Page 57 of The Pocket Pair

“I’ll change really quick,” Chevy says. But instead of leaving the room, he starts undoing his shirt, right there at the island.

Snap! Snap! Snap! go the pearl buttons.

Thump! Thump! Thump! goes my heart.

The only thing saving me from falling into a full-on swoon is the fact that Chevy has on a T-shirt underneath. But it’s tight and white and stretches across his broad body. Look—I can’t deny the Grahams have got it going on with all those muscles on muscles on muscles. But Chevy is perfection to me. He’s big and strong, but also soft in just the right ways. You can keep your six-pack abs and let me have a man who’s strong and yet huggably soft.

Or … just this man.

All the snaps are undone, and I try to remember what I’m doing—turning off the stove before I burn the rice at the bottom. Still, I can multitask. Right?

I can watch Chevy peeling off his shirt from under my lashes while also dishing up the gallo pinto. Easy. It’s hard, however, not to dump it everywhere when he hangs his shirt off the back of his chair, then stretches his arms overhead. The fabric of his fitted shirt goes taut across his broad chest.

The spoon in my hand falls and clatters to the floor.

“Five second rule!” I declare, sounding slightly manic. I bend down and hold up the spoon triumphantly.

Chevy’s lips quirk. “I think that’s usually with food. I’ll take a clean spoon, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course..” I toss the spoon in the sink, then grab another and walk around with our bowls.

“You know you don’t have to make me food,” Chevy says, but I can see the way he’s eyeing the bowl appreciatively.

I nudge him with my elbow. “I want to.”

“Well, I want to tell you to stop, but this looks delicious, so I won’t. Is this beans and rice?”

“The Costa Rican version. It’s called gallo pinto,” I tell him. “I guess every culture has their own version of beans and rice. According to Mari, Nicaragua and Costa Rica are locked in a death match trying to claim gallo pinto as their own. You need this on top.”

I hand him the Salsa Lizano, which is a must for this dish. Before it was available on Amazon, Mari had her cousins send her packages of the hot sauce, and I can still remember her squeals of glee when they’d arrive.

“Are you excited about going to Costa Rica?” Chevy’s question is careful, and it makes me feel a little like I’m in an interrogation room.

“Yes?”

“Try to sound a little more sure,” he teases, tapping his spoon with mine. “Also, this is amazing.”

“Thank you.” I take another bite, thinking while evaluating my cooking. Maybe a little more spice or sweetness next time—roasting the red peppers first might do the trick. “I’m excited about going, but nervous too.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I appreciate that he’s asking about Costa Rica, and appreciate even more that he’s asking if I want to talk about it. Which … I really haven’t. Not to anyone. I didn’t go deeper with my friends than cursory answers. And I absolutely haven’t told anyone why I’m scared to death of such a big change.

Setting my spoon down, I swivel on the stool to face Chevy. We’re way closer than I realized at the small counter, and I can see the way darker blue and gray fleck his eyes.

“I feel like I should go. Like I have to. And I do want to, at least a little. My family has been …” I search for a word, getting distracted for a moment watching Chevy’s jaw flex as he chews. “Pretty nonexistent. Other than Mari. My mom—gone. My sisters—gone as fast as they could. Last I heard, they were both living somewhere in the Midwest? I tried to keep up with them, but they just don’t care.”

I can see Chevy wanting to say something, wanting to offer comfort in some way. But I’ve cried enough tears over my messed-up family. Now, I have Mari. And, maybe soon, some other aunts and uncles and distant second cousins.

And one day, I hope a husband and a family of my own that I will love fiercely and never, ever think about leaving. I glance at Chevy, then away.

“I’ve never met my family in Costa Rica before, but Mari insists they’ve always wanted to meet me. They just don’t travel. It will be good to connect with family, to see where my family came from. I’d love to pick up some Spanish, since I barely know more than any kid in Sheet Cake who had Mrs. Thomas in high school.”

“I had her!” Chevy says. “And I know how to say hello and it’s hot.”

“Exactly.” I pick up my spoon again, playing with the food in my bowl rather than eating it. “I also know it will help to have a mentorship like this with a real, working artist. I need some help figuring out what that looks like.”

“Tank bought a bunch of your paintings, right?”

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