Page 9 of The Pocket Pair

Growing up, my two older sisters mostly ignored me, saving the sisterly bonding and sisterly bickering for each other since they were only a year apart and I was the baby of the family. Usually, I tried to worm my way into the middle of their fights, desperate for attention, but I could always tell when things were about to get vicious. It was a subtle shift in the air when things turned sharp and dangerous.

It’s memories of those for-real fights that have me stepping forward. Only, instead of pulling Winnie back the way I normally might, I grasp Chevy’s arm and give it a quick squeeze.

I almost never touch him, even casually like this. And right now I’m aware of exactly why I try to avoid it. Being close to him, touching him, only makes me want more. More touching. More of him.

More, more, more.

Focus, Val. You’re breaking up a fight before Chevy and Winnie get arrested for a brawl in CVS.

“Hey there, you two,” I say, glancing between them. “Let’s all calm down. Win, why don’t you let me handle this? I’ll meet you and Lindy in the car.”

Winnie nods. “Fine.” She stomps on her brother’s cowboy boot before walking away, leaving me in the aisle of embarrassment, nose to nose with Chevy.

CHAPTER 3

Val

I wave a hand, snagging Chevy’s attention. “Hey, Chev.”

The goal is to distract him, allowing Winnie to grab a pregnancy test—or five—without him seeing.

“Tiny,” he says, and I can’t smother my smile.

I can’t remember how long ago Chevy gifted me with this nickname, but I love it.

Winnie tried to tell him once that Tiny was insulting. I mean, yeah—I clock in at about five-two, so I can see where she’s coming from. But I’m proud of my size. As Mari—who’s the same height as me—always says, “Fierce things come in tiny packages.” Plus, it’s a play on my full name, Valentina. It’s cute. It’s sweet.

It’s mine. A gift from Chevy to only me.

Trying to avoid looking like the lovesick human I am, I glance down and notice his knuckles are all torn up. “You’re bleeding!”

I lift his hand, giving the broken skin and tiny cuts a closer look. He doesn’t fight me, and I take my time, loving the feel of his warm skin on mine, even as I’m telling myself to focus on his injury. I can’t help but revel a little in the physical contact.

Chevy’s skin isn’t split so much as riddled with shallow cuts and scrapes. Almost like a skinned knee. Despite trying to keep myself focused on the man’s injury, I can’t stop my greedy little thumb from swiping across his soft palm.

Chevy sucks in a breath, and I meet his gaze again, feeling a little woozy.

“It’s nothing,” he says, acting like he’s going to take his hand back.

Oh, no you don’t, sir! I’ve got you in my clutches now.

Avoiding the bloody scrapes, I hold on tighter. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine. Nothin’ a little time won’t heal.”

I roll my eyes. “Come on, tough guy. Let’s get you fixed up.”

My grip on his hand is light, but I drag Chevy away to find the first-aid aisle. It’s nice to feel needed, to have a purpose.

It’s also nice to have an excuse to keep touching Chevy. He doesn’t resist again, though he sighs deeply as I scan the bandages and ointments to see what we need. Am I going slower than necessary to prolong this moment? Maybe.

Am I determined to memorize the feel of Chevy’s skin on mine? Heck yes.

“Animate or inanimate object?” I ask, grabbing a tube of off-brand antibiotic cream.

“Hm?”

“What did you punch, Chevy? That’s usually how big, dumb men hurt their knuckles.”

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