Page 56 of The Pocket Pair

“I don’t mind,” Chevy says, and the low rasp of his voice scrapes against my heart.

Chevy’s thumb is still on the collar of his shirt I’m wearing, brushing over my collar bone. Tiny pinpricks of electric heat singe my skin and spark through my bloodstream, traveling all the way down to my toes. I’m gripping Chevy’s other hand still like I’ll never give it back.

Wouldn’t that be nice? Just to keep hold of this man forever?

Yeah, if he weren’t as emotionally unavailable as an old boot.

Winnie’s voice in my head is just the reminder I need.

“Good.” I clear my throat and let go of Chevy’s hand. He drops his other hand to his knee. “That’s good,” I say. “And now you need to cover your eyes and go back into your room.”

“Let me help you,” he says, his eyes skating down my body, mostly buried in coveralls, T-shirts, and panties. Not all of which are the boy short variety. I really hope the few lacy thongs I own are buried under a top layer of less embarrassing clothing items.

“That’s okay.” When he leans down and grabs a pair of pants, I blurt, “I’m not wearing pants.”

THAT gets him moving. He drops the pants. Turns and bolts for his room. His door slams. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Chevy move so fast. And of course he didn’t slip and fall down.

I try not to let his rapid exit bruise my ego. Is the idea of me pantsless truly so horrifying?

I quickly stuff all my clean clothes back in the hamper. As I’m almost in my room, Chevy’s voice comes through his closed door.

“Tiny?”

I pause in my doorway. “Yeah?”

In the few beats of silence, I imagine him apologizing. Or telling me he ran away so fast to give me privacy. Or because he likes the idea of me with no pants a little too much, not that the thought disgusted him.

Instead, he says, “You really should separate your lights and darks.”

I kick the door closed with a slam that rattles the windows.

* * *

Aside from pantsless apocalypse—which sounds like the next big hit brought to you by the studio who made Sharknado—Chevy and I settle into a rhythm that feels comfortable and has no more embarrassing moments. It also has no more charged moments that feel like precursors to a kiss, which I find highly disappointing.

We both work kind of odd hours, so I haven’t seen him much in the last two days. But he promised he’d be home for dinner, so I’m making gallo pinto, which is Costa Rica’s version of beans and rice. It’s one of Mari’s favorite dishes to make at home, though it’s never been served at the diner. “Too simple,” she always says. But sometimes simple is the best. Especially when I like to add bacon and sauté the onions and peppers in bacon fat.

“Smells like a police joke come to life,” Chevy says when he walks in the kitchen, looking good enough to eat, still in his uniform. Today, it’s the blue shirt with pearl snaps and darker blue denim, worn almost white at the knees. He sets his cowboy hat on a stool and roughs a hand through his hair.

And I look down at the pot so if he sees me drooling, he’ll think it’s about the food. “A police joke?”

“The bacon.” He steals a corner of a piece from the paper towel where I have it draining.

I swat him with the wooden spoon. “No bacon thievery, please! And do people really make those kinds of jokes?”

“Let’s put it this way: I have been gifted donuts more times than I can count and heard about every variety of pig joke.”

“That’s disappointing,” I say.

He shrugs and settles in on a stool across from me. “I’m used to it.”

“No—I mean, it’s disappointing they don’t gift you bacon. Between donuts and bacon, I’d go bacon every time.”

Chevy grins, and the sight of his dimples make my stomach do some kind of anti-gravity maneuver. I focus on crumbling the bacon and adding it to the pot with the beans and rice. “I hope you’re hungry,” I say, still not looking up.

“Always. Especially for anything involving bacon.”

“Good. This will be ready in about five minutes if you need to change or anything. Not that you have to change. I like you in your uniform—I mean, I like your uniform, but if you—”

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