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“Honestly, I see no need to rehash the past when I am in a tree, selflessly saving a cat.” “If you want to make this a competition,” he countered, “I’m in a tree saving a cat and a woman.”
But help and concern, even from the people she loved—even when she needed it—had a way of grating. Of building up, or rather, grinding down. Truthfully, guiltily, sometimes simple gratitude tasted like barely sweetened resentment in her mouth. So she didn’t express
can’t believe you thought I was a snob.” “Neither can I. You’re just a cute little hermit who hisses at sunlight.”
“First time I shook your hand,” he said, “you acted like I’d electrocuted you.” Ah. He’d noticed. Well, subtlety had never been her strength. “I felt as if you had,” she admitted.
He’d seen how people treated his mum, after all, because she was diabetic. Like being unwell was a crime or a scam or a self-indulgence.
Self-imposed isolation had eroded many of her social skills, but for heaven’s sake, could she be any more of a . . . a twat?
because Chloe was sick, but he still thought she was unbelievably sexy. Then he remembered that she was always sick, so maybe poor health wasn’t something that should de-sex a person. Definitely
Bravery wasn’t an identity so much as a choice.
