Page 52 of The Pocket Pair

“I take it black,” I tell her. “Like my heart.”

She scoffs, and I watch her delicate fingers dredge a thick slice of bread in egg. “Psh. You’ve got one of the biggest hearts of any man I know, Chevy Boyd.”

Her compliment makes warmth spread through my chest and fan out to my limbs. I’m not sure I deserve it, but I like knowing Val thinks of me that way. I carefully steer us away from this conversation—which is awfully close to talking about feelings—and toward something safer instead.

“Tell me about stuffed French toast. What is it stuffed with? Where’d you get the recipe? How many miles will I need to run if I want to offset my caloric intake?”

Val giggles and proceeds to talk my ear off while I watch her like this is the best cooking show I’ve ever seen. Which it is. And not just because I don’t watch cooking shows.

It’s Val. The way she lights up when she talks about things she likes. How she gestures wildly with her hands (which I find adorable even though I can’t stop thinking about the big mess I’ll have to clean up later). I love her expressive brown eyes and the flash of her smile as she talks. The giggles that punctuate her sentences. The way she’s so comfortable letting her emotions hang out while I keep a tight, tight lid on mine.

Again, there’s the sense that she just belongs here. In my kitchen. In my house. With me.

I don’t realize how caught up in my thoughts I’ve been until she pushes a plate my way.

“It’s done?” I ask.

She laughs, coming around the island with a plate of her own. She plops down on the stool next to me. Our fingers brush as she hands me a fork.

“I’ve been talking your ear off the whole time I was making it. Did you not notice me cooking?”

I was too caught up watching YOU.

“Guess I was just listening to you talk.”

Sitting like this at my small counter, it’s impossible not to touch. My kitchen is updated, but still one of the smallest rooms in the house. The island can only hold two stools. Barely. Right now, I wish I’d knocked out a wall and gone for a full kitchen renovation so I wouldn’t keep brushing up against Val every time we move. Or smelling the way sweet vanilla sugar seems to waft off her every time she shifts or so much as takes a breath.

“Dig in,” she tells me.

I do, cutting off a corner to take my first bite. I barely hold back an embarrassing sound of appreciation. Stuffed French toast is more like a French toast sandwich. Two slices of French toast surround a cream cheese and powdered sugar filling. The top is dusted with more powdered sugar—no syrup required, though Val drowns hers anyway, taking a big second bite before I’ve finished chewing my first.

“What?” she asks, a blush finding its way to her cheeks as she covers her mouth.

“Nothing. I just like a woman who enjoys eating.”

There’s no excuse for that sentence coming out of my mouth. Because A, I’m confessing I like Val. And B, what kind of man calls himself a man but doesn’t want a woman to enjoy eating? It shouldn’t need to be said.

“That came out wrong,” I say, wishing I could backpedal, but feeling like a car spinning its tires in thick mud. “I only meant … well …”

“Chevy,” Val says, wiping her smirking mouth with a napkin. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but shut up and eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And for the next few minutes, I don’t say a word. Not because Val told me to shut up, but because stuffed French toast demands my full attention.

“What do you think?” Val asks, nudging my shoulder with hers when my plate is clear.

I tilt my head, meeting her gaze. “There aren’t words for how good that was. Thank you.”

Before I can respond, Val lifts a hand and brushes her fingertips across my cheek. I swallow as the air between us turns electric, crackling and charged. I wouldn’t be shocked if it singed my eyebrows right off my face.

“Powdered sugar,” she explains, holding up her fingers so I can see the dusting of white.

And then, while I’m already teetering dangerously close to any number of bad decisions, Val licks the powdered sugar right off her fingers.

If it were any other woman, I’d know the move was calculated. Flirtatious. Seductive.

But Val is such an open book that I know she’s not trying to tempt me. Even though the way she’s looking at me makes it clear I’m not imagining this thing between us. Whatever I keep feeling and keep trying to stifle—well, she’s feeling it too. Big time.

---