear. He was overthinking again, and pissing himself off. Time to change tack. He had another problem to agonize over, one he hadn’t let himself acknowledge yet: Vik might let Red have dinner with old ladies, but he would not approve of Red fingering a tenant in the street. Or anywhere, really. A bed wouldn’t have made it more professional. He should be at Vik’s right now, confessing all and tendering his resignation.

For some reason, the thought didn’t disturb him as much as it should.

Red paused for a moment, staring blankly at the canvas in his hand. He thought again, deliberately, about quitting. About leaving the safe little hiding place Vik had given him. No clanging, panicked alarm sounded in his head.

All right. That was interesting. That was good. He worked at the discovery like a loose tooth.

This job was supposed to be temporary, but the two-year mark crept closer, and he knew Vik was worried. So was Mum. Maybe when that milestone finally hit, instead of feeling guilty and pressured and trapped by his own insecurities, Red could be leaving. Suddenly, it didn’t feel impossible. He was more confident now, ready to display his work, and he’d been researching sales tactics, marketing, and whatever. He should try. He’d get a part-time job, too, if he couldn’t make enough money. Whatever it took, he’d claw his way back to his dreams. The only question was whether his new stuff was good enough to sell—but he’d find out soon enough, when Chloe finished his website.

And here he was, back at Chloe again—thinking, without a moment’s hesitation, that she’d hold up her end of the deal. He sat with that for a second. It wasn’t the kind of assumption he’d have made about Pippa; no, if this were Pippa, she’d take away what he wanted most, to punish him for being angry, or to manipulate him into forgiving her. But Chloe wasn’t going to do that. Of course she wasn’t. She never would.

He put down the canvas and picked up the card. Took out his phone. Dialed the number. After three long rings and three thousand rapid heartbeats, a cool voice said in his ear, “Dr. Maddox’s office, this is Jonathon speaking. Can I help?”

“Yeah,” Red said, then cleared his rough throat awkwardly. “Hi. Uh … I think I’d like to make an appointment?”

For her own peace of mind, Chloe had decided to stop thinking about Redford Morgan. Which was, admittedly, difficult, since her sisters were devoting their every waking moment to bothering her about Redford Morgan.

He was definitely avoiding her. She’d never gone more than a day without glimpsing him around the courtyard or the corridors before, and their email thread was conspicuously silent. He’d answered her apology text two days ago, but only to say, It’s fine. It clearly wasn’t fine. She didn’t know how to reply. He knew that she was sorry, so she should give him space, as much as he needed, even if what he needed was space that lasted forever. Even if the thought made her stomach twist.

She was a mess, and her family’s meddling wasn’t helping the situation.

True to form, Aunt Mary had informed her twin that Chloe had been seen with a man. Mum had, of course, told Dad, and Dad had grumbled at Gigi, who had promptly called to recommend La Perla lingerie because “I know you like to budget, darling.” She’d also passed on the gossip to Dani and Eve, both of whom had proceeded to blow up the sisterly group chat with encouraging, if inappropriate, GIFs and profoundly annoying questions. It hadn’t taken them long to realize that Chloe’s “mysterious gentleman, rather large, gorgeous hair” was Red.

Chloe had muted her chat app after two days of nonsense. Her sisters had begun sending emails. She didn’t open them, of course, but the subject lines were depressing enough. Dani’s latest had been entitled LOVE POTION RECIPE: REQUIRES ONE (1) LOCK OF GINGER HAIR.

But, today, annoying sisters were the least of Chloe’s worries. Because today was the day she was to give Smudge back.

She stood in front of the apartment building, pet carrier in hand, knowing Red would be here for moral support if she hadn’t horribly insulted him. Not that she was self-flagellating. She’d received communication from the footloose, fancy-free, and clearly irresponsible Annie yesterday, and now the woman wanted “her” cat back. Hah. Hers indeed. Just because she’d purchased him, raised him, and fed him for quite some time, didn’t necessarily make Smudge Annie’s. Chloe had snuggled with him for many hours and also rescued him from a tree. Hers was definitely the greater claim.

And yet … she couldn’t steal, especially not a pet, so she found herself standing by the building’s front doors, waiting for Annie to arrive. Chloe had suggested this location because her flat might be difficult to find, and also because she didn’t want to have to invite this woman in and engage in pleasant chitchat. It was difficult enough standing here, ignoring Smudge’s questioning miaows. She knew exactly what he was asking, of course: Why on earth have you put me in a box, you baffling woman?