Page 70 of The Pocket Pair

Kissing shall commence in three … two …

Chevy practically leaps back, knocking into the coffee table with a grunt. I do my best not to scream with frustration.

He moves away—more like runs away—before I can think about trying to wiggle out of the blanket to grab him. “I’ll be right back with water and drugs.”

And you. But maybe come back this time without whatever reservations hold you back just when things are getting good.

I hear cabinet doors opening and shutting in the kitchen, and Chevy returns a moment later, turning on the overhead light. I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. I can tell even through my closed lids that he turns it back off.

“Too much?” he asks, but I don’t answer.

Because it’s not enough. All of this is suddenly not enough. The friendship. The roommate thing. The close-but-not-too-closeness. The flirting, the touching, the zip in the air between us and the way he keeps trying to run away, building walls between us. The pretending I don’t feel things and pretending I don’t notice when we tiptoe close to a line and then Chevy jerks away.

My feelings for him have always been inconvenient and impossible. Chevy never gave off anything but friend vibes, which created a hard stop between us. A period on the end of a sentence.

But that solid punctuation feels a little more like an ellipses every day. Maybe even a question mark.

At least, until every time he pulls away. And I can’t decide if he’s putting the period back on the sentence or just sticking things in parenthesis now. Or maybe this whole analogy doesn’t work, and my head injury means I shouldn’t be attempting analogies at all.

“Here you go.”

Chevy sits on the coffee table, handing me a tablet and a glass of water. After I’ve swallowed the pill and taken a drink, he sets my glass on the table. I expect him to take a seat in one of the armchairs, or maybe to hand me the remote and leave the room. Instead, he shocks me by lifting my feet and sitting down, putting them in my lap like he did the other night. One at a time, he carefully slides off my shoes and starts rubbing my feet. It’s heaven.

But I can’t help but wonder if it’s intentional that he’s keeping his face away from my face. His lips away from my lips.

Chevy asks, “Want to watch a movie or something?”

Or something. I’d really, REALLY like to or something with him.

“What do you have in mind?” I ask.

His thumbs dig into my arches and I swallow down a groan. The man knows how to rub feet.

“Didn’t you tell me I needed to watch Lord of the Rings? Something about being a functional member of society.”

Be still, my heart! “You want to watch those movies with me? That’s quite a commitment.”

Chevy winks. “I can commit when I want to commit.”

Can you, though? Even with my mildly concussed brain, I manage to bite back the question.

“What about dinner?” I ask. “I’m supposed to make something.”

“You are not making anything. You are going to sit there and be pampered while we watch a movie. I’ll order takeout. Pizza or Chinese or something else?”

“Chevy, you don’t need to do all this. I fell down. I’m fine.”

He frowns, sliding his hands down to my heels. It doesn’t tickle—not the way it did a moment before—but the slide of his fingers on my skin makes me shiver.

“Please just relax and let me take care of you. I feel like I owe you. Since you moved in, you’ve gotten a goose egg—”

“I prefer horn.”

He snorts. “Fine—a horn and now a big lump on the back of your head.”

“Let’s not forget the buttcussion,” I say.

“Yes. Okay—the buttcussion. The point is: I’m not doing so hot as far as your health and safety. And it matters. You matter.”

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