"Listen, dude. You’re cool. I like you, and all, but—"

Chloe doesn't need to tell you that. You know you're the favourite of her clients—what with the way her gaze seems to linger a little too long on your figure, cheeks flushing just a little too red whenever your hand brushes hers, or you'd turn up at her door.

Besides, you owe her a shit-ton of money. Money she should have chased you up on months ago. Chloe Price wasn't exactly known for being Arcadia Bay's bastion of empathy—which is why now you're barely breaking a sweat, because even if Chloe's tone sounds final, you damn well know it's not. Not for you, anyways.

Still, though, she looks stupid hot, leaning back on the side of her truck with that adorably determined scowl as if this was going to end differently than the last five times. Her tattoo crawls leisurely up her folded arms, brows furrowed and blue locks springing from under her beanie as she gave you an earful you were absolutely not listening to.

“—and for the love of fuck, you gotta stop—“ wearing that top in front of me “—smoking with me. S’like.. unprofessional or whatever.” She finished her sentence spitting at the ground, shoving her hands in her pockets.

Unprofessional. Totally not the fact that she could hardly control herself around you. Nope, zilch. Not at all.