He arched an eyebrow. “I’m so?”

“Infuriating.”

“Right. Don’t know how you put up with me.” He chuckled. Shot her a knowing look that made her cheeks burn hotter than the sun.

“She gave me her card,” Chloe blurted. “Annie, I mean. And do you know what it says?”

“Something shit,” he guessed, “because we hate her.”

“It says ‘Knicker Whisperer.’”

Red’s lips twitched. “That’s … interesting. I mean—weird. Very weird.”

“I know it’s funny,” Chloe sighed. “It’s brilliant. Unique and intriguing and catchy, and the card is beautifully designed, and I bet if I go to her mysterious knicker-whispering website, that’ll be great too.” She huffed and glared at nothing in particular. “What is that woman’s game? What is her angle?”

“Why’d she give you the card?”

“She says we should have coffee. I don’t believe it. I’ll turn up and she’ll text and say, so sorry, she’s in Venice.”

Red ignored almost everything she’d said, which was both irritating and hilarious. “So she wants to be friends?”

Chloe stared at him. “I don’t see why she would. We spoke for all of five minutes.”

“But she made a big impression.”

“She took my cat.” The man had lost his marbles, clearly.

He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Maybe you made an impression on her, too.”

“What about me could possibly make an impression?” Chloe demanded.

Red stared at her for a little too long. She bit her lip. He smiled. “Look, all I’m saying is, Annie might like you. And you might like her, if you gave it a chance. You have similar taste in cats.”

“You are not funny.”

“I want you to make a friend.”

“You’re my friend,” she snapped. “New topic. When are you setting up that Instagram account?”

“I don’t know.” He tried to run a hand through his hair, failed because it was tied up, and tutted.

Now a slow smile curved her lips. “I can do it for you, if you’re busy.” In all fairness, he was often busy, tending to old ladies and feeding street urchins and painting magical masterpieces like a patron saint of goodness and art. But she didn’t think that was the problem.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said. “I’ll …” She’d bet money that he was trying to say, I’ll do it, but couldn’t quite make himself.

“Funny,” she murmured. “I didn’t notice before.”

He gave her a suspicious look. “Notice what?”

“That you’re scared of social media.”

“Scared?” He scowled, turning to face her. “Chloe. I’m not—it’s—you’re winding me up again, aren’t you?”

“I’m simply acknowledging your obvious aversion to—”

He pointed a stern finger at her. “Stop trying to confuse me. I’m not saying shit.” He was blushing, slashes of pink high on his cheekbones. His ears, too, which she’d never seen before, since his hair was usually down.

Something in her chest softened like a marshmallow, which couldn’t be healthy. “I’m serious,” she said. “I’ll do it for you. I’ll manage it for you. You wouldn’t even have to look at it unless you wanted to.” She didn’t know why he felt this way, when once upon a time his work had been everywhere. But she didn’t need to know. She’d take care of this, to give him space to take care of himself.

He looked at her for a long moment before taking his phone out of his pocket. She watched with a frown as he tapped at the screen, his embarrassed flush barely fading, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, just as her understanding dawned, he came over and held out the phone.

“There,” he said, showing her the log-in screen. “I downloaded Instagram.”

She stared. “I—Red—I didn’t mean to pressure you.”

“You didn’t. I said I was going to do it, and I meant it. I’m serious about this. So, if your professional opinion is that I need one …”

“I’m not an expert,” she said quickly, suddenly self-conscious.

His gaze snared hers, so simply trusting, it burned all her hesitation away. “You’re a successful small business owner,” he said, “and you know computer shit.”

She snorted. “‘Computer shit’?”

“Be quiet. I’m concentrating.” He tapped some more, and before she knew it, he was showing her yet another screen—a blank account with his name on it. “That’s that,” he said, looking slightly surprised by himself. Then he blinked, cleared his throat, and his blush deepened. “Thing is, I really don’t know much about this stuff. So maybe, you could, uh … maybe you could help me?”

He was so sweet, she was in danger of losing a tooth. Soft warmth flooded her at the sight of this huge man with his pink cheeks and hard jaw. Then came admiration, because he’d smashed through the brick wall of self-doubt like it was nothing. The same wall she often struggled to even approach.

“Whatever you want,” she told him, and she’d never meant anything more.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly. He caught her hand for one heart-stopping moment, and squeezed. Then he turned away, back to the wok. “Let’s get some food in you.”

 

Apparently, feeding Chloe made her sleepy. Very, very sleepy. Red washed up while she dozed on the sofa, then checked her biscuit tin for more of those homemade gingersnaps. He scored big time and munched on them while he made tea. Did Eve bake these as well as prepping all the food? Because if so, next time she flirted with him, maybe he should flirt back. It would be an amazing plan if he wasn’t completely hooked on her sister.

But he was.

He returned to the living room and sat beside Chloe as gently as he could. Since he was overgrown, his weight shifted the cushions a little too much, and she stirred.

Her lashes fluttered. Eyes opened. She’d taken off her glasses, so she looked at him without focusing and gave him a soft little smile. Maybe every single atom in his body imploded, re-formed, and exploded at the sight of that smile. Maybe. But he tried to keep that to himself.

“You should go to bed,” he told her.

“I won’t sleep. I can already tell.”

“Weren’t you just sleeping?”

“Nothing so satisfying as that, I assure you,” she muttered, and cradled the tea in both hands. “I don’t suppose you’d like to watch something over-the-top and faintly ridiculous. I feel like cowboys. Oh—space cowboys. Do you like space cowboys? You probably don’t.” The tangled waves of her hair were a dark cloud around her face. She gave him a sideways look through the wild chestnut strands, eyebrows raised, lips pursed at the edge of the mug.

He told her truthfully, “I love space cowboys.”

But they only got twenty minutes through an episode of Killjoys before Chloe’s eyelids drooped. Red turned off the TV, put her glasses safely on his head, and scooped her up in his arms. His heart beat brighter than it had before. She turned everything pink—pink like poofy skirts and pinstriped pajamas and the tip of her tongue when she tapped it against her teeth. Pink like he was fucking gone for her. Pink like the little decorative pillows on her bed. He nudged them off and laid her down, and she mumbled, “Red?”