Page 10 of The Pocket Pair

“Big and dumb, huh? Is that all I am to you?” he teases.

“Hardly.” A blush creepity-creeps up my cheeks as I’m thinking of all the things he is to me. If he only knew.

When you have a crush, sometimes every word feels like a tell-tale heart, beating out the truth. Displaying your secret. Loudly announcing to everyone I HAVE FEELINGS.

I mean, sure—this is a little less morbid than the heart of a murdered person beating under the floorboards. But no less obvious.

“Thank you,” Chevy says, and thankfully, he doesn’t seem to hear the tell-tale truth in my voice.

There are too many choices for bandages, too many boxes and brands, and I’m feeling all fuzzy from Chevy’s proximity and his hand still in mine. But when I see the light pink bandages with hearts and sheep, I grin. Perfect.

Not wanting to let go of Chevy yet, I rip open the box with my teeth, careful to keep my gaze trained on his hand, lest my eyes reveal all my secrets.

“Really, Tiny? Do you care nothing for my reputation?”

I grin. “I think it’s nice when a man has a softer side.”

Opening the wrapper one-handed is harder than it looks, but I manage, still keeping Chevy’s warm hand tucked in mine. It might need to be surgically removed by the time this is said and done.

“So, you won’t tell me how it happened? I thought you trusted me. I’m wounded, Chevy. Wounded.”

“I was vanquishing a dragon.”

I snort, shaking my head. My hair starts to fall out of the messy bun I put it in earlier, but fixing it will have to wait. My hands are occupied with something much more pressing. “Try again,” I say, opening a second bandage.

Overkill? Absolutely. But you better believe I’m going to use at least five.

“I was on official police business,” he says.

I skim my eyes over his broad chest. “Nope. You’re not in uniform.”

“Defending a woman’s honor, then.”

NOT the mental image I want to have. I glance up at him, only to find that his blue eyes are sparkling with amusement. Meanwhile, my eyes are sparking with a totally different emotion, a jealous fire I really hope isn’t obvious.

“Were you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

I don’t mean to sound so sad. So desperate for him to open up to me. But it seems like the dam hiding my emotions from Chevy has sprung a leak. Or several. And when he leans forward, his lips brushing my ear, I’m afraid the whole dam is crumbling down.

“The truth, Tiny, is that I got into a fistfight with a brick wall,” he murmurs.

What is happening in this moment? I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate dimension because Chevy is standing VERY close, and he isn’t moving away. He isn’t giving me the kind of space you give friends.

In fact, is he … flirting?

“Now, why would you get in a fight with a wall?”

My voice is husky and low. I wobble a little, my whole axis knocked off-kilter by Chevy’s stubble grazing my cheek, but manage to stay in place and on my feet. Barely.

Had this been the regency era, my bodice would be heaving. I’d pull out a fancy pocket fan and cool my flaming cheeks. As Chevy smiles, those impossibly adorable dimples popping, his lips brush my ear. Regency-me would be swooning.

Chevy speaks again, his breath a warm tickle on my skin.

“I didn’t like the way the wall looked at me,” he says. “All judgmental and bricky.”

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