Page 53 of We Can't Be Friends

I don’t interrupt, soaking in the sight of her.

Feet propped up on the rail, slouched in the white wicker chair. All her skin, inked and non-inked, is displayed as she sunbathes. Her tan skin even more kissed by the sun, popping against the wicker. She has more tattoos than I remember from those ten minutes she pranced around Emerson’s place naked.

Her right arm is covered in fine line tattoos. Across her right shoulder blade is a word in a language I don’t recognize. The strap of her bikini covers part of a bouquet of flowers—like the ones waiting for her inside—on her upper rib cage.

All of her tattoos are beautiful, and fitting, but my favorite are her natural ones. The ones tattooed in clusters on her body. Her freckles.

“You have a beautiful voice.”

Slowly, her head rolls in my direction. “Stalking me?” The Chloe expression I expected to find on her face.

I shake my head. “Admiring the view.”

I think I see it, maybe if I squint or put on my glasses, but she’s blushing. The rose gold hue mixing with her tinted cheeks from the sun.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, brows raised.

“I wanted to thank you for the other week.”

“Ahh, yes. When I gallantly saved your life. Didn’t think throwing up on my sheets was good enough?”

I know she is joking, but that doesn’t ease the immediate guilt or worry within me.

“I’m sorry again.”

“It’s no biggie, again.”

Chloe drops her feet, toes painted a dusty pink color, from the metal they were resting on. She stands, pulling the shirt from the back of the chair over her body. Arms in the air, my eyes linger on the planes of her toned body.

Black string bikini.

Long legs. Hips that narrow into a slim waist, that would fit perfectly in my hands. Her breasts—

“Eyes up here, Pretty Boy.”

“I wasn’t. . .”

“You were.” I open my mouth to talk, but she beats me to it. The shirt covers her torso and hangs mid-thigh.

She walks past me, climbing back inside her living room. I follow behind her.

Chloe dips into the bathroom, quickly grabbing a clip. Brushing her hair off the nape of her neck and pinning it up. A few baby strands fall out. She tries to pull them into the clip, but they fall again.

While she’s distracted, I snag the flowers off the counter, putting them behind my back.

“Are you thirsty?” She pulls out two waters and two cans of Diet Coke from her fridge. “I’m trying to cut back on my coffee intake.”

“Replacing it with Diet Coke?”

“Need to find solace in this country somehow.” Her eyes flick to mine, then to the arm reaching behind my back. “What are you hiding?”

I give her a soft smile before revealing the bouquet of wildflowers—all blues and purples with accents of eucalyptus and white wild daisies.

“These are for you,” I say nervously. Why am I nervous? It’s flowers.

Chloe is stunned.Istunned her. She’s not speaking, her mouth agape and eyes blinking rapidly as they home in on the flowers, studying them meticulously. “No one’s ever brought me flowers,” she finally says.

I pass the paper-wrapped flowers to her, our fingers brushing as she grasps the stems.

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