Chloe considered, then discarded, the cat’s generous suggestion. The Get a Life list was an historical document that she couldn’t bring herself to alter.

“Thank you, though,” she panted, and then worried about the fact that she was panting. Her lungs were working overtime and every breath felt like the edge of a saw. She had a metallic taste at the back of her mouth that reminded her, unpleasantly, of blood, and also of the days when she’d had to run laps in PE. Apparently, this climb was wearing her out—but she’d been taking irregular walks for years, damn it. Surely she should be a semipro athlete by now? Apparently not. The human body was an inconvenient and unreasonable thing.

She kept climbing, anyway, and developed a system. She’d drag herself onto a sturdy branch, shuffle along on her bottom—rather undignified, but it couldn’t be helped—reach for the next branch, drag herself up … and so on. It worked like a charm and took forever, probably due to her frequent rest breaks. And then, all of a sudden, she got so high that the branches thinned out.

Oh dear.

Chloe was not petite. She was on the taller side, big boned, and well insulated for the winter. Like a rabbit. Except the insulation lasted all year round. Her size wasn’t something she often thought about, but as she reached a particularly slender branch, she could suddenly think of nothing but. She eyed the branch suspiciously. Could it take approximately fifteen stone of woman? She doubted it.

“Cat,” she said, or rather, wheezed. “You might need to come down just a bit. Throw yourself into my arms, perhaps.” She released her death grip on the branch, clenched her core to ensure her balance, and held up encouraging hands. “Come on, then. Leap of faith and all that.”

The cat did not look impressed.

“I won’t drop you,” she said. “Promise. I’m an excellent catch. I played netball for the county team, you know.”

The cat gave her a hard stare.

She sighed. “Yes, it was over a decade ago. Which is mean of you to point out, by the way.”

Perhaps the cat appreciated her honesty, because it extended one delicate paw and seemed to consider a path of descent.

“That’s the spirit, darling. Down you pop.”

With alarming agility, the cat did indeed come down. Chloe was surprised, all things considered, that it didn’t leap comfortably out of the tree and leave her behind. Judging by its suddenly silky movements, it must’ve been able to. And yet, instead of making its escape, it hopped from one branch to the next until it came to rest on her lap, precisely as directed.

She stared at the bundle of smoky fur currently nuzzling her stomach. After a moment of astonishment, she choked out, “You can’t actually understand me, can you? Because if so, don’t worry. I’ll protect your secret to the death.”

From beneath her, a rough voice punched through the Sunday quiet. “So will I.”

She almost fell out of the tree.

After that heart-jolting moment, Chloe clutched a nearby bough for balance and blinked down at the source of the words. She found Redford Morgan squinting up at her, his hands in his pockets, his fine mouth curved into what must be a smirk.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. She became uncomfortably aware of the cool, prickly sweat coating her skin, the strands of frizzy hair that had escaped her bun, and … oh, yes, the fact that she was sitting in a tree, talking nonsense to a cat. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Embarrassment leaked past her most stalwart defenses to flood her cheeks with unwanted heat. She searched for something appropriately cutting to say and discovered that every intelligent thought in her head had evaporated.

Gigi’s voice came to her like a divine message. Keep calm, Chloe, dear. And whatever you bloody do, don’t fall.

Sound advice from Imaginary Gigi.

“Hello, Mr. Morgan,” she croaked, then kicked herself. Mr. Morgan?! She’d regressed. Redford had been bad enough. At this rate, she wouldn’t call him “Red” until 2056.

His strange little smirk widened into a full-blown grin, and she realized that he hadn’t been smirking at all. No; he was holding back laughter, his amusement dancing through the air around him like an electrical current. His big body practically vibrated with it. She considered telling him to just get on with it—to laugh at her, since she was sure she made a hilarious picture right now. But before she could work up the words, he spoke again.

“Are you stuck, Ms. Brown?”

She didn’t miss the emphasis he put on her name, as sarcastic as the single eyebrow he raised. Goodness gracious, he’d better stop that. Looking at him was distracting enough; if he started to emote, her brain might short-circuit. Human beings so very vital should not be allowed to roam the streets unsupervised. Someone—Chloe—could die of fascinated envy and sheer self-consciousness.

“No,” she said, with great dignity. “I am not stuck.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie, since she hadn’t tried to get down yet.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because I wouldn’t mind giving you a hand.”

She snorted. How on earth would he give her a hand down a tree? “Are you on drugs, Mr. Morgan?”

His smile turned into a scowl. The expression didn’t suit his catlike eyes or his upturned mouth, which just made it all the more effective. “No,” he said shortly. Then he tutted loudly and shook his head, as if he despaired of her. Actually, he did despair of her; he’d made that rather clear.

For some reason, instead of ignoring him to prove how very little she cared, she found herself blurting, “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” Which was true, actually. She’d been joking, only jokes had never been Chloe’s forte. Something about the delivery. “It’s Sunday, after all. No work, few obligations. A perfectly acceptable day for recreational drug use.”

He blinked up at her, his scowl replaced by bafflement. “Do you take drugs on Sundays, then?” he asked finally.

“I take drugs every day,” she said. Then she remembered that he was the superintendent of her building and added, “Legal drugs. Very legal drugs. Doctor’s orders.”

His eyebrows flew up. They were the same amber-copper shade as his hair, so they stood out starkly against his pale skin. “Is that right?”

Time to change the subject. Otherwise, he’d start asking questions, and she’d answer out of politeness, and then they’d be sitting there discussing her medical history as if it were a topic as mundane as the weather.

“Do you know,” she said, sinking her icy fingers into her troublesome cat friend’s fur, “I think I might be stuck after all.”

He folded his arms. Considering his height, the breadth of his shoulders, and the beaten-up black leather jacket he wore, the overall effect was slightly intimidating. “Thought you said you weren’t?”

“Don’t be a pain,” she huffed, then immediately regretted it. The problem was, she was in pain, which tended to shorten her fuse. Her joints were stiff and aching, her lower back was screaming, and during physical catastrophes, her politeness was always the first function to go.

But Red, for once, didn’t snap back. Instead he squinted up at her and asked slowly, “You okay?”

She stiffened. “Yes.”